Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky by Patrick Hamilton
She had got to get out. The door was behind her. She would have to go out and see where she was. Not yet. She was too cold.
Oh – what had God done to her? This was God’s doing. She had been ‘bad,’ and now she was stricken. This was her ‘punishment.’ She had been told that God did that sort of thing. Why had she not listened? The very darkness of the day bespoke God’s wrath and gloom against her.
Would she ever be forgiven now? What had she done that was so terrible? The accident! – that was it – she had almost forgotten it in her panic. They had killed a man. He must have been killed. Remembering Violet’s screams she could not doubt it.
Somewhere, under this awful sky, that man lay dead. It was no dream. Somewhere, at this moment a crowd of people knew of the crime and were clamouring for knowledge of the guilty party. Had they already succeeded in finding it? Would they succeed? What would aid them? The police! By now it was in the hands of the police! The police were after her! Oh, worse than God – the police! She wished she was dead.
Where on earth was she? She must go and see. If only she wasn’t feeling so sick she might have contended with this.
She got out of bed, and wrapped the counterpane round herself. She turned the handle of the door. Was it locked? No. She opened it a little way. The counterpane fell off her. Without troubling to put it on again, she opened the door a little wider. She perceived a light. It shone from a door ajar just over the way. Who was it that burned electricity at this hour, in this house, in these circumstances?
She heard the sound of heavy regular breathing from within the room. Although the light was on, someone was asleep. What was this? Who was it?
She could bear it no longer. She advanced to the door. She knocked timidly upon it.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
There was no answer.
‘Excuse me,’ she said.
There was a grunt from within.
She knocked again. ‘Excuse me,’ she said.
‘Hullo?’ It was a man’s voice, sleepy and uncertain.
‘Excuse me — ’ she began, but the voice interrupted her.
‘Hullo,’ it said. ‘Come in.’
She put her head round the door. Sitting up in bed, in pyjamas, was one whom she had no difficulty in recognizing. It was the yodeller of the night before.
* * *
They glared in a frightened way into each other’s eyes.
‘Oh – hullo. . . .’ he said.
Realizing that she was not dressed she dodged behind the door again. There was a pause.
‘Do you know where my dress is, please?’ she asked from behind the door.
‘No. Haven’t you got it?’
He spoke with a perfect calm, a stupefaction from sleep, which a little reassured her.
‘No, I haven’t,’ she said.
‘Well, it must be somewhere. Can’t you find it?’
‘No, I’m afraid I can’t. Can you tell me where I am, please?’
‘What? . . . You’re here,’ he said protestingly.
‘Yes – but can you tell me where, please?’
‘This is my flat. This is Richmond.’
Richmond. She felt a certain relief at knowing.
‘How did I get here?’ she asked. ‘I was drunk, wasn’t I?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was I brought in, then?’
‘Yes.’ He had the querulous and slightly bored manner of a man who desired to go on sleeping. He evidently was not in an immediate panic about anything.
‘There was an accident – wasn’t there?’
‘Yes. I believe there was.’
Did he take nothing seriously?
‘Was anyone hurt?’
‘I don’t know. We were too drunk to go back.’
‘But oughtn’t we to have?’
‘Yes. I suppose we ought.’
‘But won’t there be some trouble?’
‘I hope not.’
What was the use of going on like this? She might just as well be talking to herself. She was freezing with cold out here, too.
‘Don’t you know where my dress is?’
‘No. It must be somewhere. That girl got you to bed. I’ll come and look in a moment.’
‘All right. Will you bring it to me?’
‘Yes. All right.’
‘Will you leave it outside my door?’
‘Yes. All right.’
She went back to her room, and shutting the door got into bed and again tried to warm herself. Her heart was beating like mad, sending shots of pain up into her head. It was as dark as ever outside, and the temporary relief she had felt at knowing where she was forsook her as she waited for him to come. What was the time? She had forgotten to ask him. What was she going to do now?
Her job. In all her panic her job had never been out of her mind, and she knew that her only hope lay in somehow getting back to it in time. Was it too late? She was supposed to be there at eight. It must be well past seven already. She heard the hoot of motors in the distance, proclaiming a risen world. Perhaps she could be a bit late, and make an excuse. She could say the fog held up the train. Richmond to Chiswick. It wasn’t far. But had she any money? Where was her bag? With her dress, she supposed. Why didn’t he come?
Who was he – this casual male? So this was his flat. He was a ‘gentleman’ obviously. She could tell that from his voice and looks. In other circumstances she might have been flattered by the acquaintanceship. Why didn’t he come? He didn’t care. He was a ‘gentleman’ – he had no work to do – no job to go to.
How long did it take to get from Richmond to Chiswick? Half an hour – it shouldn’t take more. What excuse could she make if she was late? If she could only think of a good excuse, she could turn up half an hour late – an hour even. Suppose she said she had had an accident. Or that her aunt had had an accident, and had been taken to hospital. That was an idea. She must think out the details. She must think out the details . . . . She couldn’t bear this pain in her head.
Oh, God had no mercy. She hadn’t deserved all this. Gazing at the window, Jenny could not believe that for so brief and tempestuous a pleasure there could be exacted so dolorous a penance.
There he was – she heard him flopping about on the oilcloth floor in his loose carpet slippers. He had knocked.
‘Hullo,’ she said.
‘Here’s your dress,’ he said from behind the door. ‘You’re going to stay to breakfast, aren’t you?’
Breakfast? She hadn’t thought of that.
‘I’ve got to get to my job,’ she said.
‘Oh – have you? . . . Surely you can stay for something to eat?’
Something to eat. Yes – she ought to have something to eat – it might make her less faint. She had had nothing to eat last night. And she could do with a cup of tea. Lord – she could do with a cup of tea!
‘All right, then, thank you. But I’ve got to get over to Chiswick.’
‘Chiswick? Oh, that’s all right. That’s where my bank is. I can take you in the car.’
Car? That sounded better. That sounded feasible. She might be able to make it in decent time after all.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she said. ‘That’d be very useful.’
She heard him flopping away again. (What a noise those slippers of his made!) She rose, opened the door a little way, and pulled in her dress. She closed the door and began to put it on. Car – that was better. If she could only get over to Chiswick in time she might yet be saved. What was that sound of running water? What was he up to out there? If she once got to Chiswick, she didn’t see how they could find her out. She would be immured there – she would lie low. She was supposed to be sleeping in there to-night. She could sneak over to Camden Town for her baggage, and vanish from everyone she knew. No one knew her address at Chiswick. But the police found out everything. They were like God – they knew everything and punished all. Oh Lord – this might end in prison yet. Chiswick. That was her only chance.
S
‘Hullo?’ she said.
‘I’ve turned on your bath,’ he said blandly. ‘It’ll be ready in about five minutes.’
Good God! – Bath! What had he done now?
‘Oh, thank you.’ She could think of nothing else to say.
‘Will you go along, then?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
He flopped away again.
Bath! She was going to prison, and he expected her to have a bath! She had, as she guessed, about half an hour in which to get to her job, and he had told her her bath would be ready in five minutes! This because he was a ‘gentleman.’ ‘Gentlemen’ took baths every morning of their lives. He had taken it for granted. How could she explain to him that she was not his counterpart – a ‘lady’ – that she loathed the idea of a bath – that she was a servant girl with her work to go to.
It was beyond her. His broad and unsuspecting gentility admitted of no challenge. She would have to have the beastly thing.
She was hanged if she would, though. She would have a bit of a wash, and splash the water about a bit, and let it out. She needed a wash, but nothing on earth would make her have his blasted bath.
She heard him flopping about a great deal, and listened till she thought he was in his room. Then she came out, and guided by the sound of running water, found the bathroom.
A decrepit geyser was pouring forth a hot bubbling stream into a half-filled bath, and the whole confined space was filled with white vapour. The walls and window dripped with heavy, oozing dew. She shut the door.
Gee – it was warm. But she could not turn the geyser off yet. He would hear it stop running, and know that she wasn’t having a proper bath. Strange – that even in this predicament she should allow a false point of pride to influence her, but there it was. She had better undress – she would only get her clothes damp in all this steam.
She took everything off, and put one foot in the water. Oo! – it was hot! She turned on the cold water. She put her foot in again. It was just bearable. She brought her other foot in. She turned the cold water off. She was afraid she had made it too cold now. It was nice – this warmth. Why not have a bath? It wouldn’t take more than five minutes, and it would warm her up proper. She would. She turned off the geyser.
The water ceased pouring, and a heavy dripping silence fell. She sank into the bath. It was lovely and hot, and she wished she could stay in it. She looked at the window and saw that the sky was growing a little lighter.
There he was – flop-flopping about again. Lord! – she hadn’t locked the door! He was coming in – he was coming in! She sprang up in the bath.
‘Here!’ she cried. ‘Don’t come in!’
‘What?’ he said vaguely.
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you was coming in.’
‘Oh.’ He was flopping away again.
No, he wasn’t. He was flopping back.
‘What’ll you have for breakfast?’ he said. ‘Will a boiled egg do you?’
‘Yes – thank you.’
‘One? Or two?’
‘One, please. Thank you.’
‘I’ve got to get the breakfast myself,’ he explained. ‘The blasted skivvy’s down with ’flu.’
‘Oh – I see.’
He flopped away again. So he had a ‘skivvy’ – did he? It didn’t even cross his mind that she herself might be a ‘skivvy.’ His ‘blasted skivvy. . . .’ So that was the way her kind were talked of. He was mistaking her for a ‘lady’ apparently – an equal at any rate. By rights, she supposed, she ought to be calling him ‘Sir’ and getting his breakfast for him. Yet here he was, giving her the use of his bath, and getting her breakfast for her. A wicked pass and paradox indeed – that in falling so low from her own mean grace she should be elevated to so spurious and insecure a level.
There he was again – flopping about. What was he up to now? He seemed to be in a dream. She must get out of this bath. Where was the towel?
The towel! There wasn’t one! Would her tortures never cease? She stood up in the bath distraught. She heard him passing, and cried, ‘Excuse me!’
‘Hullo?’
‘Have you a towel, please?’
‘Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll get one. I’m rather vague this morning.’
Rather vague! She should think he was. But she could understand it, if he was feeling anything like herself. And she supposed he must be, after all that drink.
‘Here you are,’ he said. ‘Shall I heave it in?’
‘Will you leave it outside, please?’
But, ignoring this, he opened the door a few inches, and flung it in.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘Are you out of your bath?’ he cried.
‘Yes. Why?’
She knew what was coming!
‘You might turn mine on – would you? Can you work the geyser thing?’
‘Yes. All right.’
‘Ta,’ he said, and flopped away again.
This was the last straw. He was going to have a bath himself. Her own bath water had not run out yet. She dried herself in mad haste, and began to put on her clothes. Had he no realization of her situation? How could they get to Chiswick in time now? What was the time? The sky was rapidly growing lighter, and it might be any time.
She was so thirsty she didn’t know what to do. Oh – she was being punished all right.
He was flopping past the door again.
‘Do you know the time, please?’ she cried.
‘No. I’ll tell you in a jiffy.’
She was putting on her stockings now. She heard him flopping back again, and waited in agonized suspense for his answer.
‘It’s just five to nine,’ he said.
‘Oh Lord!’
It couldn’t be true! Then she was an hour late already! It couldn’t be true.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.
‘I’m late. That’s what’s the matter.’
‘Oh.’
That was all he said. He flopped away again. How cruel he was. Could she instil no sense of urgency into him? He seemed without care. Why didn’t he offer to forgo his bath? Suppose she asked him to? She must ask him. But how? How dared she interpose her ‘skivvy’s’ will between a ‘gentleman’ and his bath? All things concerning their ‘dip’ she knew were the holy of holies to gentlefolk. They were Spartans on the matter. She could not ‘give herself away’ by asking him such a thing.
The last of the dirty water ran out with a gurgle. She seized the matches and lit the geyser.
* * *
Half an hour later he joined her in the dining-room. He had been twenty minutes in his bath, splashing, and washing, and scrubbing, and slooshing as though he had never had a bath in his life before. He had been like a freshly captured seal in there. In the meantime she had found her hat and coat, and dusted her shoes, and combed her hair with his comb, and under his bellowed directions cooked the breakfast and laid the table. She had now realized that she could not be at Chiswick till ten, and all the time she had been beating up her mind for some excuse to make when she arrived there. She had practically decided on an accident. ‘Oo, madam, I’m ever so sorry I’m late’ – these were going to be her first words – ‘did you get my wire? ‘Then she was going to be mystified because they hadn’t got the wire, and then go on to say that her aunt had had an accident – run over by a car . . .
Her host entered the dining-room with an assumed brightness, and on seeing that the table was laid and that everything was ready, murmured, ‘Ha. Excellent,’ and rubbed his hands.
She took stock of him properly for the first time. He wore a blue double-breasted suit, and he was about thirty-five, with a virile appearance. A thick black moustache, neatly cropped, braced a full and sensual mouth. His dark hair was thick and somewhat wavy, and if allowance were made for the promise of corpulence and a wholly dissipated look, he might have been described as handsome. There was no doubt that he was a ‘gen
As he cracked open his egg, she saw that his hand trembled and that he was suffering physically almost as much as herself from the effects of the night before. He did not speak, but began to eat with an appetite – every now and again giving a sort of sidelong glance at her plate to see how she was getting on.
‘How long do you expect it’ll take to get to Chiswick?’ she asked at last.
‘Oh – not long,’ he said, and went on munching.
Had he nothing to say? Had he no explanation to give or apology to make? She hated this worn and callous air of his.
‘We didn’t half go it last night – didn’t we?’ she tried.
‘Yes. We did. I’m feeling foul, aren’t you?’
‘I should say I am. I ain’t ever done anything like that before.’
She was glad to have had the opportunity of making this clear to him, but he made no answer. Instead he filled his mouth with egg, and went on munching.
‘Have you?’ she said.
‘Yes. I have. As a matter of fact.’
Nothing more. He had as much conversation in him as a stone.
‘I’m afraid to say . . .’ he added, and took a gulp at his tea. The cup trembled at his lips.
‘It was awful about that accident, wasn’t it?’ she said. She wanted to talk it out – to try and get some comfort from him.
‘Yes. It was. Ghastly.’
‘Do you think that man was – hurt?’ she said. She could not bring herself to utter the real word.
‘Must have been. I’m afraid. . . .’
‘You don’t think he was killed, do you?’ She did not know how she had brought it out, and she felt quite sick as she waited for him to reply.
‘Hope not,’ he said. ‘You can’t say.’
All this time she had been trying to eat her egg. At this point, she knew that she did not want it, that she could never eat it, and that it was so much sickly embryo immeasurably repellent in her mouth.
‘We ought to have gone back – oughtn’t we?’
‘Yes. We ought. If I hadn’t been so drunk I’d have tried to. It’s done now, though.’