ashamed of the irritable satisfaction he had experienced in pointing out the time. He said:
I'm afraid you'll have to wait until tomorrow.
The old man said with dismay:
Oh no. I can't do that!
He came forward to the table again, and took a handful of money out of his pocket. He laid this on the corner of the table and began to count it. Sorme could see three half-crowns and some coppers. He said:
Look here, don't you think you'd better count that in your own room?
The old man glanced at him reproachfully, and went on counting. Then he looked up, and asked simply:
Can you lend me twenty-two and six?
No. I'm afraid I can't.
I'd return it.
I'm sure you would. Anyway, the pubs are all closed…
I know. But I know where I can buy gin. Are you sure you couldn't lend me twenty-two and six?
I'm afraid not.
The old man said tremulously:
Oh dear… I wonder if the French gentleman next door could?
He knocked on the door of Callet's room. It was impossible for Sorme to close his own door with the bag leaning against the jamb. He turned to the fireplace and made a face of despair at himself in the mirror. There was no reply from Callet's room. Sorme was certain he was inside; probably he had heard the old man's voice and decided to keep quiet. The old man knocked again. Sorme found the spectacle irritating; he went downstairs to the bathroom and locked the door. After a few moments, he heard the old man come downstairs. He flushed the toilet and went up again. Before going into his room, he removed the bag from the doorway, and leaned it against the wall outside. He locked his door, and flung himself into the armchair, thinking: I'll leave this bloody place and find somewhere else. That old swine ought to be in an institution.
As he listened, a knock sounded on the door. He started in his chair. He called: Who is it?
The old man's voice said: May I speak to you?
Sighing, he crossed to the door and unlocked it. The old man said:
I really must beg your pardon for intruding like this. I knov it's unforgivable, but… I really must get twenty- two and six from somewhere.
Sorme said wearily:
I'm sorry, I can't help you.
The old man looked around, as if suspicious of an eavesdropper. His face took on a cunning expression. He advanced on Sorme, pushing him into the room, then said in a whisper:
I can tell you something that would interest you.
For a moment, Sorme was on the point of saying: I'm sure you couldn't, and pushing the old man out. He was prevented by an innate dislike of rudeness and a certainty that the old man would only begin knocking on the door again. The old man raised a finger at Sorme, and regarded him with a knowing, slightly reproachful expression. He said:
I'm not mistaken in supposing you are a man with a strong interest in religion?
Why?
Ah, you're suspicious, and quite rightly so. Not many people have a right to speak of religion. But I have. Now, let me tell you something that will surprise you. I can open your third eye for you.
He leaned forward and hissed the last sentence in Sorme's face and Sorme was able to observe that there was no alcohol on his breath. He retreated a step, and said:
I'm afraid I haven't got a third eye.
Aha! You think you haven't. You don't know. I thought you weren't one of the initiated. But you have honesty. You have honesty, or I wouldn't speak to you. Do you know what the third eye is?
He was speaking rapidly now, perhaps sensing Sorme's increasing desire to throw him out. Sorme shook his head.
Your third eye is your mystical eye. You have two eyes to show you appearances, but your mystical eye can show you into the heart of things. I see you have Blake and Boehme on your bookshelves. Well, they could see with the third eye. I can see with my third eye — at least, I could until I started to drink. It only requires a very simple operation to do it… if the subject is ready, of course. But I can sense you're ready. Now, wouldn't you like to have a third eye?
Sorme, interested in spite of himself, said dubiously: I suppose so.
Good, the old man said. Then we can arrange it. How much would you consider the operation worth? Two pounds?
Sorme could not refrain from smiling. He said:
You want me to pay, do you?
The old man said simply: I need the money.
Sorme said: I'm afraid I haven't got it.
Really? It's a unique opportunity. I couldn't make the offer at any other time — for instance, on Monday, after the banks open. My price would be much higher then.
He was peering up into Sorme's face with a childlike anxiety; it was almost as if he was play-acting. Sorme knew he was not play-acting, and that the only alternative was that he was insane. But the realisation caused him no alarm, or even excitement. He said apologetically:
I'm afraid I can't give you two pounds. I haven't two pounds to spare.
The old man said sadly:
Oh dear. Well, in that case…
He turned away from Sorme, staring at the doorknob. He said vaguely:
I wonder who could…?
He asked Sorme suddenly:
I suppose you don't happen to have a little gin hidden away?
I'm afraid not. Only some beer.
Mmmm. I haven't touched beer for years. But I suppose… in the absence of anything better. Well. Would you object if I drank a glass of your beer?
Sorme said:
Not at all. Take the bottle.
He snatched up the bottle from the table, and thrust it into the old man's hands. The old man took it dubiously. He said:
If you could lend me eight and ninepence I could buy a half bottle I suppose. But they wouldn't like it.
I'm sorry. I'm in the same position as you. I've no money to spare until I can go to the bank.
Oh. Well, in that case, I suppose I'd better have some beer. Have you a glass?
Sorme took a glass from the table and inverted it over the neck of the bottle. He said:
You might let me have the glass back some time.
Oh, I don't want to take it away.
He removed the glass, unscrewed the bottle, and carefully laid the stopper on the table. A feeling of comic resignation came over Sorme; he imagined Bill Payne in the room, watching with amusement and preparing an imitation of the old man's eager innocence and Sorme's baffled irritation. He sat down in the armchair, and stared at the old man as he poured beer. The old man caught his eye and smiled genially. He replaced the bottle on the table, screwed on the stopper, then came over and sat in the other armchair. He said:
Forgive me for not offering you some. But the bottle wasn't quite full to begin with, and I'm afraid I shan't have enough for myself. This is not selfishness, you understand, but ordinary self-preservation. Well, chin-chin, or whatever you young people say nowadays.
The military phrase sounded odd pattering over his lips. He drank the beer with an expression of distaste. When the glass was half empty, he lowered it, saying:
I'm afraid I wouldn't drink this by preference.
No, Sorme said. He took care not to sound interrogative, for fear of provoking another explanation. The old man said pleasantly:
