A Fragment of Fear

“So do I,” said Juliet.

“Individual jealousy perhaps? A coincidence.”

Juliet nodded. I said:

“You should have seen her, darling, all overwrought and preoccupied with her own sad world. I think she almost forgot why she had been told to travel with me, I think at the end she almost forgot to give me the envelope. I think they had some sort of hold on her at one time, but now-”

I paused, trying to work it out, trying to think it through.

“Now she was almost free,” said Juliet in such a low voice that I could hardly catch the words.

“Her tragedy, her grief and her sorrow, which seemed to her pointless-had liberated her.”

In that cheap Italian restaurant I had caught a faint gleam of something valuable. Juliet had caught it, too, and was looking at me with shining eyes.

The waiter arrived with the next course.

You can’t go on thinking about the Infinite with a grilled sole and chips in front of you. The moment passed. But I often recall it with a whiff of the old excitement. It has been a solace to me at times.

“That’s why they killed her,” said Juliet.

“Because she was free, or overwrought, or both, and couldn’t be trusted.”

“And might talk,” added Juliet. “And might talk particularly to you.”

She had put on her glasses to eat her fish, and the dark frames contrasted with her pale skin.

“About what, for God’s sake?”

Juliet shook her head. We were back to square one. We ate in silence.

“That’s why they may kill you, if you go on, darling, they’re afraid of what you might discover,” she said at last.

I guessed she had been using the seconds to gather her self-control. She gave me one of her fleeting glances over the top of her spectacles, and then looked down again.

“Oh, rot!” I said, and laughed. “This is a civilised country.”

“That’s what she thought. Maybe Mrs. Dawson thought Italy was a civilised country, too. Both strangled. A sort of roving executioner?”

She had pushed aside her food, and put down her knife and fork. I saw her upper lip trembling. I said:

“Look, if they’d wanted to do me in, they could have done so two or three times already.”

She shook her head violently.

“I’m sure they don’t want to kill you! Why should they? — you’re so silly sometimes. Killing people is dangerous.”

“Well, then, there you are!”

“But they will in the end-in the end they will, if they can’t frighten you enough.”

“Do you want me to be frightened enough? Is that what you really want?”

“I don’t want it. But I could love you just as much, darling. You understand that? I want us to be happy and- unfrightened, and undead. I just want you to pretend to be frightened.”

“And give in,” I said. “Is that it?”

“And give in,” she said. “If you’ve got the courage to.”

“I don’t think it’s fair to put it that way.”

“I don’t suppose you do.”

We stared across the table at each other, defiantly, each a little hurt.

“I’ll think it over,” I said at length.

I could feel bits and pieces of emotion churning around inside me, Irish combativeness, Boer obstinacy and tenacity, and the cool Anglo-Saxon tendency to compromise. To be of mixed blood is a mixed blessing.

“I’ll think it over,” I said again.

“That means you’ll just go on as before.”

She looked helplessly round the restaurant, adjusting her glasses, as if somewhere she might find aid and inspiration.

“It’s silly,” she murmured. “The world is full of ideas and things to write about. I think you’ve become obsessed with this idea.”

“That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“I just don’t like-being pushed around, that’s all.”

“That’s what I mean. Obstinacy, or pride, or something men seem to specialise in-it’s made you obsessed.”

“I said I would think it over. Anyway, I can’t do anything at the moment. It’s all one way. I can’t telephone anyone, I can’t write anywhere. I’ve got no contact.”

“You will have-they’ll try and bend you, and if you won’t bend, they’ll just lose patience, they’ll just-”

She didn’t finish the sentence. I asked her if she wanted fruit or coffee, because one had to say something.

She got abruptly to her feet. She said she was tired, and that she wanted to go home, and on the way out of the restaurant I heard her say something to the effect that one couldn’t tell when the last chance would come, one couldn’t tell at which precise point they would decide to finish the whole business off.

We drove sadly towards her home, most of the way in silence.

“It’s probably all bluff,” I said, at one point, ill-advisedly.

“Two other people thought that,” she snapped.

“Might have been coincidence,” I muttered.

“Oh, my God, oh, dear God, don’t let’s go over it again, darling! You didn’t tell me what the police said.”

I pulled the car up outside her house.

“I couldn’t produce any evidence.”

“So what?”

“I think they thought I was suffering from a persecution complex or something. They kept talking about radio sets in people’s heads, and all that nonsense. The trouble was, I mentioned the car accident. That’s what set them off. After-effects of shock, and stuff like that. That’s why I got nowhere, really. Not that I’d have probably got anywhere anyway. They weren’t Kensington officers, they were Scotland Yard types,” I added.

“What difference does that make?”

“Not much, I suppose.”

“Well, why did you mention it?”

“I just did, I mentioned it in passing, that’s all. I just said they were from Scotland Yard, not the local station. What’s wrong with that?”

“Nothing’s wrong with that.”

We sat in the car, staring straight ahead, aloof once again.

“You can see their point of view,” Juliet said quietly.

“You mean you can see their point of view.”

“Scotland Yard have got experience, darling, in all sorts of things.”

“Of course they have.”

Suddenly she turned to me and put her arms round my neck and kissed me. I felt the pent-up annoyance which had been in her melting away, and her lips, which had been cold and dry, became slowly warm and moist.

“I do love you,” she said. “And I’m sure everything is going to be all right. And don’t worry, my sweetheart. Above all, don’t worry. We’ll soon be married, and on our own, and I will look after you-so don’t do any more worrying. Promise?”

I nodded in the darkness of the car.

“Don’t worry about the woman in the train, or messages written on your typewriter, or telephone calls in the night-or anything. Try to forget them. Promise?”

I disengaged myself gently, and felt suddenly chilled and lonely.

Outside the car, the night sky was dark. It had clouded over suddenly. A few spots of rain were appearing on the windscreen. I licked my lips and said: