Gerald Kersh - Prelude To A Certain Midnight

‘Something about bells ringing in your head?’

‘Somehow I’m sure in my mind that somebody around here did it. And I know everybody, and they all know me. It’s the sort of murder that one of those plausible, educated types of man goes in for. Don’t start laughing at me, Tot, because I’m not happy about this, not a bit happy, Tot. You mustn’t laugh if I tell you that what I’m going to do is invite pretty nearly everyone I know to the house to a party and somehow try to get…’

As she paused, angry with herself at her own embarrassment, Thea Olivia suggested: ‘Clues?’

‘There’s no need to say clues in that tone of voice!’

‘Well, if you want my advice — drop it, Asta. You can’t do any good, and you’re almost certain to make a silly of yourself again — the same as you did that time when you got mixed up about that business of cruelty to a horse; when you had the terrible quarrel with Aunt Elizabeth because she said we ought to get two doctors to have you certified. No, please, please, Asta darling, don’t fly into one of your rages — they terrify me out of my wits. Who are you going to invite to your party?’

‘I’ll tell you later.’

That evening, after Thea Olivia had bathed and rested and bathed again and eaten — with the ethereal look of someone whom two spoonfuls of soup will choke — as much solid food as would satisfy a hungry farmer’s boy, she sipped a cup of coffee and a glass of anisette while Asta, consulting a foolscap sheet blackened with wild scrawls and agonized doodles, told her whom she proposed to invite to her party.

23

‘Tot, if I didn’t know that you were as secretive as the grave, I shouldn’t have breathed a word about all this,’ said Asta. ‘But I know you. You’re sweet and kind and co-operative, and you won’t breathe a word to a soul.’

‘I won’t, Asta dear, if only because I’m awfully afraid you’re going to make a silly of yourself again over this.’

‘Whatever else you were, you never were a sneak, Tot; that much I will say for you. A sly little — however, you could always be trusted with a secret; I can say that, at least. You like keeping secrets!’ cried Asta, in a rage. ‘God knows what secrets you keep!’

‘I won’t if you don’t want me to.’

‘Look here, Tot, are you going to start all that over again? Are you looking for a quarrel?’

‘Dear Asta! Do go on.’

Asta composed herself and continued: ‘Well, all right. Party. You know Mr Pink, you know Tom Beano, you know Peewee. You’ve met Doctor Schiff.’

‘I’ve met him, yes.’

‘And what’s the matter with him?’

‘Nothing, nothing, Asta darling; nothing.’

‘For God’s sake, Tot, control your vicious tongue! You know Mrs Dory, Catchy Dory? Girl with beautiful figure? No? You’ll like her… . Sir Storrington Thirst?’

‘No, I don’t know him.’

Asta would have said to anyone else that Sir Storrington was a wide flat man shaped like a bed-bug, who crept into the cracks of conversation and crawled out between rounds of drinks. She said, simply: ‘A baronet. You’ve heard of Cigarctte?’

‘The woman who was mixed up with that burglar?’

‘Was it her fault, poor girl? She isn’t the first girl to be misled by a crook, and mark my words, she won’t be the last. She’s coming, anyway. Have you met Tobit Osbert?’

‘Not that I remember, Asta.’

‘A critic.’

‘Dramatic?’

‘I forget. It doesn’t matter. A critic. He’s coming. Detective-Inspector Turpin, of course, you haven’t met. A charming man — I wish I was a man: I’d be a detective. Oh, and you won’t know the fellow they call “Shocket the Bloodsucker”.’

‘_They_, Asta?’

‘Boxers. Shocket’s a fight promoter.’

‘I don’t think I quite understand, Asta darling.’

‘He promotes boxing-matches. Don’t you understand? He’ll come. But I’ll have to invite Titch Whitbread — Shocket the Bloodsucker won’t move an inch without Titch just now. And Titch wouldn’t come unless I invited Cigarette, because he’s keen on her. Then there’s Sean Mac Gabhann.’

‘Pardon, dear?’

‘Scan Mac Gabhann — an Irishman. Sean Mac Gabhann is Irish for John Smith: he comes from Cumberland.’

‘What does he do? ’

‘He’s an Irishman. Then there’s Ovid Moffitt, the poet, and Dawn Knight, the actress. Inga Baizac, George Cheese, and Beeps Wilking —’

‘Pardon, dear? Beeps, did you say? Male or female?’

‘Male,’ said Asta, impatiently.

‘But why “Beeps”?’

How could Asta explain that Wilking, when drunk, liked to sound the hooters of parked cars, crying ‘_Beep-beep-beep_’? She brushed the question aside.

‘Who else, Asta sweetheart?’

‘I have Monty Bar-Kochba —’

‘A Spaniard?’

‘A Zionist. He doesn’t believe in the Arab Problem.’

‘A Jew?’

‘I don’t know: he eats ham. And there’s Ayesha Babbingtori — the sculptress — and her boy friend, Bubbsie Dark. They have all the vices. There’s Johnnie Corduroy, in films: and Hemmeridge —’

‘What does he do, for goodness’ sake?’

‘He … he isn’t absolutely normal, Tot, my dear. In point of actual fact, he’s a … Never mind. Then there will be Soskin — a dentist, a refugee, you never met him — and Goggs, a pork. butcher.’

‘Goggs, a pork-butcher. Yes?’

‘What are you looking at me like that for?’

‘I think you’ve gone out of your mind, Asta. Who else?’

‘Tony Mungo,’ said Asta, with a defiant growl, ‘a bookseller, etcetera.’

‘What kind of etcetera? ’

‘He sells other things you wouldn’t understand. Never mind. And there’s Mr Roget, James Geezle, and Alan Shakespeare.’

‘They do what?’

‘Geezle is a tattooist. Roget takes care of his mother, and Alan Shakespeare has money of his own. If I think of anybody else I’ll let you know. You don’t have to come down unless you want to, Tot, my love.’

‘But, Asta, my dear heart, I do want to.’

‘Behave yourself, then.’

‘If you think I don’t know how to conduct myself in order not to disgrace you in the presence of your friends —’

Asta Thundersley suddenly felt tired and discouraged. Between a yawn and a sigh she said: ‘I’d be grateful for any help you could give me, Tot, my sweet. I know I seem crazy. I don’t care about that. The only thing is that I feel helpless.’

Asta’s angry, glaring eyes flickered and became wet.

‘There, my dear — there, there, there,’ said Thea Olivia, stroking the back of her sister’s head. ‘You mustn’t wear yourself out.’

‘Yes, I must,’ said Asta, shaking herself like a wet spaniel and gritting her teeth. But then she started to weep, somewhat in the manner of a boy whose feelings have been hurt — sniffing, swallowing, holding back, bursting out, and pausing to blow her nose while Thea Olivia tried to comfort her.

‘Oh, go to the devil!’ said Asta at last, throwing a salty wet handkerchief into the fireplace and striding out of the room.

‘I will, if you want me to.’

‘No, darling — please — good night.’

‘God bless you, my sweet.’

‘God bless, Tot.’

24

Asta went to her room in one of her highly infrequent moods of black depression and rare doubt, feeling — for the third time in her life — feeble and lost, defenceless and lonely.

The first time she had felt like this had been at the turn of the century: as an ugly, noisy, boisterous, irrepressible girl in her ninth year she had fallen in love with a handsome cavalry officer twenty years older — a straight-backed, dignified man with a great moustache. This love was more than she could contain. She had to tell someone about it and chose for her confidante her young and pretty Aunt Clara, who listened to her with all the gravity in the world, uttering occasional sympathetic interjections as one woman to another — and when the whole story had come out threw her head back in an uncontrollable gust of laughter. This cruel yet melodious mockery came back into Asta’s memory as she stood in the elegant old bedroom and watched the firelight winking on the polished walnut posts of the bed upon which she had been born. She told herself that it was stupid to remember such foolish things. Yet how could she help remembering? It was soon after this humiliation that she had decided to be a missionary — strong yet gentle, fearless yet kind, bold as a dashing cavalry officer, yet full of understanding — plunging through stinking, steamy jungles, laughing at nothing but danger, bringing the Peace of God into the hearts of fierce, cruel black people. But all this was so long ago, so terribly long ago! She had wanted desperately to give herself to all the defenceless and lonely people of this sad and bewildering world in which so many cry in vain for comfort, and where tender hearts like peaches carelessly thrown into a basket get bruised and go bad. She wanted to interpose herself between the cruelty and the vulnerability of mankind. But she realized, even at that tender age, that Good must be militant; that it is not for nothing that Evil is symbolized by the subtle snake, that twists and turns and fascinates, and must be struck quick and hard, and can never really be charmed into harmlessness. She was by nature an extravert; she became thunderous, unmanageable, had to throw her weight about, make her presence felt.