Authors: Iris Murdoch
An Accidental Man (35 page)
âThat's â my â drink â' said Austin. Some ancient panic had indeed brought the tears into his eyes. Familiar impotent anger flooded his throat. He made a lunge for the whisky glass which Norman was waving tantalizingly before him.
âNaughty temper, naughty!'
Norman twisted away from the clutching hand and deftly tapped Austin on the chest, jolting him back on to his chair. Norman was intoning âI'll tell â big brother â on you â' Austin rose again, pawing, flailing, grabbing. Norman was laughing. Norman's foot shot out and Austin yelped with pain. He swiped blindly at the dancing glass which flew and shattered against the door. âCalm down, bugger you â Look out, do you want me to hit you properly?' Norman's fist met Austin's shoulder, but Austin was already on top of him.
âYou â swine â'
âGet off me â'
Austin's left hand gripped the metal box file containing the novel. He swung it wildly, one knee on the bed, as Norman began to topple off on to the floor. The corner of the file drove into the back of Norman's head with a violent crack.
Five minutes had passed. Norman was still lying absolutely quiet on the floor. The back of his head was bleeding a little.
Panting with emotion and fear Austin had waited for him to move, to rise. Then had shaken him, pulled him, then desisted. Norman lay there on his side, surrounded by broken glass, his face pale, his eyes closed. He looked a different person. Austin could hardly recognize that remote altered face, which was not like that of a sleeper.
Austin sat on the bed and panted. He reached down and fumbled with Norman's wrist. There seemed to be no pulse. The hand fell back on to the floor with a thump. He tried to feel for a pulse in Norman's neck, but the soft quiet warmth of the flesh filled him with fright and horror. He felt that he was going to be sick. He stepped carefully to the basin and leaned over it shuddering and making noises in his throat. Then he returned to the bed. The awful sound of that blow, and now the absolute silence, the silence of responsibility and doom. Norman was as still and as remote as a wax effigy dressed in a suit of clothes. The clothes looked weird on him, like clothes on an image. It had all happened so quickly, how could what had happened so quickly be so irrevocable and full of consequences?
Austin could feel in his own body the force of the blow. Already he was reluctant to touch what lay at his feet. Norman lay heavy and without motion like a huge long thing inhabiting the room, not like a presence but like a portent, a piece of incomprehensible stuff put there as a threat or as an ugly joke. What on earth was he to do with Norman? Norman was so heavy, Norman had no business here. How could he get rid of him?
Austin got up again and ran some cold water into the basin. He splashed some down on to Norman's face. He stirred him with his foot. The thing lolled. Not a move, not a breath. If only it were somewhere else and not here in his room. Austin's mind ran about rat-like seeking an issue. Suppose he were to call a taxi and â No, that was no good. He must ring up a hospital, get an ambulance. But suppose Norman were really dead, as dead as he looked? Austin would be â The police would come and â It would be the end of Austin â
He opened the door and listened. The house seemed to be empty. Mitzi had gone out earlier that morning to be interviewed for a job. What could he do? How could he hide what had happened, tidy Norman away and make this awful thing not to be? He had an absurd impulse to thrust Norman in under the bed. Put Norman in a cupboard. It had already begun to seem like the name of a thing. A dead Norman in the room, big, weighty, long. In a sudden frenzy he kicked the silent form, shook it, slapped its face. It sickened and appalled him. Was he vainly insulting what was indeed already a corpse? The thing rolled back into stillness, it was invincible. Austin stared at it and moaned aloud. Then he ran down the stairs to the telephone. He dialled the number of the Villa.
âCould you get a mirror?'
It was fifteen minutes later. Matthew had driven round at once.
Austin went to Mitzi's bedroom. There was a large hand mirror on the dressing-table. He hurried back again and gave it to Matthew.
Matthew awkwardly laid the surface of the mirror against Norman's face.
âIt's too big, I can't get it â'
âShall I move â'
âNo, that'll do.'
Matthew drew the mirror away. There was no haze on it.
âMatches.'
âWhat?'
âMatches. I want to â'
Austin handed a box. Matthew struck a match and approached the flame to Norman's strangely pale cheek, to his nose.
âLook out, you'll set fire to him, what the â'
There was no recoil, no movement.
âHe's like a bloody waxwork,' said Austin.
âI think he may be dead,' said Matthew.
âThen what are we going to do?' said Austin. âI'm not going to admit to having hit him.'
âYou got him just on that spot â Let's sit down for a minute.'
Matthew was panting, as Austin had been a while ago. Austin was cold.
They sat down at opposite ends of the bed, looking down. Austin withdrew his foot from the touch of Norman's trouser leg.
Matthew was deliberately controlling his breathing. Austin's teeth were chattering slightly. He made them stop.
âOf course we must get help at once,' said Matthew. âBut let's give ourselves two minutes.'
âCan't we get him away from here in your car?'
âNo, of course not. Think.'
âWe could pretend we'd found him in the road â'
âNo!'
âWell, what's the two minutes for?' said Austin.
âTo get your story clear. You hit him in self-defence. Well, you did, didn't you? Why were you fighting, anyhow?'
âI'm not going to admit to having hit him, I tell you,' said Austin. âIt was an accident, the whole thing was an accident.'
âYou'll have to tell them â'
âNo,' said Austin. âYou're not going to make me do that again. Not again. You'll drive me mad. Can't you see? I'd tell them you did it, I'd say anything. I'm not going to be caught by the police, they'd accuse me of murder, it would end me, it would kill me â'
âAll right,' said Matthew. He seemed calmer. He was pursing his lips now like a scholar considering a conjecture.
âSuppose we say â'
âShut up. Let me think.'
Austin rocked himself and moaned softly. Norman's socks, Norman's shoes, Norman's feet, so appallingly, irrevocably there.
âAre you sure the house is empty?'
âYes.'
âNow how could he have got such a wound accidentally?' pursued Matthew. âNot by falling in this room, I think, there's nothing he could have hit his head on with that degree of force. He must have fallen down the stairs. I think that's the only possibility. Did he drink any of that whisky?'
âI can't remember,' said Austin, âI can't remember.'
âWell, he smells of whisky now all right. He fell down the stairs. What could he have hit his head on?'
âThe edge of the trunk on the landing below,' said Austin. âIt's got brass corners.'
âHe fell down this flight of stairs and hit his head on the edge of the trunk. While I'm talking you can be picking up the pieces of glass.'
âWhere shall I put them?' said Austin.
âIn the waste-paper basket for the moment. And rub over that bit of linoleum with the newspaper. Was he arriving or departing? Departing. He had been talking to us both and we had had a drink. We had the impression that he was a little tight when he arrived. Why had he come? In order to bring his novel, no, in order to pick up his novel, which you had already read. Which you had already read. I have not read it but you asked me to be present to discuss possible publishers. We suggested â no, we said we'd let him know â That's right, now could you take the novel out of the box file and put it on the window sill. Wash the edge of the file, put it under the tap, yes, now give it to me. The novel was brought here in a large envelope since destroyed, yes. We all talked on the landing. Norman was still holding his glass, got to explain why he's covered in whisky, yes. Talking to us he stepped back and missed his footing. That'll have to do. Now help me to move him down these stairs. You'll have to do most of the work. Get hold of his jacket.'
âI can't â only with one hand â' said Austin faintly.
âPull, pull, I'll do the best I can. Don't pull his shoe off, hold his ankle.'
âI think I'm going to be sick.'
âDo what I tell you. Pull.'
Norman moved. He slid along the linoleum as far as the top of the stairs. Austin noticed with a dazed horror that Matthew was actually holding one of Norman's hands.
âDo you think we â roll him down â'
âDon't be a fool,' said Matthew. âNow you go first with his feet. I'll hold his shoulders. We'll sit him from stair to stair. Kneel down to it, kneel. Better hold on to his â No, lift his feet. Wait, wait till I put this paper behind his head. Gently, I want to keep his head up, gently â'
âYou think he isn't dead?'
âI don't want any blood on my clothes, or on the stairs.'
âOh Christ, is he bleeding much?'
âNo. Now take a rest here.'
They rested with Norman sitting up between them, leaning back against Matthew's knee. Matthew had his arm round Norman's shoulder. One of Norman's shoes was coming off. Austin pressed it back on again and felt the firm warmth of the foot. This couldn't be happening. How long did it take a body to get cold?
âNow again. Come on. That's right.'
Norman's bottom bumped smoothly from stair to stair. His head kept falling forward with a jerk.
âChrist, his bloody head will fall off,' said Austin.
They reached the landing. Austin took his hands away.
âWe've moved him a little from where he was originally lying. It would be this corner of the trunk, wouldn't it? Might be a smear of blood on it. So.' Austin averted his eyes. He sat down heavily on the stairs. âNow in a minute or two I am going to ring for an ambulance. Meanwhile we must work. I want you to do these things. Take a dustpan and brush and see there's no glass upstairs. Bring it all down and put it in the bin, no time to dispose of it otherwise. Wash the floor and dry it. Were both the tumblers broken?'
âYes.'
âWell, take up another two and moisten them with whisky â'
âThere isn't any, he had it all.'
âThen put a little water in the bottle and â'
âI can't,' said Austin, âI can't, I can't, my mind's gone blank.'
âAll right, just sit still.'
âSuppose he wakes up and accuses me? Oh God, he is dead, isn't he? Oh God, what am I to do â'
âKeep quiet.'
Austin continued to sit on the stairs. He looked through the open door of Mitzi's sitting-room into a sunny dusty haze. Matthew was grunting, moving up and down, his legs brushing against Austin's shoulder.
âWhere are the brushes kept?'
âThere.'
âI'm putting the file in here.'
âYes.'
âWhere can I burn things?'
âKitchen boiler.'
âWhere do you keep glasses?'
âThere.'
Something flashed over Austin's head and shattered to pieces on the landing. âWhat was that?'
âHis glass.'
âWhy break another one?'
âOnly one glass broke. Couldn't sort out one from two.'
âI don't understand,' said Austin, âoh I don't understand â'
âGet out of the way, would you,' said Matthew.
âYou've broken one of Mitzi's best cut-glass tumblers,' said Austin. He walked towards the sunlight. He tripped over something. It was Norman's arm.
âYou remember what happened.' Matthew's voice followed him out of the darkness. âYou asked me to meet Norman, we discussed the novel, we decided nothing, we said we'd let him know, he was talking on the landing, he stepped back â'
âYes.'
âWe had the impression he was a little drunk when he arrived.'
âYes.'
âI'll do the talking.'
âYes.'
âAustin â'
âYes.'
âIf the police suspect anything at all this story won't stand up.'
âYou are Sir Matthew,' said Austin. âThey'll believe you.' He went over to the cupboard where Mitzi kept the drink.
Matthew was on the telephone. âThere has been a serious accident â'
There was a little gin. Austin drank it from the bottle. He sat down and a hazy dead feeling came over him. He had no worries, he had no responsibilities, he was being looked after. He laid his head back in the chair and went straight off to sleep.
My dear Oliver,
please forgive us, but after careful thought we feel that Kierkegaard is not for us. Such a distinguished vehicle deserves a connoisseur, and we are rather dull people, we have decided, probably mere âfamily car' owners. We terribly enjoyed the âspin' and we thought Kierkegaard did very well. Blowing a gasket is something which might happen to anybody. (I am not sure what a gasket is, but I understand this to be the case.) And it was just bad luck about that policeman. We got home all right, and were glad to hear that you did too. No, you certainly cannot pay for the hire of the automobile. We enjoyed the day very much in spite of the tiny mishaps. We look forward to seeing you on Thursday at the Odmores' party. With all our thanks to you and best wishes from us both,
Yours
Ludwig
PS I am so glad to hear that your little sister is to be our second bridesmaid! I do look forward to meeting her.
Dear Patrick,
don't you think that you are behaving rather childishly? There is no need to shun me like a leper just because I don't belong to the brotherhood. The way you are avoiding me is becoming, I feel, conspicuous. I hope you don't think my letter to you was offensive or priggish or pi. It wasn't intended to be. I just felt it kinder to make things clear. Also, and in general, I think it is foolish of you to embark upon a path which seems to guarantee a lifetime of misery. Meanwhile, I confess that I miss our discussions on history and philosophy. Perhaps after this salutary interval of clarification we might, if you still feel inclined to, resume them?
Yours
Ralph
My dear Karen,
I don't seem to have heard from you for some time. Don't think I'm complaining, I just notice a gap in my post. Also, my spies tell me that you are going off with Richard Pargeter on his yacht. Is that wise? I should have thought Richard was a dead end for any girl. However, I am, as you know, old-fashioned. Isn't it about time you bought me another meal? Will you be at the party? I met your mother in Sloane Street and promised to visit the boutique. Perhaps you would support me. I may ring up. Excuse the above frankness of your old friend and well-wisher
Sebastian
Dearest bro,
I've been in such a tizzy, going to Oxford and that, please forgive neglect. The flat at Oxford is sweet, so cosy and ordinary, it makes me happy in a special new way. I think loving Ludwig is improving me morally. Is this possible? By the way, there's been another jolly disaster, or has ma already told you. The father of that little girl that Austin killed fell down the stairs at Austin's place after getting drunk discussing a novel he'd written with Austin and Matthew and managed to break his skull and is still in a coma. There's potted history for you.
What news of the Ralph biz? By the way, I have got the answer to your question about Ralph's heart condition. It appears that Ralph loves Ann Colindale who loves Richard Pargeter who (currently, he never does anything for long) loves Karen who (although she denies it) loves Sebastian who loves me who loves Ludwig who loves me. So that's
that
situation tied up.
that
situation tied up.
Other news in brief. Ludwig has moved to the Villa and I am over there all the time now so I see a lot of Matthew. He asked after you. Sebastian says Ralph has permish to come up to the Odmores' party. I suppose you can't make it? The parents are well. They are still trying to get their hooks on to poor old Dorina. They also plan to cruise to the Greek islands with R. Pargeter. You are not included since you are understood to disapprove of him. I enclose a cheque.
Your loving sister
G.
PS. I have decided to have a second bridesmaid, little Henrietta Sayce. She and Karen will look so pretty together, with the same dresses, one big and one little.
Dear Mrs Monkley,
may I on behalf of my brother and myself express our profound sympathy with you in respect of your husband's recent accident. As I am sure you appreciate, everything possible has been done for him. My brother and I did what we could at the time, and the doctors in charge of the case are as competent as can be. I have arranged for him to have a private room and extra nursing care. I gather he is still unconscious and it is as yet too early to know what will happen and whether serious brain damage has been sustained. We must all, in our various ways, hope for the best. We were glad to hear of your release from hospital, and Miss Argyll (who also sends her condolences) and myself will hope to wait upon you in the near future. With deepest sympathy and sincere good wishes,
Yours sincerely
Matthew Gibson Grey
My darling Mavis,
thank you for your careful letter (which I have destroyed) about the matter I spoke to you of. I think we had both better now, in a sense, try to
forget
this. What has happened and what has been done, rightly or amiss, has been done and will have whatever consequences it will have. Let us meanwhile bury it in decent silence.
forget
this. What has happened and what has been done, rightly or amiss, has been done and will have whatever consequences it will have. Let us meanwhile bury it in decent silence.
With Valmorana and the Villa both impossible we are like the babes in the wood, are we not, my dear. I suggest National Gallery tomorrow, British Museum on Tuesday and Wallace Collection on Wednesday! It is not satisfactory, but at least it is temporary. August will dispose of Gracie, who now treats this house as her own, which indeed it is. And meanwhile: can you not persuade Dorina to go to the Tisbournes, who are so anxious to have her? Clara says Richard Pargeter would be very willing to take Dorina along on this yacht cruise which they seem to be contemplating. Quite apart from our interests, I think this change would do Dorina a world of good.
Mavis, you have asked me to live in the present and I am (especially in view of what I spoke of at the beginning of this letter) prepared to do so for the moment. But one day I shall again think of the future, and think of it as inseparable from you. A habit of unhappiness may be hard to break. But we are not too old to break it. Nor is it too late to think extravagant and beautiful thoughts. I love you. Let us be ambitious for ourselves. I kiss your hands. Tomorrow.
Matthew
My darling husband,
I was so terribly sorry to hear of the accident to poor Mr Monkley. How unfortunate, and how unhappy it must have made you that it should have happened in your house and just when you were so kindly trying to help him. I am so sorry.
Mavis wants me to go to the Tisbournes. They are going to go on some sort of cruise, I am not quite sure when, and want me to come too. Mavis is very kind and doesn't press it but I know she wants me to go. I do not want to go. The idea of the âcruise' fills me with horror and the Tisbournes being so sympathetic to me the whole time reduces me to whimpering. Sorry I cannot express this, I am very unhappy. I know it is all my stupidity and my fault. Austin, can we not find a solution for ourselves, this endless dependence on other people is so bad, oh I know, I know, that it is my weakness that has made us so. From where can strength come? How I wish we could go away together, you and I, though I know we have no money and I am so unable to deal with the world. Oh what can we do? Dear husband, I think of you so much, especially in the night time, and pray to you in my thoughts, for you are all that I have. There is no God, but I pray to you and lodge there in the thought of you all the good that I know or dream of.
Austin, will you come to see me here? I, we, have put this off for reasons which we both understand. You have hoped for better fortune, a new job, getting the flat back and so on, and I have hoped â for a calmer mind. But maybe we are wrong to wait, and cannot without somehow coming together attain any of these goals. I have thought a lot about this. I do not want to displease you. If you would like to see me please come. Telephone first. But if you would rather wait a little longer I am happy to wait too. I am happy always in your will. Apart or together, I am a place of safety for you. You know that. Ever your patient and loving wife
Dorina
My dearest son,
your father has suggested that I should write to you so that you can be sure that he and I are of one mind in this matter. I am not very good at this sort of letter and I did not earlier write because the discussion was between yourself and your father, you understand. Dear Ludwig, I cannot express to you how much we miss you. To say that I think of my dear son every day says little. I think of him every minute and remember what times in our day and night are his bed times and his getting up times, and every night and indeed always in my thoughts I pray for him that he may be protected and guided to do the right. So it is. Ludwig, we have had such a nice letter from Miss Tisbourne. Please thank her from us both. I think we cannot write to her, it is too hard to write. She seems good-hearted though rather a young child, it seemed to us. We still hope and trust that you will put off this marriage which seems to us, with your general position in so much doubt, to be not well thought of. A marriage is forever, as I am sure you feel this as we do, and it may be that this very young lady, though so charming, is not the strong and spiritual stay which you, which any man, has need of upon that long road. Please consider this carefully, Ludwig. And do not think that we are just prejudiced and unable to understand the âtone' of a society which might seem to us, as perhaps it does to you, a little âgrand' or even worldly.
About the other matter I do beg you to come home and sort it out. How can you go on to your work at Oxford with this hanging over your head? At least come home and face it and do so before making any more plans to get married. Mr Livingstone tells us that you can now plead objections to war on general moral grounds which need not be actually religious. You speak of being âhonest all the way through'. Dear son, it does not seem to us that you are being honest all the way through if you seek all the advantages and shirk all the unhappy consequences of the position which you have taken up. If you wish to bear witness this cannot be done by running away but only by âfacing the music'. Your father and I have talked this over again and again and again, among ourselves and with Mr Livingstone. You know that we do not wish you to be in trouble. But neither do we wish you to seem and perhaps to be a coward. And if you do not come back now you will be in very much greater trouble later on. Even leaving aside the concern which I know you have for our feelings, surely you cannot sincerely believe, at your young age, that you will never want to set foot in the United States in your life again. We so much fear that you will suddenly decide to come later when it will all have such terrible consequences. And who knows what will happen in Europe? Oh, Ludwig, come back. Now and only now can all be put right. Mr Livingstone is sure that it can all somehow be arranged for the best and we can see about it when we can talk to you properly ourselves and see your dear face. Please reply soon and say that you will come. Time is very pressing in your situation. And please, surely this is simple and reasonable, at least postpone your wedding. That cannot be difficult. Write soon, my dearest son, and relieve the anxious loving mind of your devoted mother
R.F.
We were surprised to hear that the college authorities approved. Can they really have understood the situation?
My dear Ludwig,
thank you for the excellent stuff on Aristophanes, it's just right. How modest you are! With you doing the history and me doing the poetry we shall be able to put Big A. on the Oxford map as he hasn't been for ages. We
shall
have fun next year and I can't tell you how much I look forward to it. I hope you will be down at the weekend as suggested? There is a big auction sale of self-styled antiques and you and Gracie might pick up one or two things for the flat. By the way, I think your lovely fiancée has made a conquest (I mean other than of the undersigned â and of the Master!). Going down to the room of the brutish MacMurraghue to borrow a trifle of sherry I saw on the table his form for next term's lectures decorated as follows: âGracie is and
ought only to be
the slave of the passions.' Make what you can of that! But fear not, McM, though a philosopher, is a gentleman. Oh what fun we shall have! See you on Sat. I hope.
shall
have fun next year and I can't tell you how much I look forward to it. I hope you will be down at the weekend as suggested? There is a big auction sale of self-styled antiques and you and Gracie might pick up one or two things for the flat. By the way, I think your lovely fiancée has made a conquest (I mean other than of the undersigned â and of the Master!). Going down to the room of the brutish MacMurraghue to borrow a trifle of sherry I saw on the table his form for next term's lectures decorated as follows: âGracie is and
ought only to be
the slave of the passions.' Make what you can of that! But fear not, McM, though a philosopher, is a gentleman. Oh what fun we shall have! See you on Sat. I hope.
Yrs
Andrew
My dear Charlotte,
I am sorry not to have replied sooner to your charming letter, and very sorry not to have seen you. Wherever were you hiding at that party? Let us indeed meet. Only it cannot be for a little while as I shall probably be out of London. I have to go to Cambridge to see a man at the Fitzwilliam about the possibility of putting my collection of Chinese porcelain on permanent exhibition there. And I have other calls to make. It is remarkable how busy one can be when one is allegedly âretired'! However we must definitely meet before long and talk about old times. When I am back in London and the timetable looks a little less horribly full I shall give myself the treat of a quiet luncheon with you. So I will get in touch with you later if I may. Meanwhile my very best wishes to you and au revoir.
Yours
Matthew
My dear Ludwig,
I'm sorry I haven't seen you. I've been, in what seems a rather ineffectual way, very busy. This Mission, which used to be a Christian Mission to Seamen, is now (and no doubt more valuably) scarcely more nor less than an old clothes shop. You would be surprised how many people, especially children, are ill-clad in our Welfare State. However I'm not writing about this. I shall be moving soon anyway to a housing thing at Notting Hill. Do persuade Gracie or someone to go to see Charlotte. I gather she's still all alone in my father's flat. Women like Charlotte are crazier than you think. It's no good my going. She'd think I was pitying her. (Rightly.) Also: she should be got out of the flat soon so that my father can have somewhere to take Dorina. These little mechanical details are often important. Here, money helps. Matthew and Gracie both have that. Can't they for Christ's bloody sake use it intelligently? Or why can't Charlotte go on this cruise everyone seems to be going on? Sorry to bother you with such drearinesses. I hear you are living with Matthew, which some would think enviable. Excuse a rather non-theoretical letter. I am becoming a rather non-theoretical sort of chap. See you.
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