Troubles - James Gordon Farrell [175]
“You see, you came here on a bicycle. Heaven only knows how long you took on the way. Your daughter is probably back at home by now.”
Devlin paid no attention, his eyes had strayed into the shadows and he was mumbling incoherently. “He’s been most good...She was a cripple...the best doctors, indeed I am, sir, more grateful than I can say...Ah, it wasn’t the sort of expense I’d be able to permit myself...He did everything for her! Nothing was too much...”
“You must go home, Devlin. Sarah will be all right. I’ll answer for it.”
But abruptly Devlin burst out: “He’s been most good... He’s been a swine!”
This cry echoed emptily around the panelled walls, shrill as a girl’s scream. It was followed by a few moments of utter silence.
“You must go home, Devlin. Come along, there’s a good fellow. I’ll see you to the door.” And the Major caught hold of the bank manager’s elbow and dragged him round to face the door. As he did so he noticed a bluish light flare in Devlin’s eyes. But it was only the reflected glint from the gas mantle. By the time they reached the foyer Devlin had recovered a little and was excusing himself in a low, monotonous voice for getting the Major up at this hour, he must be tired after the ball which had been, he had heard, a famous success, the Major must forgive him this liberty given the desperate circumstances,...the last time they had met and had their most enjoyable chat the Major had given him to understand that a certain young lady’s well-being was of importance to him, had he not? and with all the drunken shouting and singing and smashing of windows and accosting of respectable girls he had felt it his duty to take the grave decision of calling for assistance...
“Shut up, for God’s sake! Go home and have some sleep and we’ll talk about it in the morning. It must be almost five. There! Now good night and go straight home!”
Devlin was standing uncertainly at the top of the steps. He seemed anxious to continue his apologies but the Major’s patience was at an end. He slipped back inside the door and closed it. Then, without waiting to see whether Devlin was going to take himself off, he climbed the stairs to bed. “And Sarah?” he thought as he was climbing between the sheets.
“Wake up, Brendan! Wake up!”
The Major was floating in soft black water in a disused quarry. The depth of the water was so great that when he dropped a white pebble into it he could still see it minutes afterwards, winking in the darkness as it sank. Then he was sinking beside it, down and down. “Death is the only peace on earth,” he thought as he was sinking.
“Wake up!”
A hand touched him and he sat up with a start. The room was black and he could see nothing. But he knew that he was not still dreaming: a hand was grasping his wrist, warm breath fanning his cheek.
“Who is it?”
“Where are the matches? I can’t see a thing.” It was one of the twins.
“What’s the matter?”
“Brendan, are you awake?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“There’s been a terrible fight downstairs. We think it must be the Sinn Feiners.”
A match flared, illuminating Charity. She held it up above her head, looking for the Major’s candles. Presently the match was swamped by darkness; then another match was struck, this time on the other side of the bed, and Charity was lighting the candles.
“We were too frightened to go down.”
Unable for a moment to recall the events of the past few hours, the Major waited with instinctive dread for consciousness to start the first few rolling pebbles that would generate an avalanche of remembered disasters. Then, as one memory after another hurtled down on him, he heaved his drugged limbs over the side of the bed and massaged his face wearily. He stood up and for a while looked in vain for his dressing-gown. Then he realized that he was still wearing it.
“I’ll go down and see. You’d better wait here and lock the door if you hear anyone coming. Get into my bed or you