Wild Geese Overhead (10 page)

He slowly straightened up. “Sorry, constable.” He gasped, for some bitter stuff had got into his wind-pipe.

The policeman stooped and looked into his face. “Who are you?” The voice was gruff and suspicious.

Will did not answer. Deeper than his human sense of shame, than his hatred of the animal mess, was this feeling that he was coming all right. For there had been one terrible drawn-out moment when he had felt himself shooting into a black abyss. The policeman shook him. His strong fingers bit the shoulder bone. Will lost his balance, but the policeman held him upright. “Come on!” The policeman began to drag him away.

“One minute,” said Will. “For God's sake, listen.”

“What's that?”

“I'm not drunk. There's something wrong. Listen to me.”

The policeman was all attention now and looked shrewdly into Will's face.

“Give me a minute,” said Will. “Let me lean against the wall.” The policeman helped him to the wall. Will shut his teeth against an overpowering desire to sit down. “It happened in there. I have only had one drink to-night. You know I'm quite sober.” Any one could see he was sober. “Only one drink. I was in there. The atmosphere—cut it with a knife. I went into the lavatory. A fellow spewed over me. It turned my stomach.”

“What were you doing in there?”

“My job. I'm a journalist.”

“Oh, a journalist, are you?”

“Yes. I work on the
Evening Star.
Special articles—social conditions. You know. God, I'm feeling sick yet.”

“So you're a journalist?”

“Yes. Give you my card.” A weak smile came to his face. “I thought I was tougher. It was the way the stuff—oh heavens!” Will had brought his hand up to open his coat and now began brushing the breast of it with sickening distaste.

“It isn't a very nice thing to do on the street,” said the constable in a mollified tone.

“Don't rub it in! I'll make a contribution—to the scavenging department.” The weary humour was a friendly effort.

“How would you like, if you were living here, and came out in the morning, and slid on that?”

“Hush—or I'll do it again.”

“You better not,” said the constable.

Will felt assailed by a humour wild and fantastic as the night, the black convoluting horror of the night. Something in the policeman's voice was faintly reminiscent of Don, too. The Highland accent! The tangle of the Isles! The cheekbones protruded like stem or sternpost of a small boat. Smashing green seas and white spray.

He had got hold of his pocket-book, when an uproar arose from the pub. “Come along,” said the policeman, taking Will in tow.

As they reached the spot, Joe and Jamie came clattering through the doors, as if they had been forcibly ejected. Some men followed, but when they saw the policemen they backed away. Joe seemed to be doing his best to hold a one-armed maniac, whose language was foul. It was a strange, terrifying, agonizing foulness. Some youngsters, who had been following Will and the policeman, listened to it with frightened faces. Normally they would have listened like connoisseurs, with the general assessment: “Jesus, hasn't he got a—skinful!” But now they were silent, the eyes in the pale faces glistening with a queer dread. Nothing on the normal plane of social horror was strange to them; but this was pushed off that plane into the abyss where there is no footing, only the cry coming back.

Joe had said a few hurried words to the policeman, who was now helping him, and both of them began dragging Jamie away. The constable, who was with Will, strode forward, had a word or two with his colleague, and turned back, meeting Will.

“Good night, constable—and thanks,” said Will.

Their eyes met. In a slow grim way the policeman nodded. “Good night.”

But Jamie wasn't beaten yet. For he wanted back. He wanted back to the warmth of the pub; to the light and the warmth, to the obliterating crush of bodies, drinking, drinking, all drinking. He wanted back. The children at a little distance heard him cry: “For Christ's sake, let me back! Let me back! Let me back!” his voice rising to a roar, then choking in his throat as he dug his heels in. It looked as if his captors were taking him to torture, not ordinary bodily torture, but some other hellish and unthinkable torture. It was this note that troubled the children.

Will followed a few yards behind, as if he were leading the children. After a time, unable to stand this isolation, he quickened his pace and came beside Joe. “Can I help?”

“No,” said Joe. “It's all right.” Every now and then Jamie roared aloud and struggled, fighting drunk. But Joe and the policeman had him firmly. The children were darting about now in their excitement. They were getting used to the underlying terror, as they would get used to the sight of a mad young bull, roped, being led to the shambles. Their instinctive fear made them more active than birds. Grownups, back against the walls, stood and stared.

When they came to the corner of the street where his home was, Jamie made his great struggle. The policeman, losing patience, told him to shut up or he would bash him. He manhandled him a little and a thin screaming note pierced through Jamie's harsh throat.

“It's no use,” said the policeman, who apparently knew Joe. “I'll have to lock him up.”

“We can't do that,” said Joe. “It'll ruin him for good.”

“Not a bit of it. It's what he damned well needs.”

“But, man, can't you see——”

“All I can see is he's dangerous. I can't take the responsibility of letting a man in his condition near a woman or a child. He's capable of anything. Can't you see he's fighting mad?” The Highland accent was very strong.

But Jamie had gone suddenly still and silent. He was staring at Will. Hatred focused to torture points. He let out a low throaty growl and, if the policeman had not had a lock on his arm, he would have broken free.

The impetus of Jamie's rush started them up the street. Will fell behind, his heart beating in a suffocating way. A deep bitter shame, a self-shame, overcame him, a conviction of worthlessness drawn out and lost in the outer dark of the night.

Opposite the close leading to Jamie's home, Joe paused and made his desperate appeal. But Jamie did not listen, and it became very clear that this close was for him the gangway to his final torture.

Joe could do no more, and actually as they went up the street Jamie grew much quieter. By the time they reached the police office, he was walking silently between them. Will saw him enter without offering any resistance. The three of them disappeared, and he was standing alone on the street.

Not a soul on the street but himself, no darting children here or staring men and women, as if all the world avoided this office. A profound sensation of the emptiness of the world, of life, of himself, came upon Will. Like a plague street in a dim-dark foreign town under an empty sky. All dead—except for that office, where Jamie was being charged. He moved slowly down the street, turned, and came back. A tall dark helmeted figure came out of the police office, looked at him with slow deliberation, and walked quietly away.

Will went along the pavement again, saw a tall dark figure coming towards him, and turned back. The figure came up behind. Will could feel it looking at him. It did look at him, slowly round and into his face, as it passed on, with quiet strides, and entered under the solitary light above the doorway.

The dark upright watchers of night in the underworld. Islesmen, cheek-bones like blunt timber-ends, straight-stemmed, unyielding, going out into the dark, returning from the dark's dark fishing with catches of strange tragedies. How fantastic the drama of destiny!

Will felt a cold bodiless fantasy getting hold of him. This touched him with fear, as though his normal mind were slipping. At last Joe came out.

“Still here?” he said, in his usual voice. But there was a quietness about him now, and he stood silent for a little while. “It's a pity,” he added, “but there seemed nothing else for it.”

“No.”

“I couldn't take him home. And, anyway, he wouldn't have come.”

“No. He wouldn't want to be with friends.”

“Suppose not.”

They were silent again. In view of the accomplished fact of Jamie's imprisonment, there was nothing to say. The weight of it pressed down on them. Nothing to say—or too much; too much, in anger and bitterness and defeat.

“What about your bus?”

Will tried to read his watch.

“About a quarter to eleven,” said Joe.

“I could just make it.”

“Right. I'll go back and have a few words with Mary.” He spoke quietly.

“Don't suppose I could be of any use?”

“No. You get home. I told the sergeant I'd be here before eight in the morning. I'll see then how Jamie is taking things. We'll straighten him up somehow. Well, thanks for your company. Good night.”

“Good night, Joe.”

They parted, but after twenty yards, Will swung round and called: “Joe!” Joe came to meet him.

“What about ready cash? Will Mary have anything?”

“She can't have much,” said Joe.

From his pocket-book, Will took out a pound note. “Would that be any use?”

“It's far too much.”

“Good,” said Will, handing it to him.

“Thanks very much,” said Joe.

“Needn't say it's from me.”

“All right. Sometimes you have to make an excuse or other. I can honestly say it's not mine!” He smiled in friendly weary irony.

Will smiled back, and they said good night again.

Joe always made Will think of the brotherhood of man. In his large strong body, in his forbearance, his capable handling of any event, his quiet understanding, his tendency always to act rather than to talk, Joe
was
the brotherhood of man. And to-night, too, in this matter of feeling, of sympathy, Joe had been subtle. It was as if he had learned the need for feeling with his head. Having work to do, he could not let anything touch him too closely. He thereby not only kept action intact but assisted those who had lost hold on action.

A deep admiration for him flowed over Will, and he felt Joe walking back…through the streets of the ages…forward into streets with the dawn breaking. Joe—the figure that has never failed to appear, the solitary figure—here, there—down the streets of time, down the streets of men—the figure that bears all the tragedy, the sorrows that are beauty's inverted dreams, the bitter anguish.…

Will had to move his head from side to side to get a proper feel of his body. The Figure had come before him very distinctly. Not the face, not the expression, but the body, with its grey coat or cloak about it, standing a little way off, solitary.

This tendency to fantasy—he must watch it. But in a moment he cried against himself: It's not fantasy, it's truth, and you know it! Don't be a coward. You know it!

Had he let his voice escape then? Had it cried sharply in the street? He looked from side to side with furtive eyes.

As he passed one close-entrance, Will was pierced by terror exactly as if he had been stabbed by a knife. It was something that came out of the close. He did not see or imagine anything. The intense sensation of an act of horror being committed clung to him.

The streets were menacingly empty, and when two or three figures suddenly appeared and disappeared, he stiffened all over. Once a young woman's voice screamed out, screamed again and again; then there was a gabble of voices, followed by complete silence.

He was reacting too vividly, of course. And actually the vast majority must be law-abiding folk, tolerant and obviously slow to wrath. Decent people, like those he had met, Mary and——

He shuddered and began to hurry. He would have to hurry, anyway, if he was going to catch his bus. But he was frightened to run. That turn in the pub had given his muscles an odd jumpiness. They felt weak. He felt extremely weak, too, about the pit of the stomach. Afflicted the whole body with a sensation of unreality.

Ah, but here were bright lights again and here a taxi! Empty, too!

The taxi sped upward swiftly through the thoroughfares he knew. The theatre crowds were fading out. He lay back and looked out of the windows at the lights, the figures, the tram-cars. Bright lights and gleaming rails. Well-dressed people, the lifting of hats, laughter and good-bye. Two women wrapped in furs, their thin dresses about their ankles, and two men, getting into a car. Home! A drink, or a cup of something hot? Whisky, or sherry—there's beer if you really want a drink?

Will closed his eyes, exhausted, and felt himself being borne backward. It's back I should go, he thought. Back there. I should live it out there, live it into and out of my system, so that, like Joe——

The taxi delivered him at the bus terminus only just in time. “You cut that fine,” said the driver. “Thank you, sir. Thank you.”

The bus moved off as he sat down. He hadn't minded really whether he caught the bus or not. If he had missed it—he would have wandered back—perhaps met Joe again—or Bill Bailey. It would be an experience, dossing with Bill Bailey! Sleep was a thousand miles away from him, but he was very weary.

The cold dampness of the night was working up into a spitting rain out here in the country. For a little while after leaving the bus, Will had to search for the side of his road with his foot. But after a time, its brown surface became vaguely discernible. There seemed to be neither stars nor moon about. But he did not search for either because he had not the energy, he did not care.

He went long distances without much thought or feeling of any kind. Then he came to the place where he had seen the wild geese. This moment had been waiting for him. He knew that.

His knees got a little out of control and he staggered. Blast it! he said, and sat down by the roadside on the wet grass. Oh God, I'm ashamed! He rested his forehead on his palms.