‘It’s not personal,’ he said; almost as though that might bring some reassurance. And he explained it. ‘I just look them up in the telephone book. Different places, different counties, even; I couldn’t do it too near home. My job takes me about a bit and that helps. It’s more the house at first, really.’
‘The house?’
‘Remote houses, hidden away places, like this. I’ve got to be careful, you see, haven’t I?—I wouldn’t want to get caught. I find a good house and who lives in it; and then I drive over and ring up from some call box, locally. After that, it depends how they react. Sometimes they’re cool, they just say, ‘Wou’re mad,” and ring off. That kind I don’t bother with any more. But if they’re upset and disgusted—well, I’m afraid it’s better then.’ He looked down at his hands, fisted, white and bulging, on the table before him. ‘Perhaps I am mad. It’s dreadful, really. But when it comes on—well, it’s like I said, like a drug or something, I can’t resist it. And that’s why I have to be careful, I mustn’t let myself be caught. I couldn’t stand prison. What would I do, locked away, if a fit came on me? I really would go mad then.’
She grasped at a faint hope. ‘The police know about you. We told them about the calls.’
‘They can’t do a thing,’ he said. ‘Not unless they was to tap the line day and night. And you’re not the only one. I keep several going at a time, just for safety’s sake; well, to keep the cops confused, you see.’ He was silent for a moment, withdrawn from the present, musing. ‘They nearly did get me once, but that was different. That time I killed the poor girl.’
She gave a little jerked out, chopped off scream, bunching her fingers against her mouth. ‘Oh, no! Oh, no!’
‘I didn’t mean to,’ he said, unhappily. ‘I didn’t want to. In fact, that part I didn’t enjoy at all, I was horrified. Such a pretty young thing, she was. I’d been ringing her up: like you say, filthy, obscene, I don’t know what makes me do it, I feel bad about it afterwards…’
‘Couldn’t you have treatment or something? Couldn’t you get help? Nowadays, they’re understanding.’
‘Yes, I know, and I wish I could,’ he said. ‘I honestly do wish it. But—how can I now? It would mean giving myself up; and there’s too much against me. I mean, first they’d have me on a murder charge, over that poor girl.’ He looked at her, almost imploringly. ‘If only they wouldn’t struggle, I wouldn’t hurt them. I don’t mean to hurt them but I’m—strong. And this girl, you see—I went to see her, I pretended I’d lived in the house once, like I did with you. I talked to her, like I’m talking to you; I explained it. But… Well, she wouldn’t—and I suppose it’s dreadful but it’s the struggle I like.’ He began to move, sidling towards her round the table, slowly and quietly, thick fingers white-tipped and spatulate, pressed along the wooden edge.
She was sick and cold, the familiar room swam round her as though she saw it through water. She started to gibber, backed up, violently trembling, against the oak dresser. ‘Don’t touch me! Don’t come near me!’ But the sad, heavy face came closer; regretful—implacable. She sobbed and stammered: ‘Please don’t hurt me, please—!’
He stopped again; stood there, earnestly, humbly explaining. ‘I wouldn’t, you see: if you’d only be kind and easy. I’m—just an ordinary man, you must understand that; in other ways perfectly ordinary. Bachelor, yes; but a lovely old mother, looks after me like a king. Good job, solid, respectable, no one ever suspecting a thing. And don’t get me wrong, I don’t want anything—dirty. Just the usual, just to be—a man.’ He fell silent again and into the silence, ash falling in the grate, coal resettling itself, sounded harsh and loud; the grandfather clock struck a single rasping note. ‘If they wouldn’t struggle,’ he insisted, ‘they wouldn’t get hurt. I sometimes think it’s really only the struggling that—excites me: the hope of the struggling. It’s all leading up to that, the ’phone calls, everything, it’s liking to get the better of them because no one seems to—want me. If only just once, one of them was kind—was kind and easy and—even a little bit loving—I sometimes think I’d be cured of it, I’d give the whole thing up for ever.’
A desperate hope rose in her of temporising, of reasoning with him. ‘Can’t you get some nice girl of your own?’