Pat Barker - The Eye in the Door

‘So what will they do?’

‘Wait till the war’s over. Let her go quietly.’

Prior shook his head. ‘She won’t last that long.’

That night, at nine o’clock, Prior went out for a drink. He came to himself in the small hours of the morning, fumbling to get his key into the lock. He had no recollection of the intervening five hours.

Rivers rubbed the corners of his eyes with an audible squidge. ‘That’s the longest, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Just.’

‘Any clues? I mean, had you been drinking?’

‘Like a fish. I’ve still got the headache.’

Rivers replaced his glasses.

‘One of the… how shall I put it?’ Prior breathed deeply. ‘ Inconveniences of my present position is that I do tend to end up with somebody else’s hangover. Really rather frequently.’

‘Not “somebody else’s”.’

Prior looked away. ‘You’ve no idea how disgusting it is to examine one’s own underpants for signs of “recent activity”.’

Rivers looked down at the backs of his hands. ‘I’m going to say something you probably won’t like.’

The telephone began to ring in the next room.

Prior smiled. ‘And I’m going to have to wait for it too.’

The call was from Captain’ Harris, telephoning to arrange the details of a flight they were to make tomorrow. Rivers jotted the time down, and took a few moments to collect his thoughts before returning to Prior.

Prior was standing by the mantelpiece, looking through a stack of field postcards. Well, that was all right, Rivers thought, closing the door. Field postcards contained no information about the sender except the fact that he was alive. Or had been at the time it was posted. ‘His book’s out, you know?’ Prior said, holding a postcard up. ‘Manning’s got a copy.’

‘Yes.’

Rivers sat down and waited for Prior to join him.

‘I suppose this is the real challenge,’ Prior said. ‘For you. The ones who go back. They must be the ones you ask the questions about. I mean obviously all this face your emotions, own up to fear, let yourself feel grief… works wonders. Here .’ Prior came closer. Bent over him. ‘But what about there? Do you think it helps there? Or do they just go mad quicker?’

‘Nobody’s ever done a follow-up. Electric shock treatment has a very high relapse rate. What mine is, I just don’t know. Obviously the patients who stay in touch are a self-selected group, and such evidence as they provide is anecdotal, and therefore almost useless.’

‘My God, Rivers. You’re a cold bugger.’

‘You asked me a scientific question. You got a scientific answer.’

Prior sat down. ‘Well dodged.’

Rivers took his glasses off. ‘I’m really not trying to dodge anything. What I was going to say is I think perhaps you should think about coming into hospital. The—’

‘No. You can’t order me to.’

‘No, that’s true. I hoped you trusted me enough to take my advice.’

Prior shook his head. ‘I just can’t face it.’

Rivers nodded. ‘Then we’ll have to manage outside. Will you at least take some sick leave?’

Another jerk of the head. ‘Not yet.’

Prior avoided thinking about the interview with Beattie Roper till he was crossing the prison yard. She’d been on hunger strike again, the wardress said, jangling her keys. And she’d had flu. No resistance. In sick bay all last week. He’d find her weak. The prison doctor had wanted to force-feed her, but the Home Office in its wisdom had decided that such methods were not to be used.

She was thinner than he remembered.

He stood just inside the door. She was lying on the bed, the light from the barred window casting a shadow across her face. The wardress stood against the wall, by the closed door.

‘I need to see her alone.’

He expected an argument, but the wardress withdrew immediately.

‘The voice of authority, Billy.’

Mucus clung to the corners of her lips when she spoke, as if her mouth were seldom opened.

He moved closer to the bed. ‘I hear you’ve been ill.’

‘Flu. Everybody’s had it.’

He remained standing, as if he needed her permission to sit. She nodded towards the chair.

‘I’ve been doing what I can,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t amount to much. I was hoping Mac might be able to help, but —’

A chest movement that might have been a laugh. ‘Not where he is. You know where they’ve sent him, don’t you? Wandsworth.’

‘You see, you did shelter deserters. They think you’d do it again.’

She hoisted herself up the bed. ‘Bloody right ‘n’ all. I might look like a bloody scarecrow but in here ’ — she tapped the side of her head — ‘I’m the same.’

Outside the door the wardress coughed.

‘You remember a lad called Brightmore?’

‘No.’

‘Go on, you do.’

He didn’t, but he nodded.

‘Lovely lad. They sent him to Cleethorpes. Twelve months’ detention. ‘Course he went on refusing to obey orders so he got twenty-eight days solitary and what they did they dug a hole, and it was flooded at the bottom and they put him in that. Couldn’t sit down, couldn’t lie down. Nothing to look at but clay walls. Somebody come to the top of the pit and told him his pals had been shipped off to France and shot, and if he didn’t toe the line the same thing’d happen to him. He thought his mind was going to give way. Then it started pissing down and the hole flooded and the soldiers who were guarding him were that sorry for him they took him out and let him sleep in a tent. They didn’t half cop it when the CO found out. Next day he was back in the pit. If one of them soldiers hadn’t given him a cigarette packet to write on, he’d’ve died in there. As it was they got a letter smuggled out —’

‘And the officers who did it were court-martialled. Beattie, there’s a million men in France up to their dicks in water. Who’s going to get court-martialled for that?’

‘Every bloody general in France if I had my way. You’re not the only one who cares about them lads, what do you think this is about if it’s not about them? ’ A pause. ‘What I was trying to say was compared with a hole in the ground this is a fucking palace. And I’m lucky to be here.’

He looked at her, seeing her heart beat visibly under the thin shift. ‘Have you seen Hettie?’

‘Twice. Fact, she’s due today. I gather we’ve got you to thank for that?’

‘It’s nothing.’

‘No, it’s not nothing, Billy. It’s a helluva lot.’ She hesitated. ‘One thing I should tell you — I’m not saying I believe it, mind — our Hettie thinks it was a bit too much of a coincidence Mac getting picked up the way he was. She…’ Beattie shook her head. ‘She thinks you told them where to go.’

‘That’s not true.’

‘No, I know it’s not. It’s all right, son, I’ll talk to her.’

He put his hand on her bare arm and felt the bone. ‘I’ve got to go,’ he said.

He went to the door and knocked. ‘I’ll see you again,’ he said, turning back to her.

She looked at him, but didn’t answer.

Following the wardress across the yard, he was hardly aware of the massive walls with their rows of barred windows. He didn’t see Hettie coming towards him, carrying a string bag, accompanied by another wardress, until they were almost level. Then he called her name and, reluctantly, she stopped.

The wardresses stood and watched.

Hettie came towards him. ‘I’m surprised you’ve got the nerve to show your face.’

In spite of the words he bent towards her, expecting a greeting. She spat in his face.