Really? I never suspected that.
But he's not entirely a crank, Oliver. I really believe he has a sort of second sight.
Are you serious?
Quite. His family are Irish, you know.
I thought he came from Yorkshire?
Lancashire. Liverpool Irish. I don't think he's ever been in Ireland. But someone once told me — Father Carruthers, I think — that Oliver's grandmother was a famous witch-cum-holy woman in County Clare… mediumship, second sight, the lot. And Oliver shows signs of the same thing occasionally.
How?
Promise you won't repeat this to him?
I promise.
Well, he hadn't been sleeping properly — and had awful nightmares. One morning he told his landlady: A man called Thomas is going to be murdered on the Common tonight. She thought he was off his rocker. Well, that night, a man called Thomas was waylaid on the common — for his wallet — but they hit him too hard and killed him.
Oliver had dreamed it exactly as it happened.
Sorme felt the hair prickling on his scalp. He said: Christ!
And Oliver couldn't sleep the next night either — he still had dreams. Luckily, his landlady sent him to see a doctor, who sent him to a psychiatrist. Father Carruthers found the money, and he went into a private mental home for a while. That cured him. But the fact remains, he dreamed of the murder before it happened.
Are you sure he dreamed it before it happened? I mean, is there any proof of that?
Did he try to contact the police or anything?
Not as far as I know. What could he have done? Clapham Common's pretty enormous — and there are thousands of men called Thomas in London.
Who told you all this? Oliver himself?
No. Father Carruthers.
Nunne divided the last of the champagne between their glasses. He said: Now, how about fruit? Would you like a peach? Or some ice cream?
Neither, thanks. That was delicious.
You haven't finished your whisky.
I haven't started it!
Nunne glanced at the clock.
Half past ten. It's still a little early for the Balalaika. We shouldn't get there till about half past eleven. Would you mind if I make a few phone calls now?
Certainly. Am I in the way?
No. I'll use the bedroom extension. Look, help yourself to more whisky if you need it. I shan't be long…
He disappeared into the bedroom. Sorme yawned and stretched. He was already feeling a little drunk. He waited until he heard the phone bell tinkle as Nunne lifted it from its rest, then poured most of his whisky back into the decanter. He had been waiting ever since Nunne poured it for an opportunity. He sat down again, holding the glass, which now contained only a quarter of an inch of spirit. Feeling curiously dreamy, almost bodiless, he started to look through the Nijinsky manuscript.
He opened his eyes when the car crossed the Edgware Road, then closed them.
Nunne said:
You remember Socrates in the Symposium? When all the practised drinkers were under the table, he stayed awake, discoursing on tragedy. Nietzsche loathed him, yet there was something of the superman in him. Are you asleep?
No.
Don't fall asleep. We've arrived.
Nunne had become livelier over the past hour. In spite of his resolve not to drink, Sorme had accepted another whisky, and had listened while Nunne talked of his father and became steadily drunker. The effects of his crowded day were beginning to make themselves felt. The night air helped to revive him.
The car turned off into a narrow street, and halted between the gates of a factory and a row of dingy houses. Sorme reached for the door handle. Nunne said:
Hold on. I'm going to back on to that waste ground.
Fragments of broken glass reflected the reversing light. The car bumped on to the pavement. From behind the wall came slow coughs of a shunted train; red coals reflected on the smoke. Sorme slammed the door, and staggered. Nunne gripped his elbow:
Steady, child! Avanti!
He raised his cane to shoulder level, pointing.
How far is it?
A ten-minute walk. It'll waken you up. C'mon, boy.
Sorme said, grinning:
You make me sound like an Alsatian dog.
Unintentional. Have you ever been to a brothel before?
Is that what this place is?
More or less. Don't worry. They're quite civilised.
Is that a man over there?
It would seem so.
The man lay across the pavement, his head in the gutter. He lay quite still. When they crossed the road towards him, he stirred.
Nunne said: Are you all right?
He prodded the buttocks with his cane. The man said thickly:
Amori. Goawayfergrizake.
It's after closing time, you know. Time you went home.
The man raised himself to his knees, and crawled across the pavement. He sat down heavily, banging his head against the wall. He said:
Amori. Goway. Sleep.
By all means, Nunne said.
He stepped over the outstretched legs. He said:
Virgil guides Dante into the second circle. Dove il sol tace. Where the sun keeps its trap shut.
Sorme said grinning:
Not Virgil. Mephistopheles.
What charming ideas you do have! I'd like to wear red tights.
The man behind the door asked: Members?
I am, Nunne said.
Got your card?
Nonsense, Sam. You know me.
Sorry. No admission after midnight without a card.
I never had a card.
Nunne leaned forward, and whispered something in the man's ear. The man's eyes dropped to the wallet, which Nunne tapped with the head of his cane. He glanced at Sorme.
Is he all right?
Of course. As sober as I am.
Ten bob each. Member and guest. Sign the book for 'im.
The stairs were narrow. Sorme was reminded of innumerable coffee bars in Soho and Chelsea. The notice on the door said: The Balalaika Club. Members Only. There was a drawing of a banjo underneath.
Sorme's first impression was of a large room crowded with men and women. The lights were shaded with pink paper. On a raised platform a quartet of Negroes began to play their instruments; the music was jerky, low- pitched, unsoothing to the nerves. A tall man in a dinner jacket hurried to meet them. He said:
