A Fragment of Fear

“And that the officer’s name was Matthews?”

“And that he said his name was Matthews.”

“And that somebody phoned you in the night?”

“Yes.”

“Twice?”

“The second call might have been a wrong number.”

“And that you were, in your view, menaced on a public footpath at night?”

“In my view, yes.”

“And that on the self-same night a person or persons entered your flat, although a search revealed no signs of intruders?”

“Correct.”

“You think you are being followed all the time?”

I shook my head. A feeling of helplessness came over me.

“Not all the time.”

“Most of the time?”

“Probably most of the time. I don’t know. How should I?”

“You feel your flat is under observation?” asked the sergeant.

“Yes.”

“All the time?”

“How the hell do I know?”

“You think that all this elaborate business is just to frighten you out of investigating the background of another lady, this Mrs. Dawson?” asked the superintendent.

“This Mrs. Dawson, as you call her, yes, I do.”

“Who was also murdered?”

“Who was also murdered,” I muttered.

“His lady friends seem kind of accident prone,” murmured the sergeant, looking up, looking at the superintendent, not looking at me. The superintendent said:

“Can you suggest any other reason why all this rigmarole should be organised against you?”

I banged the table with the palms of both my hands and stood up, looking down at the superintendent and the sergeant.

“Look, I have had enough of this!” I said, and almost shouted the words. “I’ve just about bloody well had enough of this!”

“I expect you have,” said the superintendent, and nodded.

“Too bloody true, you have,” said the sergeant.

“I’m an ordinary citizen, leading an ordinary life, and I’m being persecuted, and when I seek the assistance of the police, what bloody well happens?”

“Imaginary policemen call on you with imaginary complaints, voices ring you up in the early hours, that’s what happens,” said the sergeant abruptly, tapping his protruding lower lip with his Stationery Office Pencil.

“You mustn’t take too much notice of the old sergeant, here, he’s a down-to-earth character,” murmured the superintendent.

He looked at the sergeant expressionlessly, neither approvingly nor disapprovingly. He looked as though he had heard it all before, not once, but many times.

“Women in trains give him messages typed on his own typewriter, and footpads menace him,” muttered the sergeant. “And thieves break into his flat and steal nothing, and quietly make off. What a life!”

The superintendent took no notice. He said:

“Have you been victimised much in your life, Mr. Compton? Had much bad luck, one way and another? Made a lot of enemies, through no fault of your own? That sort of thing?”

I shook my head and gathered my packet of cigarettes and lighter from the table and put them in my pocket. There was nothing more I could say.

I was feeling the heat from the electric lighting, and the voices of the superintendent and sergeant were not so clear, and the noises of the traffic outside had grown dimmer. I had a feeling of panic, an impression that I was indeed losing my grip on reality.

“I can describe him,” I heard myself say.

“Describe who?” said the sergeant. “The unknown voice who rang you up?”

“He was a middle-aged sergeant,” I went on doggedly, “with a fresh complexion, and a bald head, and he was rather stout, and he had brown eyes.”

They were looking at me placidly, as people look at a child reciting a poem. But I forced myself to go on.

“He came on a bicycle, and wore bicycle clips on his trousers. And he said his name was Matthews, Sergeant Matthews, of Kensington Police Station. You say he doesn’t exist and couldn’t have brought a complaint. Can’t you suggest something? Can’t you help me? What am I to think?”

I rubbed my forehead with the fingers of my right hand, and looked down to where the superintendent was still sitting at the table, and saw him watching me with more attention.

“Why did you go to Italy, where this Mrs. Dawson was killed?” he asked quietly.

“I’d had a car accident and was a bit run down. My legs had been slashed a bit,” I said indifferently, and moved to the door.

“They say car accidents can make you sleep badly,” he said, getting to his feet.

“Yes, I was sleeping badly. I’m all right now, though.”

“I’m sure you are.”

“Nasty shock, a bad car accident,” said the sergeant mildly.

The superintendent asked:

“Did you sleep well in Italy?”

“After the first few days.”

“Chap I knew was in a car accident,” said the sergeant. “Went round for some time afterwards thinking he’d got a radio set in his head. All right now, though. Still, it just shows.”

I paused and stared at him.

“That’s usually a sign of schizophrenia. That’s not delayed shock. That’s got nothing to do with car accidents,” I said quickly.

“Hasn’t it, sir? Well, maybe he was schizo anyway. Better now. They cure all sorts of things these days.”

He had dropped his hectoring tone. He got to his feet, and took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one.

The three of us stood near the closed door of the waiting-room. Almost like three acquaintances who had satisfactorily concluded a difficult business deal, except that my stomach muscles were still contracted and I wanted desperately to get out of the place. But the superintendent was leaning against the door, and the sergeant was near him, and I was on the inside of the room.

“Well, I must go now,” I said firmly, and walked towards them, but they didn’t move. I had to stop. The grey superintendent glanced casually at me, and then back to the sergeant. They began talking between themselves, as if I wasn’t there.

The superintendent said, yes, of course, it was a question of early diagnosis, and early treatment, like everything else in medical matters. The sergeant said, “well, yes, sir, but that was the whole difficulty, getting people to have treatment, especially in certain cases.

“You can’t get ’em certified,” he said in a low voice, “unless they’re right round the bend, I mean, so long as they can look after themselves, more or less-and probably less than more-and so long as they’re not causing what you might call a public nuisance, you can’t do anything about it. And that’s the trouble.”

The superintendent said:

“And more’s the pity, both for their sakes and everybody’s.”

“They’ve got to go voluntary,” said the sergeant.

“Doctors are reluctant to certify,” said the superintendent, “and it’s not surprising-one mistake, and bingo, they’re sued for damages. It’s a pity, really.”