John Bingham - A Fragment of Fear

I decided I would call in at the police station first thing in the morning, and fell asleep trying to think what I would say.

I need not have worried. I had a call myself, first thing in the morning.

At about six-thirty in the morning I was awakened by the sound of a car changing gear noisily and accelerating. An electric trolley hummed past, bottles clinking, to start a milk round. I did not think I would fall asleep again. I was out of routine.

It was light in the living-room but not in the kitchen. I switched the kitchen light on, made a pot of tea, carried it over to my desk and lit a cigarette.

When the ’phone rang at six-fifty, I realised it was early morning in Washington, about one-fifty by Juliet’s time. I felt sure it was Juliet ringing on her return from some farewell party.

The day was grey. I was eager to hear her voice. But as I moved to the telephone a depressing thought occurred to me. She would be due to leave soon. Would she be telephoning unless it was to say that her return had been delayed? I lifted the receiver.

“Mr. James Compton?”

I thought it was a personal call. So it was, in a way.

“Speaking.”

“I take it you got the note last night?”

It was a man’s voice: cultured, low pitched, rather pleasant.

“What note?”

I wanted time to think. I felt mentally numb.

“A note delivered by hand to you.”

“Oh, that,” I said.

“Yes, that. You’re up early. I saw your light go on.”

“Look,” I shouted, “I don’t give a bloody damn who you are, or what the idea is, but you can stop your bloody silly tricks!”

You could say that the numbness was wearing off.

“Listen to me.”

“I’ve no intention of listening to you.”

“I should, if I were you.”

“I’m not you,” I said, and regretted the schoolboy retort. Stratford Road is narrow, and outside I could hear two lorry drivers calling to each other.

“Hello?” I said, after some seconds.

“Don’t worry, I’m still here,” he said.

“I don’t give a damn if you’re there or not.”

“Then why are you hanging on the line?”

I slammed the receiver down, stared at it for a few seconds, and walked over to the tea tray. I swallowed some tea.

When the ’phone rang again, I put the cup down and went over and lifted the receiver. I was quite calm now.

“We got cut off,” he said, in his rich, imperturbable voice.

“Yes, I cut us off,” I said.

“I thought it was the operator. The service is so bad these days.”

“The service isn’t so bad. And it wasn’t the operator.”

I suppose he didn’t expect a counter-attack. I think he was accustomed to dealing with people who crumpled quickly. After a few moments he said:

“Hello? Mr. Compton?”

“Don’t worry. I’m still here,” I said, repeating his phrase.

“I don’t care if you are or not,” he said.

“Then why are you ringing again?”

“I think we ought to get down to brass tacks,” he said.

“Yes, do-do so now. I’m bored.”

“You’re not.”

“Let’s stop it,” I said. “Let’s assume you’ve been successful in this psychological warfare nonsense.”

“I have been successful,” he said.

“Good old you! Now what?”

“Now nothing.”

“Nothing?” I said. “What do you mean, nothing?”

“Nothing in regard to Lucy Dawson. From you or by you. That’s all.”

In an odd way I was enjoying the exchanges. I felt keyed up, alert, and this was at least a human contact, with whom I could get to grips.

“Are you a crook?” I asked pleasantly. “Are you a crook by any chance?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Like most of the citizenry. Are you God? Why hasten the Day of Resurrection? Mrs. Dawson needs no flesh and blood from your hands.”

“You’re the fourth person who has been on at me about this. Fifth, if you count that miserable woman in the train.”

“What woman in what train?”

“The one who gave me the note.”

“I thought it arrived by carrier pigeon.”

He gave a whinnying laugh. It sounded like a green woodpecker and contrasted with his well-modulated voice.

“That’s not funny,” I said. “It’s corny.”

“Not funny. Not corny. Evasive.”

“Mrs. Dawson can’t betray you,” I said. “She’s dumb for ever. What’s the matter with you? What are you afraid of? Who are you? Not that you’ll tell me, not that I expect you to tell me, I’m just keeping the social chit-chat going, Buster.”

“My name’s not Buster.”

“Surprise, surprise. Who are you? Not that I’ll believe you.”

“I am seven, like the devils in the Bible-seventeen or seventy-or seven hundred. Anything you choose, really.”

“Good luck to you all.”

“And you are one,” he murmured. “How much do you hope to make out of the story? Five hundred pounds? A thousand?”

“That’s not on,” I said.

“Used one-pound notes?”

“We aren’t speaking the same language.”

There was silence. After about five seconds he asked:

“What language are you speaking? How much?”

“I might have got fed up with the case,” I said, “if you hadn’t been so silly, all seven hundred of you. Now it’s a matter of principles.”

I heard a groan come over the ’phone.

“Dear God, dear God! A matter of principles! Poor, poor old hackneyed phrase! Last refuge of the obstinate who’ve run out of arguments, final defence of the dull witted, end of the line of reason. When our flanks crumble and our centre caves in, and the trumpets sound Retreat, what do we do but fall back on that last massive, mossy, hoary old citadel?”

“Well delivered, but too many similes and analogies. Any other prepared speech by you?”

He reverted to ordinary conversational tones:

“Well, it’s been nice talking to you.”

I heard a click and guessed he had replaced the receiver.

“Hello?” I said. “Hello?”

“Did you think I’d hung up?” He gave another of his green woodpecker laughs. “I was just pretending, like when one’s a dear little child. A d-e-e little, innocent little child. Did you used to play ‘Let’s pretend’ when you were a dee little, innocent little child? I bet you did, Jamie, boy. I bet you’re still a dee innocent little child at heart. Let’s pretend now.”

“You’re barmy. Mad,” I said, and meant it.

“Not barmy. Not mad. Cool, clear brain.”

“They all say that.”

“We all say that,” he agreed cheerfully. “My friends and I, we all say that. Cool, clear brains, we say. So let’s pretend.”

I had had enough. I wanted to be clear of him. There was nothing to be got out of this nonsense. He was a voice, only a voice, and would remain a voice.

“I’m going to report it to the police,” I said.

“Report what to the police?” he asked sadly.

“That message, typed on my typewriter, and my paper. And this ’phone call.”

“Oh, that. Yes, of course you will. Who wouldn’t? So let’s pretend.”

When I switched the telephone receiver from one hand to another I saw that it was glistening, and yet I didn’t replace the receiver on its cradle. I guessed that if I did the telephone bell would ring again soon, and if it didn’t ring, I would wish that it had done. One part of my mind tried to tell me he was unbalanced. But I knew he wasn’t, at heart I knew he wasn’t.

“Pretend what?”

“Pretend that you agree to drop the Lucy Dawson story.”

“I have no intention of dropping it.”

“I said, let’s pretend. So you drop the idea-as from now. So what happens? You’re in the clear. You’re happy and free to go ahead with your wedding and live happily ever after. Comparatively prosperous, and comparatively respected by all who know you. Right?”