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Authors: Graham Greene
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on to me, and I don’t even know where the notes were stolen.’ A man came out of a public-house and began to wipe the steps with a wet cloth; they could smell frying bacon; the suitcases weighed on their arms. Raven couldn’t change his hands for fear of leaving hold of the automatic. He said, ‘If a man’s born ugly, he doesn’t stand a chance. It begins at school. It begins before that.’
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked with bitter amusement. There seemed hope while he talked. It must be harder to murder anyone with whom you’d had any kind of relationship.
‘My lip, of course.’
‘What’s up with your lip?’
He said with astonishment, ‘Do you mean you haven’t noticed –?’
‘Oh,’ Anne said, ‘I suppose you mean your hare-lip. I’ve seen worse things than that.’ They had left the little dirty houses behind them. She read the name of the new street: Shakespeare Avenue. Bright-red bricks and tudor gables and half timbering, doors with stained glass, names like Rest-holme. These houses represented something worse than the meanness of poverty, the meanness of the spirit. They were on the very edge of Nottwich now, where the speculative builders were running up their hire-purchase houses. It occurred to Anne that he had brought her here to kill her in the scarred fields behind the housing estate, where the grass had been trampled into the clay and the stumps of trees showed where an old wood had been. Plodding on they passed a house with an open door which at any hour of the day visitors could enter and inspect, from the small square parlour to the small square bedroom and the bathroom and water closet off the landing. A big placard said: ‘Come in and Inspect A Cozyholme. Ten Pounds Down and a House Is Yours.’
‘Are you going to buy a house?’ she said with desperate humour.
He said, ‘I’ve got a hundred and ninety pounds in my pocket and I couldn’t buy a box of matches with them. I tell you, I was double-crossed. I never stole these notes. A bastard gave them me.’
‘That was generous.’
He hesitated outside ‘Sleepy Nuik’. It was so new that the builder’s paint had not been removed from the panes. He said, ‘It was for a piece of work I did. I did the work well. He ought to have paid me properly. I followed him here. A bastard called Chol-mon-deley.’
He pushed her through the gate of ‘Sleepy Nuik’, up the unmade path and round to the back door. They were at the edge of the fog here: it was as if they were at the boundary between night and day; it faded out in long streamers into the grey winter sky. He put his shoulder against the back door and the little doll’s house lock snapped at once out of the cheap rotten wood. They stood in the kitchen, a place of wires waiting for bulbs, of tubes waiting for the gas cooker. ‘Get over to the wall,’ he said, ‘where I can watch you.’
He sat down on the floor with the pistol in his hand. He said, ‘I’m tired. All night standing in that train. I can’t think properly. I don’t know what to do with you.’
Anne said, ‘I’ve got a job here. I haven’t a penny if I lose it. I’ll give you my word I’ll say nothing if you’ll let me go.’ She added hopelessly, ‘But you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘People don’t trouble to keep their word to me,’ Raven said. He brooded darkly in his dusty corner by the sink. He said, ‘I’m safe here for a while as long as you are here too.’ He put his hand to his face and winced at the soreness of the burns . Anne made a movement. He said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll shoot if you move.’
‘Can’t I sit down?’ she said. ‘I’m tired too. I’ve got to be on my feet all the afternoon.’ But while she spoke she saw herself, bundled into a cupboard with the blood still wet. She added, ‘Dressed up as a Chink. Singing.’ But he wasn’t listening to her; he was making his own plans in his own darkness. She tried to keep her courage up with the
‘What’s wrong with your face?’ she asked with bitter amusement. There seemed hope while he talked. It must be harder to murder anyone with whom you’d had any kind of relationship.
‘My lip, of course.’
‘What’s up with your lip?’
He said with astonishment, ‘Do you mean you haven’t noticed –?’
‘Oh,’ Anne said, ‘I suppose you mean your hare-lip. I’ve seen worse things than that.’ They had left the little dirty houses behind them. She read the name of the new street: Shakespeare Avenue. Bright-red bricks and tudor gables and half timbering, doors with stained glass, names like Rest-holme. These houses represented something worse than the meanness of poverty, the meanness of the spirit. They were on the very edge of Nottwich now, where the speculative builders were running up their hire-purchase houses. It occurred to Anne that he had brought her here to kill her in the scarred fields behind the housing estate, where the grass had been trampled into the clay and the stumps of trees showed where an old wood had been. Plodding on they passed a house with an open door which at any hour of the day visitors could enter and inspect, from the small square parlour to the small square bedroom and the bathroom and water closet off the landing. A big placard said: ‘Come in and Inspect A Cozyholme. Ten Pounds Down and a House Is Yours.’
‘Are you going to buy a house?’ she said with desperate humour.
He said, ‘I’ve got a hundred and ninety pounds in my pocket and I couldn’t buy a box of matches with them. I tell you, I was double-crossed. I never stole these notes. A bastard gave them me.’
‘That was generous.’
He hesitated outside ‘Sleepy Nuik’. It was so new that the builder’s paint had not been removed from the panes. He said, ‘It was for a piece of work I did. I did the work well. He ought to have paid me properly. I followed him here. A bastard called Chol-mon-deley.’
He pushed her through the gate of ‘Sleepy Nuik’, up the unmade path and round to the back door. They were at the edge of the fog here: it was as if they were at the boundary between night and day; it faded out in long streamers into the grey winter sky. He put his shoulder against the back door and the little doll’s house lock snapped at once out of the cheap rotten wood. They stood in the kitchen, a place of wires waiting for bulbs, of tubes waiting for the gas cooker. ‘Get over to the wall,’ he said, ‘where I can watch you.’
He sat down on the floor with the pistol in his hand. He said, ‘I’m tired. All night standing in that train. I can’t think properly. I don’t know what to do with you.’
Anne said, ‘I’ve got a job here. I haven’t a penny if I lose it. I’ll give you my word I’ll say nothing if you’ll let me go.’ She added hopelessly, ‘But you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘People don’t trouble to keep their word to me,’ Raven said. He brooded darkly in his dusty corner by the sink. He said, ‘I’m safe here for a while as long as you are here too.’ He put his hand to his face and winced at the soreness of the burns . Anne made a movement. He said, ‘Don’t move. I’ll shoot if you move.’
‘Can’t I sit down?’ she said. ‘I’m tired too. I’ve got to be on my feet all the afternoon.’ But while she spoke she saw herself, bundled into a cupboard with the blood still wet. She added, ‘Dressed up as a Chink. Singing.’ But he wasn’t listening to her; he was making his own plans in his own darkness. She tried to keep her courage up with the
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