ticket.’
‘Here.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you are going out of the station with me. I’m not taking any chances.’
‘Why not eat your ham sandwich first?’
‘Be quiet,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the time to listen to your jokes.’
She said, ‘I like he-men. My name’s Anne. What’s yours?’ The train outside whistled, the carriages began to move, a long line of light going back into the fog, the steam blew along the platform. Raven’s eyes left her for a moment; she raised her cup and dashed the hot coffee at his face. The pain drove him backwards with his hands to his eyes; he moaned like an animal; this was pain. This was what the old War Minister had felt, the woman secretary, his father when the trap sprang and the neck took the weight. His right hand felt for the automatic, his back was against the door; people were driving him to do things, to lose his head. He checked himself; with an effort he conquered the agony of the burns, the agony which drove him to kill. He said, ‘I’ve got you covered. Pick up those cases. Go out in front of me with that paper.’
She obeyed him, staggering under the weight. The ticket collector said: ‘Changed your mind? This would have taken you to Edinburgh. Do you want to break the journey?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. That’s it.’ He took out a pencil and began to write on the paper. An idea came to Anne: she wanted him to remember her and the ticket. There might be inquiries. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll give it up. I don’t think I’ll be going on. I’ll stay here,’ and she went out through the barrier, thinking: he won’t forget that in a hurry.
The long street ran down between the small dusty houses. A milk float clattered round a corner out of sight. She said, ‘Well, can I go now?’
‘You think me a fool,’ he said bitterly. ‘Keep on walking.’
‘You might take one of these bags.’ She dropped one in the road and went on; he had to pick it up. It was heavy, he carried it in his left hand, he needed his right for the automatic.
She said, ‘This isn’t taking us into Nottwich. We ought to have turned right at the corner.’
‘I know where I’m going.’
‘I wish I did.’
The little houses went endlessly on under the fog. It was very early. A woman came to the door and took in the milk. Through a window Anne saw a man shaving. She wanted to scream to him, but he might have been in another world; she could imagine his stupid stare, the slow working of the brain before he realized anything was wrong. On they went, Raven a step behind. She wondered if he were bluffing her; he must be wanted for something very serious if he was really ready to shoot.
She spoke her thoughts aloud, ‘Is it murder?’ and the lapse of her flippancy, the whispered fear, came to Raven like something familiar, friendly: he was used to fear. It had lived inside him for twenty years. It was normality he couldn’t cope with. He answered her without strain, ‘No, I’m not wanted for that.’
She challenged him, ‘Then you wouldn’t dare to shoot,’ but he had the answer pat, the answer which never failed to convince because it was the truth. ‘I’m not going to prison. I’d rather hang. My father hanged.’
She asked again, ‘Where are we going?’ watching all the time for her chance. He didn’t answer.
‘Do you know this place?’ but he had said his say. And suddenly the chance was there: outside a little stationer’s where the morning posters leaned, looking in the window filled with cheap notepaper, pens and ink bottles – a policeman. She felt Raven come up behind her, it was all too quick, she hadn’t time to make up her mind, they were past the policeman and on down the mean road. It was too late to scream now; he was twenty yards away; there’d be no rescue. She said in a low voice, ‘It
must
be murder.’
The repetition stung him into speech. ‘That’s justice for you. Always thinking the worst. They’ve pinned a robbery
‘Here.’
‘Now,’ he said, ‘you are going out of the station with me. I’m not taking any chances.’
‘Why not eat your ham sandwich first?’
‘Be quiet,’ he said. ‘I haven’t the time to listen to your jokes.’
She said, ‘I like he-men. My name’s Anne. What’s yours?’ The train outside whistled, the carriages began to move, a long line of light going back into the fog, the steam blew along the platform. Raven’s eyes left her for a moment; she raised her cup and dashed the hot coffee at his face. The pain drove him backwards with his hands to his eyes; he moaned like an animal; this was pain. This was what the old War Minister had felt, the woman secretary, his father when the trap sprang and the neck took the weight. His right hand felt for the automatic, his back was against the door; people were driving him to do things, to lose his head. He checked himself; with an effort he conquered the agony of the burns, the agony which drove him to kill. He said, ‘I’ve got you covered. Pick up those cases. Go out in front of me with that paper.’
She obeyed him, staggering under the weight. The ticket collector said: ‘Changed your mind? This would have taken you to Edinburgh. Do you want to break the journey?’
‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes. That’s it.’ He took out a pencil and began to write on the paper. An idea came to Anne: she wanted him to remember her and the ticket. There might be inquiries. ‘No,’ she said, ‘I’ll give it up. I don’t think I’ll be going on. I’ll stay here,’ and she went out through the barrier, thinking: he won’t forget that in a hurry.
The long street ran down between the small dusty houses. A milk float clattered round a corner out of sight. She said, ‘Well, can I go now?’
‘You think me a fool,’ he said bitterly. ‘Keep on walking.’
‘You might take one of these bags.’ She dropped one in the road and went on; he had to pick it up. It was heavy, he carried it in his left hand, he needed his right for the automatic.
She said, ‘This isn’t taking us into Nottwich. We ought to have turned right at the corner.’
‘I know where I’m going.’
‘I wish I did.’
The little houses went endlessly on under the fog. It was very early. A woman came to the door and took in the milk. Through a window Anne saw a man shaving. She wanted to scream to him, but he might have been in another world; she could imagine his stupid stare, the slow working of the brain before he realized anything was wrong. On they went, Raven a step behind. She wondered if he were bluffing her; he must be wanted for something very serious if he was really ready to shoot.
She spoke her thoughts aloud, ‘Is it murder?’ and the lapse of her flippancy, the whispered fear, came to Raven like something familiar, friendly: he was used to fear. It had lived inside him for twenty years. It was normality he couldn’t cope with. He answered her without strain, ‘No, I’m not wanted for that.’
She challenged him, ‘Then you wouldn’t dare to shoot,’ but he had the answer pat, the answer which never failed to convince because it was the truth. ‘I’m not going to prison. I’d rather hang. My father hanged.’
She asked again, ‘Where are we going?’ watching all the time for her chance. He didn’t answer.
‘Do you know this place?’ but he had said his say. And suddenly the chance was there: outside a little stationer’s where the morning posters leaned, looking in the window filled with cheap notepaper, pens and ink bottles – a policeman. She felt Raven come up behind her, it was all too quick, she hadn’t time to make up her mind, they were past the policeman and on down the mean road. It was too late to scream now; he was twenty yards away; there’d be no rescue. She said in a low voice, ‘It
must
be murder.’
The repetition stung him into speech. ‘That’s justice for you. Always thinking the worst. They’ve pinned a robbery
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