Peter Ackroyd - Hawksmoor

And he could not escape these images, as the time passed and the disorder spread. The circulation of the suspect's description, followed inevitably by rumour and speculation in the newspapers, had not materially assisted the investigation of the six murders; it had, in fact, only inflamed the passions of those for whom the description of the tramp seemed to act as an emblem of all that was most depraved and evil. On the first day of the 'photo-fit' being released, there were scores of sightings of the man from all over the country, and the number of such sightings did not greatly diminish until public attention had been diverted elsewhere. More unfortunately, however, a number of tramps were abused or assaulted by gangs who used the excuse of 'the child murderer' to express their resentment at harmless wandering men. One group of small children actually killed one such vagrant: he was sleeping drunkenly on a patch of waste ground, and they set him alight. After these events it became accepted that Hawksmoor had committed an 'error of judgment' in releasing such sketchy details of the suspect -and Hawksmoor's position was made all the more precarious by the fact that, after exhaustive searches and inquiries, no trace of the man had been discovered. It seemed that he had just disappeared -that is, as some of the officers involved in the case used to say to each other, if he ever existed in the first place.

But Hawksmoor knew that he existed and, although he had never mentioned to anyone the night of his pursuit, he knew that the murderer was closer to him than ever. There were even occasions when he believed that he was being followed and, as he lay awake one night, he conceived the fantasy that he too should dress as a tramp in order to surprise him -but even as the idea occurred to him he rejected it, trembling. He took long walks in the evening in order to avoid such thoughts, but he found that he was treading the same paths as before.

There was a time, for example, when he walked into the park behind St George's-in-the-East and sat upon a bench close to the abandoned museum -it had been upon this bench that he had spoken to the father of the murdered child, and glimpsed the illustrations in the book which the weeping man had held in front of him. And as he stared at the trees beside the church he contemplated the calm of a life which itself resembled a park with no people in it -then he might sit and stare at these trees until he died. But his momentary serenity unnerved him, for it seemed to imply that his life was already over.

Each night he came home from his wanderings and held the white notebook in his hands, first bringing it close to his nose in order to savour the slight odour of wax which still lingered upon its stiff covers. He read again each phrase, and then stared intently at the drawings as if they might yield some clue. But they offered nothing and one night, in his anger, he tore the pages from the book and threw them across the floor. When he arose in panic the next morning, he looked down at the scattered sheets and said out loud, 'What rage is this? What fury? Of what kind?' Then he took the pages, smoothed them with the palm of his hand, and fixed them with pins to the walls.

So that now, if he sat looking down upon Grape Street, the letters and images encircled him. And it was while he sat here, scarcely moving, that he was in hell and no one knew it. At such times the future became so clear that it was as if he were remembering it, remembering it in place of the past which he could no longer describe. But there was in any case no future and no past, only the unspeakable misery of his own self.

And so when he sat with Walter in the Red Gates he could scarcely talk, but looked down at his glass as Walter anxiously watched his face. Yet he drank in order to speak freely, for it seemed to him that he had lost his connection to the world and had become much like one of the cardboard figures in a puppet theatre, shaking a little as the hand which held him trembles. But if he could speak, and the voice came not from someone crouched below but from himself… 'Do you know,' he murmured and Walter craned forward to hear him. 'Do you know that when murderers kill themselves, they try and make it look like another murder? But do you know how many of them are struck by lightning? A lot. More than you think.' He glanced around furtively.

'You know what we were told years ago, it must be years ago now, that you could see the image of the murderer imprinted on the victim's eyes? If only I could get that close, you see. And I'll tell you something else. There are some people so frightened of being murdered that they die of their own fear. What about that?' Walter felt his legs trembling with the suppressed desire to run, and he got up quickly to order more drinks. When he returned Hawksmoor stared at him. 'I know it, Walter, I can feel it. Do you know, I can go into a house and feel if a murder has taken place there? I can feel it.' And he let out a loud laugh, which for a moment silenced the other conversations in the pub.

A broken glass was being swept from the floor and, as Hawksmoor noticed how each of the shattered pieces shone quite differently in the light, Walter seized his opportunity to speak. 'Do you think we need a break from this case, sir? A real break?'

Hawksmoor was visibly alarmed: 'Who told you to say that?'

Walter tried to calm him. 'No one told me, but it's been eight months now. You deserve a rest from it.'

That's a strange word, deserve, isn't it? Do you know what it means?'

'It means to need something, doesn't it?'

'No, it means to be worthy of something. And so I'm worthy of rest.'

Walter noticed how his hand trembled, and Hawksmoor gripped his glass more tightly. 'I don't know what to say to that, sir.' He gazed at Hawksmoor, not without friendliness. 'You'll start to dream about it soon,' he put it to him gently.

'What makes you think I don't dream about it now?' He had spoken too loudly, and once again there was a sudden silence in the room.

Hawksmoor looked down, abashed, and this was the occasion for which Walter had waited. 'It just seems to me, sir, that we're not getting anywhere. '

'Is that how it seems to you?'

That's how it seems to everyone, sir. ' Hawksmoor looked up at him sharply, and in that moment the relationship between the two men was subtly but permanently changed. 'We don't have the facts,'

Walter was saying, 'and that's our problem.'

'You know about facts, do you, all these facts we don't have?'

Hawksmoor was very grim. 'In your experience, Walter, do any two people see the same thing?'

'No, but '

'And so it's your job to interpret what they have seen, to interpret the facts. Am I right?'

The conversation puzzled Walter, and he decided to retire from it.

'Yes, sir.'

'And so the facts don't mean much until you have interpreted them?'

That's right.'

'And where does that interpretation come from? It comes from you and me. And who are we?' Hawksmoor raised his voice. 'Don't you think I worry when everything falls apart in my hands -but it's not the facts I worry about. It's me.' When he stopped, he passed his hands trembling across his face. 'Is it hot in here or is it just me?' He took out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his forehead and then, as Walter still said nothing, he added, 'I'm going to find him.'

And then, later, he heard himself saying, 'I told you about that notebook, didn't I?' But he managed to stop himself and, muttering an excuse, went once more to the bar where three women turned and laughed when he began speaking to them. Walter watched the sweating, shambling figure as he winked and said, 'I'll show you something you won't forget. Do you want to see something?' And they laughed again: 'What is it?' one of them asked 'Something you've got for us? Something small, I should think'. And they cackled. But they stopped when he took some pictures out of his jacket pocket and held them up to the light in triumph. 'Get them out of here!' the same woman cried in disgust, 'We don't want any of that filth!' Then Hawksmoor himself looked at what he held in his hands, and bowed down as if in prayer when Walter came up to him and saw that he was holding photographs of the murder victims. Tut them away now, sir, ' he murmured, 'I'll take you back.' Hawksmoor stuffed the photographs into his pocket, yawning, and Walter led him home.