Twenty Thousand Streets Under the Sky (42 page)

Here they were! – scouring along the Chiswick High Road itself! Chiswick! As they whizzed past the Green she looked over towards the home of the two old fossils. And to think of
them sleeping peacefully in bed, and she out here. It must be pretty well midnight. Gee, what a life!

And now they had passed Gunnersbury, and had turned up to the right, and were ripping up the wide, smooth, deserted spaces of the Great West Road. . . . Gee! – it was like a racing track – no wonder he put on speed. It was like being in an aeroplane!

‘Go on. Let her rip!’ cried Rex from behind, and ‘Yo-ah-ah-eye-atee!’ yodelled the young man.

Gosh – they must have gone about two miles on this road already. They were leaving London behind. Andy, whose face was set, was clearly out for nothing but speed now.

‘Go on – step on ’er. Step on ’er!’ screamed Violet from behind.

‘That’s right. Step on ’er! Step on ’er!’ echoed Jenny, and Andy’s face grew more and more set.

And then, intoxicated with wine and speed together, and with the wind tearing at her face and round her ears, an insane and uncontrollable impulse surged into Jenny’s soul. She stood up like a fury. She screamed.

‘Step on ’er!’ she screamed. ‘Step on ’er!
Step on
’
er
!’

And then ‘Look out for the bike!
Look out for the bike!
’

But it was too late. With a grating noise and a thud, a man and his bicycle were hurled helplessly against the side of the car, and left behind in the darkness.

She heard Violet scream piercingly, and she looked back.

‘You’ve hit him!’ Violet yelled. ‘You’ve hit him.
Stop!
’ ‘Yoah-ah-eye-atee!’ went the young man from the comfortable depths of the back seat. ‘Stop, you dirty swine!’ yelled Violet. ‘You’ve killed ’im! Will you stop!’

Andy slowed down a little and Jenny watched his face. It was like something made of stone, with false glass eyes. Putting his tongue carefully out of his mouth, he swerved round and entered a quiet lane to their right.

‘Yo-ah-ah-eye-atee!’ went the young man, and Violet emitted another piercing scream. ‘Stop! Stop!
Will you stop, you dirty rotter! Will you stop!
’

It was slightly up-hill, and Andy changed his gear. The car
gathered pace. The headlights shone dazzlingly on to leafy hedges.

‘Stop! Stop! Will you stop!’

Jenny sank back into her seat. She felt and heard a singing in her ears, and she was aware of a crawling numbness rising in her legs. She tried by will-power to check its advance up into her body – but she could not. She began to sweat in her endeavour to stop it. Great black blotches sprawled and floundered over her eyes. Her stomach turned over, and rose up. She was going to be sick. She was going to faint.

‘
Will you stop!
’ she heard Violet yelling, and then, at a great distance, the sound of Violet’s passionate and resigned weeping. After that she knew nothing else.

III

T
HE
M
ORNING
A
FTER

P
ROJECTED FROM AN
urgent and resounding dream, Jenny opened her eyes in silent darkness, her head buried between unfamiliar sheets.

She had slept a long while, but apprehended that it was still night in the world without. That the sheets were unfamiliar she sensed, but was not at present consciously aware. Also she heard the sound of a Venetian blind spasmodically crack-cracking against a window in the draught, but she did not realize that that sound was unfamiliar. . . .

A shot of pain careered through her head, and left it hideously throbbing, and a feeling of bile spread up and over her. She closed her eyes until it allayed itself a little. Something had happened. That was all she could take in at the moment. Something had happened.

What was it? What was the time? Where was she? What had she done? She heard her trembling breath coming and going in a roar in the sheets. Yes. She remembered. She had
got drunk. (Couldn’t she stop her trembling?) She had got drunk.

Last night she had got drunk. She had gone into that pub, and got drunk. It was in Hammersmith, with those three. It wasn’t fair – them making her drunk like that. Violet, and those two common ‘boys.’

Where were they now? What had they all done? Oh God – she was in trouble. She was in trouble all right this time.

What was it she had done? Tom. . . . Tom was in it somewhere. . . . Yes – she had gone outside that pub, and heaped vile words on him. She had been mad. She had been drunk, and he had told her so. She had been drunk all over Hammersmith. Oh God – what had she said and what had she done? Oh God – she was in trouble. In fearful crescendo her memories flocked back upon her.

Then they had all gone in that car. Andy had been driving, and she had been beside him. And the other three shouting and drinking behind. It wasn’t fair – that dirty crowd making her drunk like that. Where had they all gone? Past Chiswick and out on the Great West Road. . . .

The accident! The bike! ‘
Look out for the bike. Look out for the bike!
’ She heard herself screaming it now. That vibrating thud against the side! They had knocked a poor man over. And she had been in the car with that drunken lot; she had been the drunkest of the lot! They had killed a man! Oh God – she was in a scrape this time all right.

Had they been found out? What had happened? Andy had driven on. Had they escaped?

Where was she? These sheets – they weren’t hers. That blind rattling – this wasn’t her room. Someone had brought her somewhere. Oh God – what had they done with her, and where was she? She sprang up in bed and stared in horror and silence at the window.

She was in a narrow slip of a room, with the window facing her a few yards from the end of the bed. Through the open slats of the Venetian blind she perceived that the window was open at the bottom, and she at once knew what manner of day it was outside. Though the dawn had risen, the world was
hidden in sombre brown darkness. It was one of those night-days, familiar to Londoners, wherein visibility below is not obscured, but the upper air is occupied by that dense black fog which glows purple when reflecting the lights of a city.

Beyond the window, through the slats of the blind, she saw the laced outline of a denuded tree, and, listening intently, she heard the faint, miserable chirrup of a sparrow. The blind went ‘clack . . . clack’ gently – stirred by an insensible draught.

She gazed ahead without motion, and tried to think in what room, under whose shelter, in what part of London, she might be.

Then delayed panic struck. Where was she? Had she been kidnapped? Someone had kidnapped her. Where
was
she? What horror was this? She jumped out of bed, and was rushing to the window, but stopped. She was in her underclothes. She looked down on herself.
She was in her underclothes!
In that sombre fog-light she felt hideously, terrifyingly denuded – stripped! Where was her dress? Oh – where was her dress? It was nowhere. They had taken it. There was a man – there were men in this somewhere. Where was she?

Oh, where was she, where was she, where was she!
She flew over in a blind frenzy to the window. She grasped madly at the cord of the blind, cutting her finger on the nail round which it was wound. She pulled it up with a mighty rattle, and tied the cord furiously and carelessly round the nail. The whole thing fell down again, flying down upon her like a giant angry bat, and striking her forehead. Once again she pulled it up, and firmly tied the cord.

She looked out of the window.

The house she was in had three stories, and she was on the second. In the eerie quiet of the night-day, she saw on each side a succession of walled suburban garden plots. There were two rows of them, and behind them rose the backs of another row of houses. Some of these plots were neatly kept, others were rank with weeds. Wireless poles abounded. To her left, about a hundred yards away, was a road, down
which she heard a cart rattling in a business-like way.

What was the time? Judging by the sound of that cart, and the general look of the sky, she judged it was about seven o’clock. What part of the world this might be she could not guess, but she experienced a very faint relief at its apparently respectable air.

The biting cold caught her bare arms, and she shiveringly tried to close the window. But it would not close. She put her whole weight on it, but it would not close. Oh God – she’d catch her death. Where was her dress? She came back into the room.
Where was her dress! She
’
d catch her death!

She jumped back into the bed, and drawing the clothes up around her, stared once more at the window. Where was she? She had got to do some thinking – some quick thinking. She was so sick and giddy she could hardly think. She had got to get out of here. She must think. Sitting up in bed, staring at the window, her teeth chattering, Jenny thought.

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.