The Bell - Iris Murdoch [143]
The room was not large and was practically empty of furniture. A rickety table of much-scored oak was James's desk, with two canvas garden chairs, one on each side. Letters and papers filled boxes on the floor. Behind the desk a crucifix hung on the wall. The floor was unstained and uncarpeted, and the ceiling webbed with cracks. The resonant autumn sunshine showed abundant dust.
James was standing behind the desk as Michael came in, and running his hands again and again through his jagged dark hair. Michael sat down opposite him, and James slumped back into his canvas chair, making it groan and bulge.
'Catherine got off all right?' said Michael.
'Yes,' said James. He avoided Michael's eyes and fiddled with things on the desk.
'You wanted to see me, James?' said Michael. He .felt preoccupied and in a hurry.
'Yes,' said James. He paused and fiddled the things back into their original position'. 'I'm sorry, Michael,' he said, 'this is very difficult.'
'What's the matter?' said Michael. 'You look upset. Has anything new happened?'
'Well, yes and no,' said James. 'Look, Michael, I can't wrap this up and you wouldn't want me to. Toby has told me everything.'
Michael looked out of the window. He had again the strange sensation of déjà vu. Where had all this happened before? In the silence that followed the world seemed gently to crack about him, its appearance unchanged yet ready now to fall to pieces. Disaster is not quickly apprehended.
'What did he tell you?' said Michael.
'Well,' said James, 'you know, what happened between you. I'm sorry.'
Michael looked up at the crucifix. He could not yet bring himself to look at James. A quiet feeling of exasperation, which oddly accompanied his sense of total ruin, kept him sane and calm. He said, 'Very little happened.'
'That's a matter of opinion,' said James.
In the autumnal distance there was the sound of a gun being fired. Michael's mind reverted in a dazed way to Patch-way and the pigeons. That real world was now very far off. He wondered if there was any point in giving James his version of the story. He decided there was not. Excuses and explanations would be out of place; and besides, he was without excuse. He said, 'All right. You've learned something about me, haven't you, James?'
James said, 'I'm terribly sorry,' twisting his things about on the table and pausing to examine his hand.
Michael looked at James now. In spite of the cell-like appearance of the room, dear James was not well framed for the part of Grand Inquisitor. Almost anyone else would have got some shred of satisfaction or interest from the scene. James got none. Watching his expression of pain and misery and his fidgeting Michael pictured for a moment how James must see him: the enormity of the crime and the disgusting and unnatural propensity which it revealed. James was right of course. Plenty had happened.
'When did Toby make this confession to you?' said Michael. He tried to calm his mind, to think about Toby instead of himself. To think about his victim.
'The night before last,' said James. 'He came to my room sometime after eleven o'clock. He'd been wandering round in the rain and was frightfully upset. We talked for hours. He told me all about the bell business too, I mean the other bell, and how he planned it all with Dora and how they pulled the bell out of the lake. But we didn't get along to that until the early hours of the morning. We spent such a long time on you.'
'That was good of you,' said Michael. The exasperation was gaining ground. 'What