The Sea, The Sea Part 28

I was not going to be (a)d and (b)d by James. Nothing seemed to touch him, not even attempted murder. 'I just thought I'd tell you. OK, forget it. So you're going tomorrow, that's fine.'

At that moment I heard a sound which I shall never forget. I sometimes hear it still in daylight hallucinations. It tore into my consciousness with its own immediate evidence of some frightful event, and the room was filled with fear as with fog. It was Lizzie's voice. She shrieked somewhere out in front of the house. Then she shrieked again.

James and I stared at each other. James said, 'Oh no'I rushed out, got entangled in the bead curtain and began to tumble down the stairs. I ran panting across the hall and then at the front doorway nearly fell as if a dense cloud of weariness and despair had met me and all but made me faint. I could hear James running down the stairs behind me.

Something extraordinary seemed to be happening on the road. The first person I saw was Peregrine, who was standing beside Gilbert's car and looking along the road in the direction of the tower. Then I saw Lizzie, leaning on Gilbert's arm, walking slowly back towards the house. Up near the tower there was a car and a group of people standing looking down at something on the ground. I thought, there's been a road accident.

Peregrine turned and I shouted at him, 'What's happened?'

Instead of replying he came forward and tried to grasp my arm and detain me, but I shook him off. James was now at my heels. He was wearing my silk dressing gown, the one that Hartley had worn. He too said to Perry, 'What's happened?'

I paused. Peregrine said, to James, not to me, 'It's t.i.tus.'

James went up to the yellow Volkswagen and leaned against it. He mumbled something like, 'I should have held on' Then he sat down on the ground.

Peregrine was saying something to me but I ran on towards the comer, pa.s.sing Lizzie who was now sitting on a rock, with Gilbert kneeling beside her.

I reached the group of people. They were strangers, and they were looking down at t.i.tus who was lying on the gra.s.s verge. But he had not been hit by a car. He was drowned.

I cannot bear to describe what happened next in detail. t.i.tus was already dead, there can be no doubt of that, although I did not want to believe it at once. He looked so whole, so beautiful, lying there limp and naked and dripping, his hair dark with water, someone had drawn it away from his face, and his eyes were almost closed. He was lying on his side showing the tender fold of his stomach and the bedraggled wet hair of his front. His mouth was slightly open showing his teeth and I remember noticing the hare lip. Then I saw a dark mark on the side of his forehead, as if he had been struck. I ran back towards the house shouting for James. James was still sitting on the ground beside the car. He got up slowly.

'James, James, come, come!' James had revived me. Surely he could revive t.i.tus. James looked dazed and ghostly. Peregrine had to a.s.sist him to walk.

'Oh quick, quick, help him!'

By the time James reached the comer one of the strangers, they were tourists, was already attempting to do something. He had turned t.i.tus over onto his front and was rather ineffectively pressing his shoulders.

Peregrine said, as if speaking for James, 'Kiss of life is better.'

James knelt down, he seemed unable to speak, and motioned that t.i.tus should be turned over again. There was a moment of confusion, several people talking at once, then the sound of a police siren. It turned out later that a car on the way to the Raven Hotel had taken the news on and the hotel had rung the police.

A brisk efficient policeman took charge, told us to stand back, began himself to attempt mouth to mouth respiration. An ambulance arrived.

James went away and sat down on the gra.s.s. A policeman began to ask Peregrine and me if we knew who t.i.tus was.

Peregrine answered his questions.

It appeared that the tourists, going to bathe from the rocks n n Raven Bay, had seen t.i.tus's body being carried by the tide round the corner from the tower, and they had swum out and pulled it ash.o.r.e. There was nothing anyone could do. Men put t.i.tus on a stretcher and slid him into the ambulance. Several cars had stopped. The police car went away, to go to Nibletts to inform the parents. The verdict of the inquest was death by misadventure. t.i.tus died from drowning after a blow on the head. It was a.s.sumed that a wave had dashed him against a rock. What exactly had happened was never clarified. However by then it had become dazzlingly clear to me that t.i.tus had been murdered. We had to do with a homicidal madman. The hand that had failed to strike me down had succeeded in striking him. But I spoke of this, for the time, to no one. Raven Bay, had seen t.i.tus's body being carried by the tide round the corner from the tower, and they had swum out and pulled it ash.o.r.e. There was nothing anyone could do. Men put t.i.tus on a stretcher and slid him into the ambulance. Several cars had stopped. The police car went away, to go to Nibletts to inform the parents. The verdict of the inquest was death by misadventure. t.i.tus died from drowning after a blow on the head. It was a.s.sumed that a wave had dashed him against a rock. What exactly had happened was never clarified. However by then it had become dazzlingly clear to me that t.i.tus had been murdered. We had to do with a homicidal madman. The hand that had failed to strike me down had succeeded in striking him. But I spoke of this, for the time, to no one.

t.i.tus's body was conveyed to a hospital in a town many miles away, and was there received into the merciful anonymity of cremation.

History

SIX.

It was a short time later. Time had pa.s.sed for me in a haze of misery and bitter remorse and the resolutions of hatred.

Gilbert had to go back to London to act in a television play.

Lizzie stayed, and I got used to her unhappy face, reddened with crying. Peregrine stayed, but boorishly, almost angrily; dressed in tweed trousers, s.h.i.+rt and braces, he walked inland every day into the country near Amorne Farm, and arrived back hot and irritable. He was obviously wretched but seemed unable to drag himself away. Once or twice he drove Lizzie to the village for shopping. James stayed but was very withdrawn. He was gentle and considerate to me, but had little to say. We remained together, though we could not talk to each other, out of some sense of mutual protection. Of course they did not want to leave me alone. Perhaps each intended to be the last to go. It was as if we were all waiting for something.

Lizzie did the cooking. We lived on pasta and cheese. It was impossible to return to the ordinary feasts and festivals of human life, the meals to which people look forward and which they enjoy. We all, except James, drank a lot.

On the day which I shall now describe I woke up in the early morning and realized I had had a terrible terrible nightmare. I had dreamt that t.i.tus was drowned. I experienced the relief of the awaking dreamer. And then remembered...

I got up and went to the window. It was about six o'clock and the sun had been up for some time. Cool summer weather had come back with a misty sky and a calm sea. The water was a very pale luminous grey-blue, almost white, the same colour as the sky, s.h.i.+fting with a quick small dancing movement, and scattered by the misted sun with little explosions of metallic pale-gold light. It had the look of a happy sea and I felt I was seeing it through t.i.tus's eyes.

I had returned to my own bedroom. The other three, though I disliked their proximity to each other, slept downstairs. I had decided that today I would tell them all to go. I felt strong enough now to do this, and although in a way I dreaded to be alone, my plans demanded solitude. I dressed quickly and went downstairs to the kitchen. Peregrine was there shaving. He ignored me and I went through onto the lawn. James was just climbing down from the rocks. A moment later I could hear Lizzie talking to Peregrine. We were all early risers on that day.

James sat down on the natural seat beside the trough where I put the stories I collected, or rather used to collect. Someone, perhaps t.i.tus, had picked up the scattered stones from the lawn after the destruction of James's 'mandala' on the night of the party. My stone 'border' was comparatively undisturbed. I went and sat down too. The rocks were already warm.

James had shaved; his face, reddened and browned by the sun, was very smooth above the dark stippling of his beard. He seemed somehow clearer and more visible than usual, or perhaps it was just that the light was better. His murky brown eyes were displaying their ochre-coloured streaks, his thin clever lips were finely textured, ruddy, his dark hair more vital and glossy, hiding his bald spot. The mysterious mask-resemblance to Aunt Estelle was more present than usual, though he was not smiling.

'James, I want you to go, I want you all to go. Tomorrow.

OK?'

James frowned. 'Only if you come too. Come and stay with me in London.'

'No, I must stay here.'

'Why?'

'I've got things to do.'

'What?'

'Oh this and that, things about the house, maybe I'll sell it after all. I want to be by myself now. I'm all right.'

James picked up a stone from the trough, a golden-brown one with two light blue lines running round it. 'I like your collection of stones. Can I have this one?'

'Yes, of course. So that's settled, is it? I'll tell the others.'

'What are you going to do about Ben and Hartley?'

'Nothing. That's over.'

'I don't believe you.'

I shrugged my shoulders and was about to get up only James held the sleeve of my s.h.i.+rt.

'Charles. Tell me Tell me what you think you are going to do. I know you are planning to do something.' what you think you are going to do. I know you are planning to do something.'

What indeed was I planning to do? I was in a state which I well knew was close to a sort of madness, and yet I was not mad. Some kinds of obsession, of which being in love is one, paralyse the ordinary freewheeling of the mind, its natural open interested curious mode of being, which is sometimes persuasively defined as rationality. I was sane enough to know that I was in a state of total obsession and that I could could only only think, over and over again, certain agonizing thoughts, think, over and over again, certain agonizing thoughts, could only could only run continually along the same rat-paths of fantasy and intent. But I was not sane enough to interrupt this mechanical movement or even to desire to do so. I wanted to kill Ben. run continually along the same rat-paths of fantasy and intent. But I was not sane enough to interrupt this mechanical movement or even to desire to do so. I wanted to kill Ben.

When I say that I wanted to kill him I do not mean that I had yet a definite plan or a definite programme with a date. That would come to me, and come soon, once I was alone. The necessary period of sheer miserable brooding was over, and I would soon be able to make decisions. Ben had attempted to kill me; and it now amazed me in retrospect that I had been able so far to overlook or 'forgive' this crime, this insult, as not to feel compelled to punish it as such. My late and now outdated plan to besiege Hartley by 'tramping in and out' had had as its end her rescue, not his chastis.e.m.e.nt. I had proposed to intimidate him simply in order to get her away; to destroy him had not been my prime object. But now the situation was entirely different. I could riot 'overlook' the murder of t.i.tus or let it go unavenged. Because I had failed to die, Ben had struck t.i.tus on the head and drowned him. He had killed the boy out of pure hideous spite against me; and that he could be crazy enough to do so I could well believe as I considered how crazy I now was myself. In truth the basis of my madness was sheer grief, the loss of that precious precious child, the horror of his sudden death, together with a sense of having been the victim of a wanton wickedness. The only balm for t.i.tus's death was hatred and the immediate transformation of misery into revengeful purposeful rage. As in a civil war, further killing was the only consolation; and, as it seemed to me then, to survive the murder of t.i.tus I had to become a terrorist. During the last days, as I allowed myself to be quietly watched by James and Lizzie, and as I played my part of simple mourning, I had filled out in imagination how terribly Ben, with his mad beliefs, must have hated me, and because of me, t.i.tus, throughout the miserable years of t.i.tus's childhood. The connection between me and t.i.tus in his mind must have become a dynamic obsessional pattern. The boy, continually before him, was (as he thought) the visible symbol of his wife's inconstancy and of the jaunty unpunished escape of the hated rival, whose jeering image he so regularly saw in the newspapers and on the television screen. Ben was a naturally violent man, a destroyer, a killer. How he must have loathed me and my changeling brat, and torn his own entrails with that loathing. Punis.h.i.+ng the wife and the boy could never be enough while the prime culprit ran scot free and laughing. Sheer hatred can be a commanding form of madness. Many and many a time, in all those years, Ben must have killed me in his imagination.

When we at last met he was soon to see that his own violence and anger were matched by equally fierce emotions in me. He knew perfectly well of my impulse to push him in, on that occasion when we faced each other on the rocky bridge. He knew that I wanted him out of my way, and may have conjectured how very far I might, in the end, be prepared to go. He could even argue that he had tried to kill me in self-defence. Then when I had so disobligingly failed to die and was still there, taunting him with my free existence and brazenly protecting as my 'son' the hated bratling, what could be more natural than that Ben's mad rage should turn against me through the boy, bringing about perhaps an even more satisfying act of vengeance? I recalled Ben's last words to me, wherein a curse on the 'vile brat' was joined with 'I'll kill you'.

Could I now walk away into the world and 'get over' this act, this fact? It was unthinkable. Act must match act. But how? In all these thoughts I was just sane enough to try to steady myself by the image of Hartley. I tried to see her face looking at me, wistful and calm, beautiful as it had once. been and perhaps would be again. Later, I would move to her and embrace her and we would console each other at last. What I could not really get myself to see or feel however was just how the path through the destruction of Ben led to Hartley or what exactly the destruction of Ben would be like. Now that I felt free to destroy him I sometimes felt that I hated him even more obsessively than I loved her; at least I knew, watching my obsession, that I was not now wanting to remove him simply because of her. The removal had become an end in itself.

Concerning what I was actually going to do I had evolved a number of quite different plans, which were still more or less at the stage of being fantasies. When I was alone I would have the concentration necessary to convert one of these into a practical proposition. I thought of going to the police. Someone had attempted to kill me and an explanation of all the circ.u.mstances would point an unambiguous finger at Ben; and it would, I guessed, be in Ben's character to answer a formal, or even hinted, accusation with a defiant avowal of guilt. This indeed might be the simplest easiest way to catch him: to open a big net and let him run straight into it. I saw Ben as a simple aggressive man who would be made uneasy by the subtleties of the law and would then scorn the refinements of lying. I played with this fantasy so much that the whole thing began to seem as good as done. On the other hand, if Ben did consistently deny the charge, I was certainly short of proof.

I also, and equally, considered various mixtures of guile and violence. If I could lure him to the house and push him into Minn's cauldron that would be the justest thing of all, but of course he would be too cautious to come. I considered other ways of drowning him. None was easy. I was more attracted by some straightforward sort of violence, which however could not be too straightforward since Ben was a strong dangerous man, and if he were to do me a serious damage while I was trying to damage him I really would go mad with chagrin. An accomplice would help, but I had vowed to act without one. I had not forgotten what Hartley said about Ben having kept his army revolver. I had no doubt that he kept it oiled and polished but he might have no ammunition. I possessed, but in London, a beautiful replica automatic, property of the theatre. Suppose I were to hold him up with that, make him turn round, then hit him, with a hammer! And then? Tell the whole story to the Police? Get Hartley to testify that I did it in self-defence?

As it was at every moment possible that Ben might make another attempt to kill me, my fantasy actions did in fact begin to look to me more and more like self-defence.

Those who are caught in mental cages can often picture freedom, it just has no attractive power. I also knew, in the midst of it all, that some unexamined guilt of my own was driving me further into hatred; but this was no moment to be confused by guilt. As I moved like a ghost, performing in the house and its environs a sort of ritual dance under the eyes of James and Lizzie and Perry, I thought about Hartley and I pictured peace with her, in that little house where we would hide forever after. Yet if I did what I so intensely desired and consoled myself by desiring, if I destroyed Ben, if I killed him or crippled him or damaged his mind or got him sent to prison, could I then walk away with Hartley in peace? What would that peace be like? What would the idea of justice be able to do for me afterwards? Was it not, under all these disguises, my own death that I was planning?

I said to James, pulling away my sleeve which he was still holding, 'I am not going to do anything. I just feel all smashed up by misery.'

'Come to London with me/ 'No.'

'I can see you're scheming. Your eyes are full of awful visions.'

'Sea serpents.'

'Charles, tell me.'

These particular words brought back to me how extremely difficult I had found it to mislead James when I was a boy. He had a way of worming things out of one, as if the intended lie turned into truth on one's very lips. I was not going to tell now however. How could I reveal to anyone the horrors that now crowded my mind? 'James, go to London. I'll come later, soon. I'll come and sort out my flat. Don't torment me now. I just want a day or two of peace here by myself, that's all.'

'You've got some awful idea.'

'I have no idea, my mind is empty.'

'You said something to me before about imagining that Ben pushed you into the cauldron.'

'Yes.'

'But of course you don't really think that.'

'I do, but it's not important any more.'

James was looking at me in a calculating way. Lizzie called from the kitchen that breakfast was ready. The sun shone calm and bright on the gra.s.s, refreshed by the rain, on the border of pretty stones, on the sparkling yellow rocks. It was a caricature of a happy scene.

'It is important,' said James. 'I don't want to leave you behind here with that totally false notion in your head.'

'Let's have breakfast.'

'It is is false, Charles.' false, Charles.'

'You sound quite pa.s.sionate! That's your view, and I have mine. Come on.'

'Wait, wait, it's not just a view, I know. know. I I know know it wasn't Ben.' it wasn't Ben.'

I stared at him. James, you can't know. Did you see it happen?'

'No, I didn't, but-'

'Did someone else see it?'

'No'

'Then how can you know?'

'I just do. Charles, please, will you trust me? Surely you can trust me. Just don't ask any questions. Accept my statement that Ben didn't do it. Ben did not do it.'

We stared at each other. The intensity of James's tone, his eyes, his fierce face, carried conviction into my resisting mind. But I could not believe him. How could he know know this? UnlessunlessJames himself had pushed me in? What after all lay behind that Red Indian mask? We had always been rivals for the world, I the more successful one. A childhood hatred, like a childhood love, can last a lifetime. James was an odd card, a funny man with a funny mind. He was in a ruthless profession. I recalled his respectful remarks about Ben. It might even be that he had tried to remove me simply because he knew I had guessed that he was a secret agent and was returning to Tibet. I put my hands to my head. I said however, 'Listen, James, and stop trying to impress me. this? UnlessunlessJames himself had pushed me in? What after all lay behind that Red Indian mask? We had always been rivals for the world, I the more successful one. A childhood hatred, like a childhood love, can last a lifetime. James was an odd card, a funny man with a funny mind. He was in a ruthless profession. I recalled his respectful remarks about Ben. It might even be that he had tried to remove me simply because he knew I had guessed that he was a secret agent and was returning to Tibet. I put my hands to my head. I said however, 'Listen, James, and stop trying to impress me.

Not only did Ben try to kill me. Ben killed t.i.tus.'

'OhLord' said James. He turned away with an air of distracted hopelessness, then said, 'What's your evidence for his having killed t.i.tus? Did you see him?'

'No, but it's obvious. No one examined that blow on the head.

t.i.tus was a strong swimmer. And when Ben had tried to murder me'Yes, that's that's your "evidence". But I know it isn't so.' your "evidence". But I know it isn't so.'

'James, you can't know! I understand this man and how much he can hate. You were just gratified to see a fellow soldier. What I see is an able killer and a man absolutely consumed, mad, mad, with jealous spite, with a whole history of it. And I know what jealous spite is like.' with jealous spite, with a whole history of it. And I know what jealous spite is like.'

'That's what I'm afraid of,' said James, 'your 'your spite. What can I swear upon that will satisfy you? I swear by our childhood, by the memory of our parents, by our cousinhood, that Ben did not do this thing. Will you not please just accept this and ask no more ? Oh let it all go now, let it go. Come to London, let's get out of this place.' spite. What can I swear upon that will satisfy you? I swear by our childhood, by the memory of our parents, by our cousinhood, that Ben did not do this thing. Will you not please just accept this and ask no more ? Oh let it all go now, let it go. Come to London, let's get out of this place.'

'How can I 'accept' it? I notice you argue that it wasn't Ben, but not that I imagined it all! Would you you just 'accept' the fact that some person unknown had tried to kill you? And you can't be sure it wasn't Ben. Unless by any chance it was you?' just 'accept' the fact that some person unknown had tried to kill you? And you can't be sure it wasn't Ben. Unless by any chance it was you?'

'It wasn't me,' said James frowning, 'don't be absurd.'

I felt a ridiculous degree of relief. Had I then for a moment seriously entertained the idea that my cousin was filled with murderous hate against me? Of course I believed him at once, and of course it was absurd. But if it was not James, or as he argued, Ben, who was it? I was impressed by his solemn oath, though I could not believe him. Gilbert, mad with secret jealousy because of Lizzie? Rosina mourning for her lost child? Perhaps there were quite a lot of people with motives to murder me. Freddie Arkwright?

Why not? He hated me, he was now at Amorne Farm where Ben had been to get the dog. Suppose Ben had hired Freddie to kill or perhaps just maim me, and it had ended with that dreadful fall?

James could see me speculating and he made a hopeless gesture.

'I'm no good at guessing games,' I said. 'I thought it was Ben and I still think so.'

'Come inside then,' said James, and he rose.

We came into the kitchen. Lizzie was standing at the stove.

She had pinned her hair back and was wearing a very short check overall over a very short dress. She looked ridiculously young and had an anxious silly schoolgirl look which she sometimes wore. Perry was sitting at the table with his legs stretched beneath it and his elbows upon it. His big face was already greasy with sweat and his eyes were glazed. He might even have been drunk. James just said, 'Peregrine.'

Peregrine said, without moving, his glazed eyes still staring ahead, 'If you've been discussing who killed Charles or failed to kill Charles, it was me.'

' Perry Perry ' '