little kid — seems rather old for her age though. I've promised to meet her on Saturday.
Meet her?
Yes. I thought I might bring her back to your place for tea? She's obviously pretty upset about Oliver leaving. Anyway, I didn't like to leave her with no kind of contact. I think Oliver's a fool. She's only a child, and he's behaving as if she's an adult who's betrayed him. Typical romantic — he can't be bothered to sort out his emotions. He's like Austin in that respect. Instead of analysing his feelings, he reacts to them. Only Oliver's reaction is always to hurt himself. Austin's is to hurt other people.
She asked slowly:
Do you really think Austin is… insane?
Yes. He's insane.
But would a court of law agree?
I don't know. I doubt it. His insanity's not the recognisable kind.
What do you mean?
It's too much like the insanity of the age. Austin told me this morning that we live in an age of murder. He understands that, all right. Shall I tell you what Austin's like? He's like the rats that die first in a plague. He's been bitten by the virus. He hasn't any resistance. He thinks it's no good resisting. Human freedom's disappearing, and he wants to help it on its way with a little murder. That's why he's insane. Insanity is when you stop resisting. If you put Austin in a mental home, he'd begin to show signs of complete insanity within a few weeks.
Why do you say that?
Because it'd be like taking a drug addict off the stuff. When he feels the strain, he goes out and kills. If you put him where he couldn't kill, he'd snap.
But… would he keep on… now, I mean?
I think so.
Then… I think we'd better do something. What?
I'll see his parents. You ought to come too. They wouldn't believe it. They've got the money — they could have him put into a private mental home.
He'd have to be certified. And the doctor would have to be told about the… the case history. He'd go to prison.
No. They've got friends.
She stared blankly at the fire. She said softly:
My God… what a terrible thing to have to face suddenly.
You've managed it.
But… I'm not so close to him. And you… broke it gently.
Sorme said impatiently:
From the sound of them, they need a good shock.
She shivered:
No one deserves that kind of shock.
I'm afraid it's inevitable now. They might get a worse shock soon …
She understood his meaning immediately.
He wouldn't… Not now. Surely?
Sorme said, shrugging:
I don't want to alarm you, sweet. But he's quite capable of doing another one tonight out of sheer bravado. It's become a game. That's something I didn't realise when I spoke to him this morning. He can't resist a challenge.
She looked at her watch.
Then we ought to go immediately.
I thought his parents lived somewhere in Shropshire?
His father's in town. I'll phone him now.
Do you really need me with you now?
I… perhaps not. But I might want you later. Will you be home?
Yes. I'll wait here. For heaven's sake be careful. Don't do anything that would make us both accessories. If you phone him, don't say anything over the phone.
He helped her on with her coat. The look of bewilderment had gone out of her face; the prospect of immediate action seemed to restore her certainty. She opened her handbag, and put a pound note on the table.
I'll leave you some money. If I phone you, I may want you to take a taxi.
I don't need the money. I've got enough.
Keep it for the moment. I may ring you in about an hour. I shall be at the Albany. If he's not in, I'll wait. Don't bother to come down with me.
She kissed him briefly on the nose, and went out. It was the first time she had offered to kiss him. He stood at the open doorway, listening to her footsteps on the stairs, then the slam of the front door. For some reason, he wanted to be certain he was alone. He poured another cup of tea, and added water to dilute it. In spite of the tiredness, he felt a curious sense of certainty, of order. It was as if he could see inside himself and watch processes that had been invisible before. There was no longer a desire for simplicity; an accumulation of self-knowledge had made it less important.
The phone began to ring downstairs. He hesitated at the door; when the ringing continued, he went to answer it.
There was no point in avoiding Austin now; he felt suspended, waiting for something to happen.
A girl's voice said:
Is Mr Sorme there, please?
Speaking.
Oh, it didn't sound like you! This is Caroline.
He said uneasily: How are you, sweet?
I got your telegram. When did you get in?
About ten minutes ago. Where are you?
At home. What's been happening?
I can't tell you over the phone. I'll tell you when I see you.
When will that be?
He had a sensation like sliding down a slope, unable to arrest the movement. He said cautiously:
When will you be free?
Not tomorrow. I've got a rehearsal. And we may have one on Wednesday. I'm not sure. I'm free Thursday…
I'll… I'll check in my diary…
Thursday's a good day for me. I told mummy I was going to an all-night party, and it's been cancelled. So I needn't go home.
Her voice went on as he stood there, staring at the coin box, using the pretence of looking in a diary as an opportunity to think. Abruptly, he felt irritated with himself. He said:
Yes. Thursday's fine. Will you come over here?
All right, darling. About seven?
Good.
She said suddenly:
I'll ring off. Mummy's at the door.
The line went dead.
In his room, he drank the tea, standing by the mantelpiece. A curious elation stirred in him, an acceptance of complexity. He stared at his face in the mirror, saying aloud:
What do you do now, you stupid old bastard?
He grinned at himself, and twitched his nose like a rabbit.
