Thank you.
She sat in the armchair by the fire. She had a strong, pointed face, with high cheekbones. Her mouth was full, but strong, not sensual. If she had been slimmer she might have been almost beautiful. Her English was perfect.
What do you think we ought to do about him?
He said: I'm all for killing him. He disgusts me.
What did he say?
Nothing intelligible. He was pretty drunk. He was sitting on the floor in the nude.
Nude. You mean naked?
That's it.
He pulled a hard chair up opposite her and sat down.
I don't understand him. It is strange that he has not killed himself. He drinks all the time.
Who is he? Do you know?
He was an engineer. His wife died. I think he has money. Sometimes he talks in Hyde Park about religion.
What about religion?
I don't know. Some Russian sect who believe in dancing round a bonfire. And he talks a lot when he's drunk. About murder.
Murder?
Yes. He pretends he has a great secret… about — what do you call him — Jacques L'Eventreur?
Jacques… Jack the Disemboweller? Oh, you mean Jack the Ripper What does he say about him?
I don't know. He talks a lot when he is drunk.
Why does Mrs Miller tolerate him? Why doesn't she throw him out?
Why should she? She doesn't have to live in the same house with him. He pays three pounds a week for that room. No one else would pay so much.
He finished his wine, and poured some more. She had not touched hers yet. She said: He frightens me. Once he stole a pair of my shoes.. There was a ring at the front doorbell. She jumped up immediately:
I have to go. That is for me.
Did you get them back?
Oh, yes. I found them in his cupboard. Goodbye. Thank you for the wine.
Not at all. Come up some evening when you don't have to go out.
He sat, staring into the gas fire, then leaned over and picked up her untouched wine. It tasted warm. He said aloud: I must get a woman. I'm getting sex-starved. He thought of the women who stood outside the Camden tube, their eyes following the men who walked past; then realised immediately that he had no desire for a prostitute. It would have destroyed his appetite, like a meal in a Rowton House. He finished the wine, and sat down at the typewriter.
That night, the vastation happened again. He woke up feeling hot and slightly drunk. He was still fully clothed, lying on the bed. Opposite his eyes, the radio droned softly; he had fallen asleep listening to a late night chamber concert. The room was in darkness, except for the light from the wavelength panel, and the red glow of the neon lights from the cinema over the way. His mind formed the question as he stared across the room: What am I doing here? It seemed arbitrary; he might have been anywhere or anything. A sense of alien-ness oppressed him, and he tried to focus his attention on it to discover its precise nature. Immediately, an orgasm of fear twisted his heart, and drained the strength out of his will. It was an awareness that his own existence was not capable of detaching itself from existence to question it. Existence faced him like a blank wall.
There was an instinctive desire to penetrate the wall, to assert his reality beyond it, and a terror that came with the recognition that he was trapped in existence; that no detachment from it was possible. The terror was like losing an arm: too violent to hurt.
He came back to his own existence, lying on the bed, with a jerk of relief. He swung himself off the bed, and crossed the room to switch off the radio, thinking: Absurd or not, I choose to be here.
Back in bed again, he tried to recreate the fear, and the perception that caused it, and failed. It had drained him, like sexual fulfilment, and his mind formed words instead of sensations. The only thing he could recall was the sense of alien-ness, a feeling: I do not belong here. He wondered vaguely, losing the struggle to keep awake, whether the insight was not some kind of guardian, a benevolence whose aspect was nothingness.
He woke up again in the night, and felt curiously disgusted with his body, as if it were already dead flesh. Suddenly, he realised what it was that disgusted him; it was the idea of his own non-existence.
He woke up with an immediate sense that something was happening. He looked at his watch; it was half past ten. Someone was banging on the door of the old man's room.
The voice of the German girl called:
Open the door, please. Someone wants to speak to you.
The old man's voice shouted something. It sounded muffled. The knocking was repeated. The old man called again; this time his voice sounded clearer:
Who is it?
A male voice said: Police officers. Would you mind opening your door?
Sorme sat up in bed, thinking immediately of the bottle. There was a noise from overhead, a movement of bare feet on the floor. Then something heavy moved, an article of furniture. The male voice called again.
Would you let us in, please?
There was no reply, only another dragging sound across the floor. The knocks on the door became heavy and peremptory. Suddenly, the old man's voice, shrill and breathless, shouted:
What do you want?
The German girl said soothingly:
They only want to ask a few questions.
What about?
The policeman said: Open the door, and we can talk.
The old man's voice was harsh, hardly recognisable; he shouted:
I know you. I know your tricks.
There was a note of hysteria in it. The policemen were now conferring with the girl in low voices. In the room above, the bare feet padded across the floor. Something clanged as it fell. The policeman shouted: If you don't let us in, I'm afraid we shall have to force the door.
Sorme swung himself out of bed and pulled his trousers on. He looked around for his slippers, and then remembered he had left them in the kitchen. His door opened suddenly, and the German girl looked in. He was still on the floor, looking under his bed.
Her voice said:
There's no one here. You can come in.
He straightened up as a man came into the room. The girl whispered: O, I'm sorry. I thought you were out.
He felt embarrassed, his hair tangled, still wearing the pyjama jacket. He asked: What it is?
Sshhh! We don't want him to hear. This gentleman is a policeman. He wants to get on to the fire escape. Do you mind if he comes through your room?
No. Of course not.
The plain-clothed policeman said gruffly: Thank you, sir.
Sorme heaved up the lower window frame. It went up with a shriek of unoiled pulleys. The girl grimaced. The policeman had picked up a sheet of newspaper from the table, saying quietly: Do you mind, sir? He laid it on the bed, and stepped on it to climb out of the window. He was a short man, with a pointed, bird-like face. He stood there for a moment, staring up at the room above, then went quietly up the fire escape.
Sorme lowered the window six inches to lessen the draught. He asked the girl:
What's it all about?
She shrugged: He must be mad. They only want to ask him a few questions.
