Balefanio - tmp0

On the dressing-table lay the card of the man he'd been to see yesterday. The psycho-analyst. Somebody had talked about him at a party at Mary's. He was wonderful. The best man in Europe. Had had great success with cases of shell-shock. Edward had thought: Perhaps he could make me sleep.

But, of course, it had been just like all the others. A darkened room. A man in cuffs. Questions about

early childhood. There was a man Edward had been to see years ago, just after the War, who'd elicited with great triumph that once or twice, in 1917, Edward had as good as run away. He'd faked attacks of rheumatism, got several days' sick-leave. "And so, you see," the bright little doctor had explained, "we're at the root of the whole trouble at last. Subconsciously, you've never for­given yourself. Now you must try to look at this reasonably. Think of your splendid War record. Everyone must have periods of relapse. We aren't made of iron. There's no disgrace at all. None at all. Under the circumstances, it was really quite natural." "Under the circumstances," Edward had replied, "I'm willing to bet they wouldn't have got you into one of those bloody machines at the point of the bayonet."

Yesterday, the doctor had been very hopeful. It seemed to him, he said, a perfectly plain case. Yes, thought Edward, and it'll be plainer still to­morrow morning.

And now he opened a drawer. Took out his leather collar-box. Undid the strap. The little auto­matic lay within a coil of collars. It flashed in the light. Edward took it out, weighing it in his hand. It was bloody small. Again he mistrusted it. Surely it couldn't fail? Not if I'm careful. But he wished he had his Service revolver. That would have made a good old mess.

Standing in front of the mirror, opening his lips,

pressing the stunted muzzle against the roof of his mouth, he posed. That was right. No, tilt it back a little. Must be very careful not to point it too far forward. He swayed. The blood was pounding in his ears. I wish I wasn't so drunk. No, better do it lying down. I shall be steadier.

Lurching slightly, he moved towards the bed. As he sat down he became aware of his coat. A pity to mess a good overcoat. He took it off, dropped it across a chair. Now. He sat down again, sank back heavily. Lay staring a moment at the ceiling. Raised the pistol to his mouth.

Should he turn the light out? No. He couldn't get up again. Couldn't move any more. If no­body heard the shot it might go on burning for hours. It didn't matter. They'd put it down on the bill. They'd put everything down on the bill.

He closed his eyes. Immediately the blood-beats in his head quickened to a smooth, rushing, roaring sound. Louder and louder. He had the feeling that he was losing consciousness. Dug the muzzle hard against his palate. Further back. No, it didn't matter. A tremendous roar. Like falling. The first time you jump with a parachute. Yes. Quick. Now. Raising himself upon one elbow, he fired.

A bright surface. Pattern of cubes. The bright edge intersected the dark. A solid oblong shape

bulging towards the top. The wardrobe seen from the floor.

Edward blinked. His eyelids were sticky.

Periods of coma passed like clouds over his brain, lasting a few seconds perhaps, or several minutes. Periods of awareness of the intense brilliancy of the electric light. He blinked. Something moved above him. It was his foot.

He had fallen off the bed and lay with his head and shoulders on the mat.

Sending out cautious messages, he established contact with his right arm, raised it a little, let it fall. His left also responded. He put his hand to his lips, held it up to the light. Blood. Not much.

O Christ, thought Edward, I've mucked it.

He wondered dully how much damage he'd done. So far, he was not aware of pain. Only a dazed sense of nervous outrage, as though something inside him had been snapped off short, leaving a jagged stump. It made him sick and faint.

I've mucked it, Edward repeated to himself.

Consciousness sharpened again, and he collected his forces for a movement. One. Two. Three. He swung his feet off the bed. His heels banged on the floor. That was better. Next, using his elbows, he rolled right over.

His elbow rested on something hard. He picked it up, holding it close before him. It was the auto­matic. The muzzle was caked with blood. Looking at it made him feel extra sick, so he let it fall. Sick.

Yes, he was going to be sick. At once. On all fours, he scrambled across the room to the slop-pail— just in time. It was mostly blood. Ugh! Filthy! He rested, gasping, panting like a dog, his eyes full of tears. A few drops of bright new blood spilt from his lips on to the floor. But more did not follow.

Gripping the corner of the washstand, he crooked one leg under himself, rose.

Immediately the room and the brilliant light made a smooth half-revolution, like an oiled fly­wheel. Edward reeled and fell across the bed.

After this he lay for some time, perhaps a quarter of an hour, staring at the ceiling.

I've mucked it, he thought.

The wish grew inside him to rise, to get out of this place, into the air. Cautiously he sat up, steady­ing his nerves against the giddiness. It swept over him and passed. He rose to his feet. As he shuffled forward, his feet kicked the pistol. It couldn't lie there. Sitting down on the bed, he hooked it towards him with his instep, captured it at last. Bending forward very slowly, he picked it up, closed the safety-catch, put it into his pocket.

Again he rose. Carefully steering his body with his will, he crossed to the mirror. Stared at himself. He wasn't such a sight as he'd expected. There was a smear of blood on his cheek and a stain run­ning down from the corner of his mouth. And his mouth was pulled rather sideways. He looked as if he'd swallowed a dose of some nasty medicine.

Turning, steering himself, he picked up his overcoat from the chair, let it fall. He hadn't the strength to put it on. He was shaking all over. Sweat ran down from his hair. Out. He must get out quick.

He made for the door, twisting the light off as he went.

There was nobody in the passage, though he could hear people moving on the floor above. He didn't care whether he met anybody or not. They shouldn't stop him. He groped along the wall. At the stairs, he nearly pitched head-first down. He had to sit on the steps for a minute to recover.

Fresh blood was beginning to come from his mouth. He fumbled and found a handkerchief, pressed it to his lips. He must hurry.

Nobody in the office. He stumbled against the door. In the street the cold gripped like iron. It cleared his brain. A passer-by glanced curiously at him, but did not stop. A taxi. He waved to it. It drew up. Where to? Edward suddenly realised that he was crumpling in his fist the psycho-analyst's card. What a joke. He gave it to the driver, who read out the address slowly. Edward plunged into the car.

A stab of pain like a hot lancet slid between his eyes. It had started. Edward uttered a groan and lay back, covering his face with his hands. The taxi swung to the right, to the left. He was, suddenly, horribly seasick, tried to put his head out of the

window, failed, and vomited on the floor. The pain struck him again, turning everything black.

They were helping him up some steps, into a house. The taxi-man and someone else. Edward tried to apologise for the mess he'd made. Put it on the bill, he wanted to say. He only coughed. And here was his friend the analyst. He doesn't seem very pleased to see me, Edward thought.

They'd laid him on a couch. People moved about. There were lights and voices. Somebody was telephoning for an ambulance. Immediate opera­tion, and a lot he couldn't follow. Hands sponged his face.

Well, thank God, thought Edward, they'll do me in between them, that's certain.