The Tenement (10 page)

“Cooper should marry her. It would be a marriage of convenience.” And he laughed out loud. “Get it, marriage of convenience. He works in a toilet, you see. Great. I must tell the boys that.”

It was a winter's night, cold and frosty. In December. The street was quiet, as there was an international match between England and Scotland on TV, and Mr Cooper like the rest of the townsmen was watching it. Beside him on the table were six cans of lager. England were winning in spite of the confident forecasts made in the newspapers that this time Scotland would definitely win, as they had Charlie Nicholas. When England scored, Cooper kicked the table on which the cans of lager lay, and went out into the close. He had played football in his youth and still agonized over the international results.

He stood in the close inhaling the air which, though cold, was not unpleasant. He missed the strollers on the street, for in the evening he would stop them and talk to them. He was a gregarious man. He had retired early because of a bad back and still missed his job. Many a time he had seen a strange car parked outside a house. Oh, the things that went on. Milkmen and postmen knew all about them. His own wife had been bedridden for a long while with a heart condition; and he was a full-blooded man.

At that moment, as he stood in the close contemplating Scotland's latest shame, he heard a scream. It sprang suddenly out of the night and it seemed to him, as he scanned the street, that it had come from the close opposite. It was a high-pitched scream like that made by an animal in a shrubbery or (he recalled) an enemy being bayoneted. He listened and heard it again. Then he saw a man emerging from the close opposite and walking whistling up the street, away from the town. The man was tall and, in the light of the lamp which overhung the close, he saw that there was a scar on his face. The man turned and looked at him and smiled. The smile was a peculiar one, almost conspiratorial, threatening, triumphant. Cooper felt a piercing fear in his bones. Then he heard the scream again.

Without thinking he crossed the street to the close. The lamp cast a yellow foggy light: he didn't like that yellow light much, he preferred the pink one that appeared in the earlier part of the evening. He moved from the stone of the pavement to the stone of the street and then to that of the close. There was nothing to be seen in the close itself. He walked into the back which was darker and only lighted by the illumination from the windows above. Faintly he could hear the noise of the football commentary. He stood there trying to get his eyes accustomed to the blackness. No, it wasn't wholly blackness, there were stripes of yellow: it was like an animal's pelt.

Then he saw a patch of thicker darkness in the corner, and went over towards it. He sniffed. Yes, there was a definite smell of pee, thick and rank. He heard a low moan. He bent down. He felt a coat, a head, a hand. He pulled at the hand and dragged the shape to its feet while it winced and moaned and protested. He was worried for a moment that the person, whoever it was, had been knifed, but there didn't seem to be any blood on his hands: at least they didn't feel sticky. He clasped the hand, pulled the dark mass into the light of the close. The mass dragged its feet, as if it couldn't walk properly. In the light of the lamp that shone sickly above the close, he saw that it was a woman and that she was clad in a dark coat. He dragged her across the street towards his flat which, of course, was on the ground floor. He opened the door and heaved and pushed the woman into a chair, and switched off the television.

He looked down at the woman. Her legs were thin like matchsticks. Her face was pinched and there was blood on her lips where perhaps she had bitten herself. There was a smell of sickness and of pee. The head nodded like a pendulum and he saw to his horror that the woman was a spastic, not a bad one, but a spastic just the same. She must have been about sixty years old. He himself was almost sick, but steadied the woman as she nearly toppled off the chair.

“You okay?” he said.

The woman nodded. She clutched his hand as if she were a child. “Listen,” he said, speaking slowly, “I don't know what's happened, but I'm going for the police. Are you sure you're okay?” He left the room and knocked at the Masons' door. But there was no answer: they must be out.

He came back. The woman was still sitting in the chair, her head nodding like that of a marionette.

“Before I go,” he said, “you'd better have a drop of whisky.” He knew that brandy would be better, but he didn't have any in the house, not since his wife had died. He poured some whisky in a little glass and put it to her lips. She spluttered and tried to get rid of the whisky, but he forced it down her throat.

“It'll do you good,” he said. “Take it.” She steadied herself and kept some of it down. Her trembling quietened a little.

“Now,” he said, again speaking very slowly, “I'm going to phone. I won't be long. I don't have a phone in the house.” She signed that she understood. But as her head was nodding all the time anyway, he wasn't sure whether she had understood or not. He walked down the road quickly to the kiosk, which stood at the junction of two streets. He found himself glancing behind him as if he was afraid of the scarred man chasing him. It looked very much as if the scarred man had assaulted the spastic. Imagine it, the very thought was disgusting—and for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps he himself might be under suspicion, be accused. But surely the woman would know that it was he who had rescued her.

He phoned the police and was told they would be along shortly. He walked back. As he did so, he hoped that the woman had not toppled into the electric fire that was burning in front of her. He should have placed her on the sofa, dim fool that he was. He almost ran—so worried he was—but when he arrived the woman was sitting safely in the chair, quite still, staring down at the floor.

“I'll make a cup of tea,” he said. “The police won't be long.” She didn't say anything, but watched him blankly as he put the kettle on. When he had made the tea he gave her some with plenty of sugar and she steadied a little. As she was drinking it a car drew up at the front of the house, and a policewoman and two men came out. The men were in plain clothes. One was wearing a leather jacket and was tall and heavy with a strong Roman nose and the other was smaller and wore a blue jersey. No one would ever have thought they were policemen. The policewoman came in with them and turned to the spastic.

Suddenly, the spastic spoke for the first time. “It won't be in the papers, will it?”

She had difficulty in speaking. He wondered why this had been the first thing that occurred to her. She had recovered a little and was sitting back in the chair, the centre of attention.

The man with the leather jacket took out a notebook.

“Take your time,” he said. “What happened?”

She told him in broken words. She had been visiting a woman in the close opposite Cooper's as she always did on a Thursday evening. As she came down the stairs into the close she was seized and dragged into the back of the close. She screamed and no one heard her, not even the woman she had been visiting. Maybe it was because of the TVs that she hadn't been heard.

The policewoman supported her as she answered the questions. It was in fact the same policewoman as had brought Cooper the news about his wife. She was young and fair-haired. It was, it occurred to him, almost exactly a year before this incident that the policewoman had come to his door, but she had probably forgotten it now. The policewoman had rung the bell and made a cup of tea for him, he remembered that, after she had told him that his wife was dead. He couldn't believe it and had burst out crying. It was the first time that he had cried in his life. His body had been racked by the most tremendous sobs.

The spastic again said that she hoped that this wouldn't get into the papers. The policewoman said that she would now take her down to the station, and then she would run her home in the car. She hadn't seen him at all, the spastic said, he had put his hand on her clothes, but hadn't succeeded … Cooper was disgusted. Imagine attacking a spastic. The man must be an animal: worse than an animal.

Eventually he was left with the two policemen in the room where there was a photograph of his wife on the sideboard. She had been young when the photograph was taken and she was wearing a high white collar. There was also a photograph of the two of them with his brother, who had been over from America. That had been some years ago.

The man with the Roman nose introduced himself as Detective Hutton. The one in the blue jersey was called Pierce.

“Now then,” said Hutton, “if you could tell us what happened. In your own words. Take your time.” Hutton's nose seemed to be sniffing at the air, as if seeking out clues. Pierce smiled at him, a slow genial smile.

“I was watching football,” said Cooper, “and I went out.”

“Just a moment,” Hutton interrupted, “why did you go out?” Pierce smiled, but seemed to approve of the question.

“England had just scored and I was disgusted, so I went out for a breath of fresh air.”

“A real fan,” said Pierce smiling.

“Yes. The Scottish team is rubbish,” said Cooper angrily. “Every year they tell us they're going to win and every year they lose. Why don't they keep their mouths shut?”

“So you went out into the close,” said Hutton, “leaving the TV on.”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“I heard a scream.”

“While you were standing in the close?”

“That's right. And then I heard another one.”

“I see. And?”

“And then I saw,” Cooper concentrated, “a fellow coming out of the close and walking up the street.”

“Which direction?” said Pierce in his soft voice.

“Away from the town. Towards the council houses.”

“So,” said Hutton, “Did you recognize him?”

“No, I didn't recognize him. But I would know him again.”

Immediately he had spoken Cooper wished he hadn't been so definite. After all if he interfered in his affairs, this man might do him. Or his relatives might. Then again he might have to attend an official identification parade. Still he repeated, “I would recognize him.”

“Good,” said Pierce. His lips set like a trap and for the first time Cooper realized that Pierce was the more dangerous man of the two policemen, the harder. He had heard stories of policemen, of course. Why, they might beat you up for no reason in the secrecy of the station.

“He had a scar on his face,” he said slowly.

“Ah,” said Pierce, looking at Hutton. “Which side of his face was towards you?”

“The left. No, the right,” said Cooper. “He was whistling and smiling. He smiled across at me.” He shivered.

“MacDowell,” said Pierce quickly to Hutton.

“Our friend,” said Hutton.

“Just out of prison, too,” said Pierce meditatively. “Bloody fool. He can't leave it in his trousers.”

Cooper gazed at the picture of his wife on the sideboard. If it had been her. If it had been Flora being attacked there in the darkness. And screaming. Sometimes she had screamed with the pain when she had been in the house, but never in the hospital. He hadn't realized that she would go so quickly. Her temperament had been marvellous: she was resigned to her death. Sometimes she would smile at passers-by out of the low window. Latterly she didn't speak much. Of course she had always been shy, much shyer than he was. There was always a nice gentle air about her.

Suddenly, for no reason he said, “I was in the war, you know. We used to clear out houses when we entered a town. You never knew whether there were Germans there or not. You often threw a grenade in.”

“Oh,” said Pierce, “neither of us was in the war.”

There was a silence. “There was this German and I had to bayonet him,” said Cooper. “He was big and fat and he wore glasses. He was just about to throw a grenade. It was him or me.”

“Yes,” said Pierce, “of course.”

Naturally neither of them had been in the war: they were too young. It seemed to him that they too were like animals, on the scent: their nostrils twitched when they heard about the scar.

“Will I have to go to court?” he asked.

“Well,” said Pierce, “you might. Does that bother you? Sometimes they plead guilty. MacDowell is not all there anyway.” And he tapped his forehead.

Animal, thought Cooper. Imagine trying to rape a spastic in a dark close. He must have realized that she was spastic and left. Or perhaps he hadn't. Maybe she had resisted so hard that he had given up. Straight out of prison and back into it again. What stupidity, what unassailable stupidity. But it was the smile that troubled him. The smile had crossed the road and had communicated with him. It was as if it was insinuating, “You say anything about this and I'll get you”. It was like that man who had emerged out of Jenny Dickson's house, tightening his belt on a May morning long ago. Her husband of course worked away from home: he had wondered whether he should tell him, send him an anonymous note. He had been standing there with the white milk bottle in his hand. From inside the house he could hear the crying of a child. It had been a beautiful morning with the mist beginning to clear and the waters of the loch flat calm, every shadow clearly defined. These mornings on his milk round, how miraculously pure some of them had been.

“One other thing,” said Pierce, “how good is the light?”

“What do you mean?”

“The light across the road? Could you see him clearly? There's a bit of a fog tonight. I wonder if you would …”

“What?”

“If you would do something for us. Could you walk across the road and come out of the close and smile at us and then walk up the street?”

“Why?” said Cooper. He suddenly felt afraid. Did they think he had done it? What if the woman accused him? Before she left, the spastic had said, “Mrs Snow will never speak to me again. I just know it. She won't have me back in the house.”