Chapter 8

Matthew didn’t see her for the next few days. He did his best to keep Alan out of his mind. It was too much to take in at once; he cursed his weakness, and kept going.

On Saturday, the Parrishes’ other son Robert came home, and in the evening Matthew, tired and more than a little sick of himself, went across to the farm to say hello to him.

Robert Parrish was not unlike Matthew in some ways. Even physically they resembled each other a little; Robert had the same build as Matthew, the same hasty nervous movements, and his hair was black. No one would have taken them for brothers, though, for Robert had the Parrish stolidity in his face. His natural expression was one of gentle worry; and he wore glasses, too, which accentuated it.

They were still sitting round the supper table, talking, when Matthew knocked on the kitchen door and went in. Robert looked around and jumped up enthusiastically, and clapped him on the back.

“Hello, Matthew, you idiot! Are you still sweeping floors?” he said.

Matthew grinned sheepishly at the rest of the family. Peter was looking a bit more cheerful, and smiled back at him. “Come and sit down,” said Mr. Parrish. “Have you had your tea? D’you want a cup?”

“Thanks,” said Matthew, and pulled up another chair.

Mrs. Parrish poured out some tea. “There you are, dear,” she said. “What do you mean, Bob, sweeping floors?”

“That’s what he was doing last time I saw him,” said Robert, “sweeping floors in a hospital, wasn’t it, Matthew?”

“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Parrish; “what you get up to, all sorts of things it is. You mind, Bob, you never know where you’ll end up, my lad.”

“It was only for a month,” said Matthew. “I’m working on the farm now.”

“Some of the time he is,” said Mr. Parrish. “You want to be careful, Bob, Matthew’s got his eye on you. He’s going to be a tax inspector, he told me.”

“Get away,” said Robert.

“No, it’s true,” said Matthew. “I thought of being a policeman, but I’d be able to keep a better check on you as a tax inspector. Where are you working now, anyway?”

“Bedford. It’s my second term now. Long holidays, you see! That’s the thing! Why don’t you go into teaching, Matthew?”

“I don’t know anything,” said Matthew. “What could I teach?”

“What did they teach you at Oxford?” said Peter.

“Nothing at all.”

“Get away with you!” said Mrs. Parrish. “Don’t talk rubbish.”

“Well, they taught me rubbish, then. I’ve forgotten it all now, anyway.”

“You’d get paid more than I do, as a teacher,” said Robert. “You ought to, you know.”

“No; I couldn’t. I don’t know how anyone teaches. I’m too dishonest. I’d tell them all lies and steal the dinner money. How old are they, anyway, your pupils?”

“Primary school. Juniors. No, you stick to sweeping floors, perhaps you’re right. There’s more money in that. But how long are you here for?”

“A couple of months… I don’t know. Whenever I go somewhere, I’m too lazy to move, and I want to stay for ever. Prison would suit me fine.”

“No, you’re only teasing,” said Peter. “He doesn’t mean half what he says, Bob. Your mates at Oxford, now – what are they doing? What sort of jobs do they do?”

“I don’t know,” said Matthew, and laughed. “No! Honestly! I haven’t a clue. I’ve lost touch with all of them. No!” he shrugged. “I’m so amazed that other people know what they’re doing that I haven’t got time to find something to do myself.”

“Well, you be a teacher and you’ll have all the time you need. Three months a year! That’s good enough for me,” said Robert.

Matthew scratched his head. The fellow was an idiot, but he meant well, and Matthew was in the mood tonight for a bit of harmless fooling. God alone knew what Liz could be up to.

They sat around the table talking for half-an-hour or so, and then Mrs. Parrish cleared the dishes away and went out with her husband to do the washing-up. It was about half-past eight, and Matthew was wondering whether or not to go soon and go out for a long walk. It looked like a fine night; he leant back in his chair and gazed out of the window. He could go up on the moors, or simply prowl around the village… He realized that Robert was talking to him.

“D’you fancy a drink, Matthew? Come on, wake up! Come over to the Red Lion for a pint.”

“Yes, okay. I’ll have to run across the way to get some money, though.”

“Don’t bother about trivial things like that. Uncle Robert got paid yesterday. Coming, brother?”

“No, I won’t, thanks. I’m whacked tonight; reckon I’ll go to bed soon.”

“Ah, the life of the soil… tell ‘em we won’t be long. Cheerio.”

“Goodnight, Peter,” said Matthew.

“See you, Matthew.”

They went out of the kitchen door and made their way through the farmyard into the road. The air was warm, and the sky was full of stars. Matthew felt expectant, and somehow tense; maybe it was just that he wasn’t quite at ease with Robert. No, it couldn’t be that; he was confused, that was all.

“Peter’s still upset about that murder business, isn’t he,” he said as they went up the hill into the village.

“Yes, poor lad. Nasty, that was. First I knew about it was in the papers – murder, South End Farm – Christ, I thought, what’s going on?”

“Mmm. Did you notice anything changed in the village? I mean the atmosphere. I get the feeling that everyone’s looking at everyone else, waiting for someone to confess or be arrested or something?

“I dunno. It looked the same to me. You’re too nervous, Matthew, that’s your trouble. You always were. I bet you’re frightened in case they arrest you.”

“Well, I am, since you mention it. No, no, I’m not; I don’t mean that.”

“What are you doing now, though? You haven’t got a job at the moment, have you?”

“No, I’m just hanging around. Waiting, I suppose.”

“Waiting for the revolution, eh? You’ll have to wait a while for that.”

“The revolution, or the last judgement, I’m not particular. But what are you doing apart from teaching? I mean, what do you do in your spare time? What do you believe in?”

“Believe in? Blimey, nothing, I suppose; I don’t know. I go out; I read quite a bit. I’ve got a girl there; I spend a lot of time with her. That’s what I believe in, I reckon. I don’t think about it much.”

“So no religion? You don’t believe in God?”

“Well, I’m an agnostic. I’m not an atheist. A humanist, really. That’s all there is, isn’t there?”

“Human beings, you mean?”

“Yes… I dunno. It doesn’t worry me, I’m happy; I know that’s not everything, but… I know I ought to try, I mean everyone ought to really, to make other people happy, if they can. I suppose I’ve learned that.”

They walked on a little way in silence. They made no sound at all apart from the noise Robert’s shoes made on the pavement. Matthew was wearing plimsolls, and he revelled in the feeling of lightness they gave him, and in the energy that welled up in him as he felt it. He wanted to run, jump, climb trees, make love; there was something explosive in him that matched the splendid sky, and longed to join it.

“I am a werewolf,” he muttered under his breath.

“What’s that?” said Robert.

“I said I want to be a werewolf. I want to stop being human. No, no; I’m quite willing to be human tonight, as long – as long –”

He stopped, and listened to the hoot of an owl in the darkness to the left of the road.

“– As long as there’s plenty of action, you see! Wine, women, and song!” he went on.

“I don’t know about the women,” said Robert, “but hush now – over towards the recreation ground – can you hear it?”

Sure enough, if he listened carefully Matthew could hear the heavy drumming and the whining guitars of a pop group. “Where’s it coming from?” he said.

“It’s probably the Youth Club. It’s all changed now from what it was when I used to go. They have dances on Saturdays, sometimes. That must be it.”

“Well, that’s it! That’s it! Yes, that’s fine. Let’s go along there, eh? A bit later on when it’s warmed up. How much cash have you got?”

“Oh, I’m loaded – I’ve got about ten pounds on me –”

“Lend me a quid, then, could you? I don’t want to go back and get it. I’m in the mood for being human tonight. Can you lend me a quid? Give us it now, and I’ll buy your drinks in the pub.”

Robert shrugged, and in the lights of the garage across the road Matthew saw him smile. He still looked worried, nevertheless; but he put his hand into his pocket and took out his wallet. He gave a pound to Matthew and put it back.

“Thanks! That’s it! I’ll give it you back in the morning. I’ve got plenty in the house. I saved it up. Will there be plenty of girls at the dance, d’you reckon?”

“Could be. I dunno. They’ll come from Ditton as well, and Eastley, round that way too, I shouldn’t wonder. The group comes from Eastley. There ain’t many girls in the village, not that many, anyway. Well, you know. Here, you know there’s a new vicar. Well, have you seen his daughter?”

“Eh?” Matthew gasped, startled, as if his foot had slipped. But his dare-devil mask stayed firm. “No, no. What’s she like, then?”

“I’ve only seen her once or twice,” said Robert. “She’s all right, you know, she’s good-looking. And she goes…”

“What? What d’you say?” Matthew stumbled along, his mind reeling.

“That’s what I heard, anyway. Well, I dunno, you hear things. Arnold Fox, he’s been with her.”

The image of a coarsely handsome youth with sleek wavy hair came into Matthew’s mind; and, like Canon Cole, he twisted his face as grotesquely as he could in the darkness, grimacing like a madman.

“Good!” he said. “Perhaps we’ll find her tonight. Does she charge much?”

“Oh, come on, I didn’t mean that. He was only boasting, I expect. She wouldn’t do that, I don’t suppose.”

“You’re too willing to think good of people, Bob. I’m going to corrupt you; I’m going to play the devil tonight. God, yes, I am. My head’s starting to go. You didn’t know I was an epileptic, did you? I’m going to have a fit. I’ll have one now in the road if you’re not careful. Shall I do that? Shall I have a fit?”

“Ah, get away, you wouldn’t.”

They came up to the Red Lion and went inside. Robert had spoken lightly, but Matthew noticed with glee that he was looking more anxious than usual. And immediately he felt sorry. Robert was good; he wouldn’t make fun of him. But his head was starting to go, as he put it. Around his temple he felt the warning tension beginning to throb. “I’ll let it come tonight,” he whispered to himself. “And if I keel over, that’s tough.”

There was only one bar in the pub. The saloon was a dingy little room with only a hatch opening through to the bar; but the public bar was large and crowded and noisy. The pub was situated at the corner of the village triangle nearest South End Farm. The recreation ground, and the building that served as a youth club, were down the road to Ditton, on the right.

Matthew stood still for a moment just inside the door of the public bar, getting his bearings; and then he shoved unceremoniously through the press of people and bought two pints of bitter, and took them to where Robert was sitting in the corner.

“Ta,” said Robert. He drank some of the beer. “Anyway, if you were epileptic, you couldn’t just have a fit when you wanted to. It takes them by surprise, doesn’t it?”           

“I could fake it,” said Matthew. “No, I wouldn’t really. Where’s that Arnold Fox? Is he here tonight?”

Robert looked around. He looked shy; Matthew guessed that he’d only suggested coming here out of bravado, and not because he went out habitually. “No, I can’t see him,” he said.

Matthew knew three or four of the men there, but only by sight. There were few women, and no girls. He heard a harsh, giggling laugh that he recognised, and searched for the face to fit it. He saw him at the bar with a group of young labourers, jerking up and down from the knees, his hands beating his thighs. His face was completely empty; it was huge, and seemed out of all proportion to his head. Thin sandy hair was greased down flat, away from his forehead, which sloped markedly backwards. His nose was broad and shapeless, his eyes tiny, his mouth loose and wet. But for the freckles all over it there would have been no colour in his face at all, and the features were so lacking in outline as to give the impression that he wore a silk stocking over his head.

“That’s Archer, isn’t it? Isn’t that his name?” he said in an undertone to Robert.

Robert nodded. Archer was nearly a half-wit. He earned his living as a scrap-dealer’s mate; he rode around on the back of the lorry, loading and unloading it with a frantic speed. He was a favourite with the younger men who frequented the pub because he could be relied on to outdo them all in idiocy; and he would do anything at all for a dare or a bet. Matthew strained to hear what they were saying. Archer’s uncontrolled shrieking giggle rose and fell, and he lifted his glass to his mouth, spilling some beer in his excitement. He didn’t notice. One of the others was saying: “Yes, I did, I seen him at it.”

“He wouldn’ do that, course ‘e wouldn’,” said another. “I swear I seen ‘im. In the fuckin’ ditch ‘e were, down on his knees. Over to Eastley it were. He were eatin’ it, eatin’ the fuckin’ frog spawn.”

Archer laughed again and put his glass on the bar, and leant forward to say something; but the sentence trailed off into a neighing, moaning sound and ended in another frenzied bout of laughter.

“What’d it taste like, eh, Arch? What’d it taste like?” said one of the others.

“How’d ‘e know what it fuckin’ tasted like? ‘E weren’t there at all, it were Jim ‘isself doing it,” said an older man.

“You don’t bloody know,” said Jim. “I swear I seen ‘im. You ask ‘im.”

“Go on, Arch, what’d it taste like?”

“Like spunk!” said Archer loudly, and laughed even harder.

Matthew listened intently, trying to ignore the throbbing in his head. He took a deep swig of the beer. He ought to say something to Robert: otherwise he’d lose his balance.

“Good, in Berkshire, is it?” he mumbled inanely.

“What? Where?”

“Where you are – where is it – Bedford.”

“Oh, it’s all right, you know. I like it – are you all right? What’s the matter?”

“I’m turning into a wolf. I want to go and eat frog spawn.”

He shook his head violently, trying to clear it. Robert shook his head too, but in a different way. There was another burst of laughter from the bar.

“ ‘E know that, dun’e, I seen ‘im doin’ that right enough.”

“He ain’t got no pockets in ‘is trousers, just a hole to put his ‘and in. Up on that wagon – I seen it! I seen it! He ‘ad it in ‘is hand, all covered in rust it were, rust and coal-dirt and cobwebs.”

“Is it a big ‘un, Arch?”

“Tell you what ‘e wouldn’ do,” said the older man. “Suck a dog off. That old dog o’ Charlie’s; ‘e wouldn’ suck ‘im off.”

“Oh, no,” said Archer seriously; “no, I wouldn’ do that, no.”

“The dog wouldn’ let ‘im, anyway,” said another man. “ ‘E be used to Charlie doin’ it.”

“I wouldn’ suck my dog off, not for a pound. I know where ‘is prick’s been, see, it’s been up your old woman. I wouldn’ touch it.”

Matthew turned to Robert and grinned broadly. He could hardly focus his eyes. Robert said something that Matthew didn’t catch.

“Eh? What’s that?”

“I said I wish they’d leave him alone. They’re always making fun of him. He can’t help it.”

“Why does he keep going back – oh God, my head’s really bursting open; look at my eyes: are they bloodshot? Can you see them? … Tell me, why does he keep going back, then? He enjoys it, that’s why.” He was mumbling; he spilt some of his beer on his leg.

“Are you all right? Golly, you don’t look well, Matthew. Do you feel really ill? Do you want to go?”

Matthew stood up clumsily and began to make his way to the door. Robert followed him nervously, trying to hear what he was saying. Another peal of laughter from Archer drowned it. As they got outside Matthew muttered:

“God-damn thing. What shall we do, eh? It’s driving me to my knees. Shall we let it? Let’s go a bit further, shall we? Come on, you bastard, I can go further than you can. Let’s go and shake that dance up.”

Just as Robert and Matthew left the pub, Elizabeth was busy elsewhere in the village. She and her mother were in the village hall. The Women’s Institute was rehearsing a play, and Mrs. Cole had a minor part; Elizabeth was prompting, because someone had been taken ill. It was a silly play and she was bored stiff. She was cold, what was more. It was draughty in the wings; she envied Mrs. Ryder the producer her smart sheepskin coat and the electric fire she’d commandeered. They were having a break for coffee, and Elizabeth sat down listlessly with the others, smoking and thinking about Matthew and Alan.

What did they mean, each of them? No, that was Matthew’s disease, not hers. Nor was it Alan’s. He’d hardly said a word when she caught up with him on Thursday. And when she’d told him about Matthew he’d only nodded, as if he’d expected it. There had been nothing else to say, and she’d left him after a few minutes, and tried to find Matthew again. But she couldn’t, and nor could she escape from Alan, from his aura; and again she found herself asking, like her new brother: what did it mean? What did it mean?

 

The dance was held in ·a building at the far end of the recreation ground. This was a large grassy field along the road out of the village towards Ditton. It had a definite slope, but it was used in the winter for football matches and in the summer for cricket, when the youth club building did duty as a pavilion. At the other end of the field, nearest the village, there was a group of swings and a long slide, together with a wooden roundabout.

The building itself resembled a large schoolroom, or the type of mess-hut you see sometimes on old RAF stations, and in fact it had been put up in the war for some purpose or other. It had been left unused for a long time, as it didn’t seem to belong to -anyone, or be of much use where it was. Eventually the youth club, an informal organisation run enthusiastically but without great competence by the village schoolmaster, had taken it over and tidied it up. It was now used mainly for dances such as the present one, which attracted youths and girls from a number of villages nearby.

There were several motor-bikes beside the gate in the hedge next to it. The room was brightly lit; the noise of the guitars and drums was overpowering, and the lead singer was nearly inaudible. Matthew and Robert passed several couples, as they came up to the building, who had come outside for a while. Matthew’s headache was holding off for a while, or at least not getting any worse. He was keeping it at bay, as he thought, by chattering non-stop to Robert in a vein of malevolent nonsense about the world at large; and Robert, thinking that Matthew was playing some game or other, to keep his end up was replying in the same spirit. Near the door Matthew stopped, feeling a sudden sway of dizziness, and put his hand on Robert’s arm and said:

“Hang on a minute. Will you do something? You’re a good bloke, or I wouldn’t ask you: you’re too good for the world, you know, you misguided humanist. Do you know the worst thing in the world? It’s a stone, or an old tin can, or a blade of grass. But will you do something – Jesus, I’ll get to it in a minute; just – will you keep an eye on me in there? So’s I don’t go berserk, or fall down dead, I mean. I’m not strong; you could haul me outside and sit on me or something; but please, you won’t forget, will you?”

“Matthew – look – don’t you want to go home and lie down? You don’t want to make it worse, do you –”

“Yes, of course I do! Come on, let’s get in there.” They pushed open the door and paid twenty-five pence each to the youth sitting at a table just inside it. The floor was crowded, and the group was just coming to the end of a song. Matthew stood indecisively for a moment, fearing that the whole adventure would fall flat; when the music started again he turned to the first girl he saw and said “Dance?” She shrugged, and nodded. The group was playing “The Green, Green Grass of Home”; he held her firmly and moved as carefully .as he could in the rhythm. He saw Robert watching him, and felt a glow of gratitude, but quickly forgot it as the girl said: “I can’t dance like this, it’s too slow.”

He let go of her and moved away without a word. Who else was there? He could go and look at the group, then.

“Excuse me! Excuse me! Sorry, can I get by? Thank you very much! Thank you!”

He barged through the dancers, apologising profusely when he jostled them, grinning, sweating, trying to get to the platform. The lead singer, a stocky fair-haired youth in a flowered shirt, was struggling to make himself heard, but his microphone wasn’t up to it. As Matthew got nearer the platform he heard the singer’s voice unaided by the amplifiers, sounding lost and out of place among the loud electric chords and the crash of drums. The group’s name was painted on the front of the bass drum: the Black Spider, it was called. The platform was only a couple of feet off the floor, and looked frail and unstable. They were applauded wildly when they finished the song, and then they put the guitars down and sat on the edge of the platform, drinking Coke out of tins handed them by some of the girls. Only the drummer stayed where he was. He was wearing dark glasses; he chatted laconically to two or three youths who came up to talk to him.

Matthew was left in a temporary limbo; with the music ended for a while, he couldn’t pretend to dance, and he didn’t want to speak to Robert, for that would be going backwards. He looked around at the crowd and took stock of them. He felt inhuman: he felt as if he looked like a spectre of a man, chalk white with pain, with red staring eyes. His hair, now that it was short, stood up stiff and straight like a brush, and he kept passing his hand, wet with perspiration, over it so that it stuck together spikily.

They were young: they looked like schoolchildren, most of them. There were a number of older youths in leather jackets or denims, with long carefully brushed hair and coarse, suspicious faces. The girls were mostly about seventeen. A lot of them – a surprising number – were pretty and vital, and he found himself several times on the verge of addressing them impulsively. He mingled among them as if he were looking for something, and saw Robert, standing at the edge of the room, looking nervous.

“Oh, hell, where is she? Come on, where is she?” he said aloud. One or two heads turned to look at him, and he heard a girl giggling. No, that was the wrong thing to say: try again, and pick on someone to speak to, this time.

He turned around sharply and went as swiftly as he could to the other end of the room. Luck! There was an older man there, looking out of place: the schoolmaster.

“Excuse me – yes, you, can you tell me if they’re going to play again? Are you organising it?”

The schoolmaster nodded, beaming, searching Matthew’s face to see if he recognised him.

“Yes, I run the youth club; they’re just having a break now, the boys, they’ll be on again in a minute.”

“Listen: I don’t know anyone here. Will you introduce me to someone?”

“Oh!” the schoolmaster sounded surprised; “all right then, come along. Tony! “he called, “Tony!”

A plump boy of about eighteen with lank brown hair detached himself from a group of friends and came up to him.

“Tony, this is – er, what’s your name?”

“Matthew.”

“This is Matthew – he’s a visitor to the club; would you like to show him around? You know, introduce him to the gang.”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Matthew, “that’s marvellous. I couldn’t want anything better; thank you so much.”

He hurried across to the group, his head raging. He had to grit his teeth and clench his fists to avoid stamping his feet or falling to the floor in a faint or crying aloud. He was dismayed to hear himself moaning with pain, uttering a thin, high, humming noise in the back of his throat.

He got to the group a second before Tony. There were five of them, two boys and three girls. They looked at him with suspicion and, he thought, disgust.

“This is Matthew,” said Tony. “Mr. Bellamy asked me to introduce him. Terry, and Andy, and Rosemary, and Barbara, and Jillian.”

“Well, now, I’m drunk,” said Matthew. “Are they selling anything here? Like something to drink, or smoke – by God, I’m thirsty.”

“They got some Coke over by the door,” said the girl called Rosemary. She was pale and vacuous; probably anxious to be rid of him, he thought.

“Do you want a fag?” said Terry or Andy, offering a packet of No. 6.

“Thank you, thank you very much. Yes, I don’t smoke a lot, but when I go out – I haven’t got a light; ah, thanks.” He inhaled deeply, and the smoke got in his eyes and made them water.

“Damn things – are you at college? What do you do?” he said to the group at large.

“No, at school,” said the one who’d given him the cigarette; “at least, Barbara’s at college.” He indicated her briefly; she had red hair and was wearing a green trouser suit.

Matthew gazed at her for a moment, and she stared back at him.

“Do you know who did the murder?” he said.

No one said anything; Tony shook his head.

“It wasn’t a gang, then, and no one’s owning up? Oh Jesus, what a conversation. No, I’m sorry, it’s my fault. What were you talking about before I came?”

“About the group,” said the third girl.

Two or three of them looked at each other blankly, and then back at Matthew. It was getting worse. He could feel his knees trembling; he couldn’t see clearly. He could hardly see at all, in fact.

“Damn me but let’s get to grips with it, yeah? Now I’m going to have a blackout in a minute – oh fuck that. Excuse me –” he nodded politely to the girls – “but, well, fuck it. Are you Christians? Do you go to church?”

“I do,” said the third girl.

“Are you Jillian?”

“Yeah.”

“No-one else go to church?”

“Tony does,” said Andy or Terry.

“So do you,” Tony replied, looking at him.

“That’s better! Dialogue! I’m sorry, I’m being very rude. I go to church sometimes too. But other times I feel like – blowing everything up with dynamite. Anybody want to do that?”

“You are drunk,” said Barbara. “What do you want, anyway?”

“Nothing. Oh yes, I forgot… I want to be a werewolf.”

Silence.

“Who are you?” said Tony. “Are you a friend of Mr. Bellamy’s?”

“Who’s Mr. Bellamy? He’s the teacher, is he?”

Tony nodded.

“No. I just came here on the off-chance – oh Christ, talk, for God’s sake talk. I’m not mad, I’m not diseased; I won’t bite you; I just want information. Just come alive, will you? Wake up!”

“Well, we don’t mind talking,” said the one who’d given him a cigarette, “but we don’t know you, do we?”

“You can talk all the more freely, then, can’t you? Say what you like. Jesus, Jesus –”

He pressed his hands to his temples and locked his knees rigid.

“I think you’re mad,” said Barbara.

“He’s drunk, that’s all,” said Rosemary.

“I’ve never been – I’ve never been more sober in my life. I’m deadly serious. If you can find one thing to say between you – if I last out, that is: now God keep me from fainting until I’ve finished – now if you can find one true thing to say I’ll just leave you alone and I won’t destroy you: do you hear? Otherwise I will, I’ll hunt you down and destroy you all, every one of you. Now all – oh, my head, my head! I can’t stand it… all you have to do is look at yourselves and think and then say one true thing, and then I’ll bugger off. Get it?”

“What’s the matter?” said Jillian. “Are you ill? What is it?”

He focussed his gaze on her. It was incredibly difficult for a moment, until he realised with a dull shock that his eyes were obeying him well enough: it was her double he was seeing, her soul, her aura… he started babbling to her like a child, aware that his lips weren’t moving, that not a sound was coming from his throat. He was talking mentally to her, and she was answering him.

“You’ll mother me! You’re kind and compassionate – please look after me – please! I’m lost, I’m falling apart – hold on to me, don’t let me go! Hold me like a baby to your breast…”

“Hush, my baby! Hush now, don’t say a word. I’ll look after you, come to me and I’ll be kind to you! I love you! I’m generous, and I’m warm; I don’t mind what you say or what you do. You’re safe now! You’re safe!”

“Oh, my mother – pretend you’re my mother and I’ll pretend too – I’m lost, my head hurts, it hurts so much – can you soothe it, Jillian? Can you stroke it and send me to sleep? Oh, I’m afraid! I’m split open like skin and it’s not blood that pours out, it’s fear! And pain, pain, from my head to my feet…”

“My breast is wide and soft, my baby, and my love’s as deep as sleep and as kind as a warm night… come to me! Come to me! Bless you, relax and sleep, my baby.”

All this in one moment’s exchange of glances; and then the voice in Matthew’s head fell silent. He looked around at the others. No one spoke. Matthew felt his knees buckle momentarily, and straightened up, pressing his fists to his head.

“All right,” he said weakly, “that’s it. You’re saved, the lot of you; Jillian said it. It was true… oh golly, I don’t like it either. I’ll bugger off so’s I won’t embarrass you any more… cheerio.”

“Bye-bye,” said Jillian.

Tony raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Matthew turned away and left them. The musicians were picking up their guitars again. Matthew saw Robert briefly across the room: he was looking at the group.

On a sudden impulse – everything was an impulse. Like the storm; the world was an impulse in the heart of God. That explained it – on a sudden impulse, he crouched low so that Robert couldn’t see him, and made for the door. He got to it unobserved. He stood up briefly and saw Robert looking anxiously this way and that among the dancers; and then he slipped outside and shut the door.

Now then, which way could he go? To the left were the gate, the road, and the motor-bikes, where a couple of youths were standing and laughing together. To the right, the dark expanse of the field, and the stars. The pain was blazing: it would only be a matter of moments before he would have to give in.

“No! No!” he muttered, sobbing, and stumbled off towards the darkness. “I won’t give in. No… question of… that…”

When he was about a hundred yards away from the building, his knees gave way. He moaned with pain and got up again, and stumbled on for another few yards; but when he reached the top of a little grassy rise and brought his head back to look up at the stars, he felt himself being forced gently but quite implacably to the ground. There was no question of resisting: the force which acted on him was as far out of his reach as the stars themselves. And he had fainted before his head touched the grass.

 

“Thank you so much, Elizabeth,” said Mrs. Ryder, buttoning her sheepskin coat; “so sweet of you to come and help.”

Elizabeth smiled, and said “Goodnight. It’s coming on well.”

“Would you like a lift, you two?” said Mrs. Ryder. She opened the door of the Rover and got in.

“No, don’t worry, Pat, it’s a lovely night. We’ll walk,” said Mrs. Cole.

“Are you sure? It’s no bother.”

“No, honestly,” said Elizabeth. “It’s not far.”

“What’s that ghastly noise? Are they having a rave-up? That’s what they call it, isn’t it?” Mrs. Ryder said, and started the engine. As she slammed the car door she called:

“Goodnight!”

“Goodnight,” said Mrs. Cole.

“What noise?” said Elizabeth.

As the Rover accelerated down the road they heard the music in the distance. The village hall was situated at the same end of the village as the recreation ground, down a side-road next to the Methodist chapel. It was a little out of the way; there were no houses until the council estate by the road junction. The road back to the village led along beside the recreation ground for two hundred yards or so, with a thick hedge between them. The youth club building was in the corner across from Elizabeth and Mrs. Cole as they set off, and although they could not see it they heard the sound of the music, faint but clear. They said nothing for a minute or two, but walked along in silence, until Mrs. Cole said “What’s the matter, dear? You’re very quiet to night.”

“Mmm… I’m tired, I expect,” said Elizabeth.

“I wish you’d talk to me,” said Mrs. Cole after a few moments. “Tell me things, I mean. I know you’re not happy; I wish you’d tell me what the matter was. I might be able to help.”

Her voice was wistful and lost; and in fact what she said sounded itself like an appeal for help. Elizabeth shrugged involuntarily in the darkness, but said “If ever I need help, mummy, I’ll ask; but honestly you don’t have to worry. I’m a lot stronger than – than you think. Sometimes I think I’m more like daddy than you.”

“Well, if only you’d meet a nice man… the sooner you get married the better, my girl.”

“Oh, you don’t really believe that or you wouldn’t joke about it. But as for being happy, no, I suppose you’re right, I’m not. But I don’t really want to be happy. I’d rather be doing something important… oh, women are tyrannised by happiness. We’re brought up to think that happiness is the most important thing there is, and we sacrifice ourselves to it, when we could be changing the world… we sacrifice men to it, we sacrifice our children to it, all quite unconsciously and with the best motives in the world; and the result of all the years of waste is nothing. Things go on as they are, and that’s all we wish for. No, I don’t want to be happy, if it means being nothing else but happy.”

“Oh, darling, you don’t understand. When you’re older you’ll be quite content with nothing but happiness. And you’ll yearn for it if you haven’t got it, you’ll wish for it desperately. There’s nothing you wouldn’t give for it, if you could… oh Elizabeth, I pray you’ll be happy.”

She took Elizabeth’s arm in hers, and they walked along in silence for a while. Elizabeth was deeply stirred by this prayer of her mother’s, and she realised suddenly how close and how similar the two of them were, in spite of their differing aims and consciousnesses. Her mother’s desire for happiness was just as disembodied, just as mystical and unconscious and fluid and life-deep as her own yearning to be moved and used by something beyond herself. They were the same sex, the same flesh, and in those few moments as they walked along the silent road under the stars she realised that they were more than that: they were ripples on a vast, quiet sea, and they moved where the sea moved, rising and falling with the rhythm of the moon. What they called it mattered little; the sea was feminine, and eternal; and they were unchangingly part of it. Those half-hidden and unvoiced and deep-stirring aspirations which excited her, troubled her, cast her down and raised her up, were life growing conscious of itself, moving and waking in the depths of her and of the eternal feminine sea of which she was only one wave, of which the whole visible world, from the roots of grass and clover to the furthest flickers of light from the stars, was only the surface…

Where was her Matthew? He ought to be in her arms. But then in a few seconds the vision faded: something extraordinary happened. It was devilish.

They had come to that part of the road bordering the recreation ground, with the thick hedge on their left. The hedge surmounted a steep grassy bank about four feet in height, and shut out the light from that part of the sky.

As they came to a bend in the road, they heard a scuffling noise on the other side of the hedge, like the movement of swift small feet. Mrs. Cole started, but they said nothing: both of them had the feeling that something uncanny was happening. Elizabeth felt a shock as if a ghost had just walked through her, and strained her ears to listen. Her mother’s grip on her arm tightened.

The noise stopped, and immediately a voice began to speak, low and urgent. It was a man’s voice – or it seemed to be – it had a masculine timbre, but an odd quality of deadness; somehow it was unlifelike, as if a statue had learned to speak.

Involuntarily the two women stopped still in the road and listened. It was hard to make out the words: they were being spoken too quickly, but there was something in the tone which reminded Elizabeth of a wooing, a sexual persuasion.               

Then it stopped, and there was a short laugh, and another voice began to speak. A swift dialogue began. Most of it was incoherent or inaudible, and not once did she hear anything said clearly in the first voice. That remained muffled and inexpressibly sinister; but the second voice was clearer, and Elizabeth felt the hairs on her head stir with fear as she listened to it, for it belonged, without any doubt in the world, to Matthew.

“No, I won’t… I swear it. Who are you? … Tell me then, tell me what it is! For God’s sake, what do you know? … Guilt, you say; all right, tell me this: if you do it ignorantly, you’re guilty all the same, that’s understood; but supposing you know everything including the heart of God… what if you know the whole universe so well you’re sick of it… supposing you know everything, and then do it: are you guilty then? … Tell me! Tell me, will you? … You’re a worm, you’re blind, you’re the heart of cowardice, d’you know that? … What happens in hell? Who goes to hell? Will I go there? … I defy you! … If I were alone in the universe and I found you in my heart, I’d tear it out and kill myself… But you still know more than I do, so I’m powerless… You love me, you say: answer me then! For God’s sake – ha! – yes! for God’s sake tell me what I want to know. You’re making me more evil by keeping me in the darkness, don’t you realise? Why? Why should I? I don’t owe it to you… But I’ve got nothing to give you! Not even goodness! Not even knowledge! … I’m only empty, oh God… do you want my emptiness? Is that it? … But there’s still something missing… you know something that I don’t… oh, you devil, you devil, what is it? What is it?”

Elizabeth felt as if she was having a nightmare. She clasped her mother’s hand and held it tightly. Mrs. Cole herself was no better off; she was trembling, and she whispered to Elizabeth “Who is it? What are they doing?”

The two women stood still, like ice. The moon, which was only just rising, shone full in their eyes. “Let’s get on,” whispered Elizabeth.

They heard the voices drop low and speak more swiftly, and suddenly stop altogether; and then the leaves of the hedge rustled violently. Elizabeth was reminded vividly for a moment of what Matthew had done when they saw Alan, and then overcome by a quick shuddering fear that whoever it was was climbing through the hedge to get at them.

But then they heard something more shocking than any of that. From the other end altogether of the recreation ground, right up by the council houses, there came the sound of a girl screaming, screaming in terror. She screamed three times, and then it was over and finished with.

The two women clung together in the darkness. Neither said a word. The silence was worse than the screaming; and then there was a muffled whisper from behind the hedge, and the sound of footsteps running swiftly away.

Elizabeth pulled urgently at her mother’s hand. “Come on, mummy, let’s get back to the village; come on! We can’t stand here! “

“But that scream –” said her mother. Her voice was full of fear. “Elizabeth, it’s another murder!”

“We’ll be safer up in the village, honestly,” said Elizabeth. She was far from sure that they would be, but anything was better than standing in the darkness waiting. “Come on, mummy! Come on!”

Mrs. Cole gave way; and they began to walk nervously up towards the village. It was a torture to go near the dark hedges; the darkness seemed suddenly peopled with all manner of invisible life… Mrs. Cole said:

“Oh, that was horrible, Elizabeth; who was it? What was it? Why did you stop and listen? Why did you make me stop?”

“I couldn’t move. Nor could you! But didn’t you –” she stopped abruptly. She had been on the point of saying “didn’t you recognise Matthew’s voice?” when she had the sudden feeling that it would be infinitely better, safer, if she didn’t mention him. There was danger in it; how absurd! Danger for whom? But there was.

“What? Didn’t I what? What on earth are you talking about? Oh, I don’t want to think about it – come on, let’s get home quickly.”

There was such an emotional strain in her mother’s voice that Elizabeth felt quite calm and objective by contrast. She began to wonder if Gwen had heard it in the same way. Perhaps she’d heard the other voice only, and not Matthew’s; oh, nonsense… and yet there was something uncanny about it… perhaps it hadn’t been Matthew at all, but the ghost of Matthew’s voice, and perhaps her mother’s hearing had interpreted it as the ghost of someone else’s; of the Canon’s. Perhaps she’d heard something different altogether. “I’ll see Matthew tomorrow,” she thought, “first thing in the morning, and I’ll make him tell me who it was, I’ll threaten to leave him if he doesn’t – Oh,” she burst out aloud, in vexation and despair, “we’re all in the dark, every one of us!” And she knew really that she’d never breathe a word of it to Matthew in the morning, or at any other time, unless – unless something else happened… unless it got darker still, perhaps…

But her mother now was trembling like a child; she’d better try and calm her. “Hush, hush – we must have imagined it. You can imagine things like that. Sounds carry at night; it’s easy to read things into them. Come along, look, we’re nearly in the village now. It was just a sort of dream, that’s all. We’ll probably have forgotten all about it in the morning.”

Mrs. Cole shook her head, but seemed to be willing to pretend.

“I expect so. I expect you’re right. I remember in Portmadoc when I was a girl I thought I saw a ghost; that was just like it…”

They chattered together, reassuring each other, until they were nearly at the road junction, where it was better lit. But just as they were about to come into the village they had another shock.

The Canon’s Volkswagen swerved around the corner past them, and then braked suddenly, coming to a halt a few yards further on. The gears crashed, and he put it into reverse, and backed swiftly up towards them. As he drew level he stopped and leaned across to open the door.

“Gwen – have you seen him? Elizabeth – that wretched man of yours; do you know where he’s gone?” His voice was sharp and almost hysterical.

“What? – Who? What do you mean?” said Elizabeth.

“Have you seen him? That’s what I mean. Do you know where he’s gone? Oh, what do you think I mean? He left about twenty minutes ago –”

Mrs. Cole leant down and said angrily:

“Thomas, what is going on? What are you talking about?”

“He had the confounded impudence to come and threaten me, in my own home, to threaten me – he said he’d blow up the well if –”

“Who? Who are you talking about?” Elizabeth nearly shouted.

“Alan, if that is the wretch’s name! Who do you think?

Now answer me, both of you, will you? Have you seen him? Do you know where he is?”

“Oh, how the hell should we, daddy? Where do you think we’ve been all evening?”

“Be quiet, Elizabeth. Don’t speak like that. Get in the car,” said Mrs. Cole, her voice taut with anger.

Elizabeth said nothing, but climbed in the back of the car. Her mother got in the front and slammed the door.

“Now take me straight home and put the car away. You’re mad, Thomas, you’re insane. Don’t say another word to me tonight. Don’t speak.”

“You as well,” said the Canon. “Well, I’m used to that –”

“Drive me home!” she shouted.

There was a moment’s silence, and then he pressed the starter and turned the car round. He roared the engine and drove off angrily.

As they came into the main street he swerved suddenly, and slowed down; before they realised why, they heard the agonising scream of a siren, and a police car swept past them and braked abruptly. “For us?” Elizabeth thought; “what is it now?”

But it had only slowed to take the corner by the Red Lion. It swept round, its tyres screeching, and accelerated down towards the recreation ground. The Canon picked up speed slowly, and drove on.

Her mother’s shoulders were shaking. She was sobbing. Elizabeth touched her gently; Mrs. Cole shook her hand away.

“The police as well,” Elizabeth heard her say, half to herself; “oh Duw, Duw annwyl, what is going on?”

 

Matthew heard a scream. He woke up, clutching a thick handful of grass. His eyes were wet with tears, but his head was mercifully free at last. He was lying right in the corner of the field, near the council houses. The field was flooded with moonlight. It was nearly as bright as day.

A hundred and fifty yards from where he lay were the swings and the slide. Someone was running towards them. He raised himself up on his knees.

There was a girl screaming, her hands to her mouth, standing by the slide. Beside her on the ground lay a shapeless, huddled figure: another girl, with a white dress on. She was absolutely still.

People were running from all corners of the field. Lights went on in the council houses; the group around the slide grew one by one. They looked around, some of them, and called out to fetch a doctor, fetch the police…

Matthew stood up wearily. He heard the siren of the police car, and the squeal of brakes as it turned the corner by the pub. The note of the siren seemed to change as it headed straight down towards the field.