Hawksmoor

Neither of the men looked up. 'We are police officers. Do you know what I mean?' And then, in the silence, Walter added loudly: 'They're not very friendly, sir, are they?'

The tramp in the corner turned his head: 'I know what you mean. I know full well what you mean.'

Hawksmoor stepped up to him, without coming too close: 'Oh do you? And I suppose you know someone called the Architect?'

There was a pause. 'I don't know anyone by that name. No one at all by that name.' He wrapped his arms about his body as he crouched there: 'You don't enquire about people. You don't ask questions'. It was not clear whether he was addressing these remarks to himself, or to Hawksmoor who was now surveying the dilapidated room.

The Architect!' The tramp on the bed had propped himself on one elbow and was calling out to them. The Architect! God bless us all and every one!'

Hawksmoor moved up to the end of the bed, and stood with his hands clasped as if in prayer. 'Do you know him?'

'Do I know him? Do I know him? Yes, I know him.'

'And do you know his name? I mean, his real name.'

'His name is Legion.' When the tramp laughed it was obvious to Hawksmoor that he was lying on the bed because he was drunk, perhaps still drunk from the night before.

'And where can I find him?'

'Do you have a little cigarette on you, officer?'

'I don't have one now, but I will give you some later. Where did you say I could find him?'

'I don't find him. He finds me. Now you see him and now you don't.'

Everyone remained silent and, as Hawksmoor sat down on the side of this bed, he heard the noise of a plane travelling somewhere overhead. 'And when did you see him last?'

'I saw him in Hell. He was roasting nicely.'

'No, you weren't in Hell were you? Tell me again.'

Then the man's mood changed as he curled up on the bed and faced the wall. 'I was with him,' he said and the whole sad weight of the drink seemed to hit him so that he could barely speak.

Hawksmoor gently touched his filthy overcoat. 'You were with him, were you? You look like a man who could deal a powerful blow.'

'Hop it. Fuck it. I'm saying no more.'

Walter came up to stand beside him as Hawksmoor whispered, 'Now don't be frightened. I'm not going to frighten anybody.' There was a sound of weeping in the corridor.

'I'm not frightened. I've done nothing.' Then he pretended to sleep, or perhaps did sleep; Hawksmoor pointed to the tramp's arm which lay stretched out, and Walter gave it a jerk so that the man rolled off his bed.

'You're wanted,' Hawksmoor told him, loudly now, as Walter dragged him to his feet. 'I'm not arresting you. I'm asking you nicely to come with me.' The tramp stared at him. There will be something in it for you, you'll see. We're just taking you for a little ride.'

They dragged him outside, passing the receptionist who kept on chewing his sandwich as he watched them, and as they came out into the air the tramp stared across at the church of St Anne's, Limehouse, and then looked up at its tower which loomed over the three of them in the dark street. Then he closed his eyes, as if he was about to faint.

'Help him, Walter,' Hawksmoor murmured as they bundled him into the back of their car. But the tramp neither knew nor cared what was happening to him, since there would be other times when he would have no memory of this. And now he was in a small white room, with the same man facing him across a table, while behind a two-way mirror Walter took notes and watched this scene: hawksmoor. How are you feeling now? tramp. Feeling? Oh not so bad. Not so bad, you know. Do you happen to have a fag on you? hawksmoor. Not so bad? That is good news. (He takes off his glasses)

Can I talk to you then? tramp. Yes. Yes, I hope to talk to you soon. Do you have a fag on you?

By any chance?

Pause. Hawksmoor lights a cigarette and hands it to him. hawksmoor. I am having a nice time. Are you? (Silence) You were telling me about the Architect? Am I right in thinking that? tramp. (Genuinely puzzled) Yes, that is possibly true. I think I was.

Yes.

HAWKSMOOR. Yes? tramp. (Nervously) Yes, I said that. Yes. hawksmoor. And so you know him? Am I right to say that you know him? tramp. I think I do. You can say that. I think I do. hawksmoor. Can you give me his name at all? tramp. Oh, I wouldn't know about that. Not his name. hawksmoor. But you saw him?

Silence. tramp. When? hawksmoor. I'm asking you the very same question. When did you see him? tramp. I saw him that night. hawksmoor. (Eagerly) What night? tramp. That night.

Silence. hawksmoor. Well, what time was it? tramp. Oh good God, now you're asking me something. hawksmoor. (Softly) Was it very dark? tramp. Pitch black. hawksmoor. I'm not going to hurt you. I would like you to remember. tramp. Next thing there was police and so forth. I won't say I was genuinely sober. Next thing the police was in. hawksmoor. In where? tramp. I've seen you before, haven't I? hawksmoor. In where? tramp. In that church. hawksmoor. This is a coincidence, isn't it? tramp. I remember nothing more than that. I'm not joking you.

Nothing more than that. (He is silent fora moment) What time are you letting me out? (Pause) I've had enough of this. (Silence) I'm that tired. hawksmoor. (Suddenly) What does he look like? tramp. Oh I don't know. (Pause) All that hair. It's wicked, isn't it?

Hair like tobacco. And then he draws. Draws the life out of you. I never saw such drawings. (Silence) Can I go out now? (Silence) Well then I'll go.

He gets up to leave, looks at Hawksmoor, and then walks out of the door as Walter comes in. hawksmoor. (Excitedly) It was the same man. Doesn't it seem to you to be the same man?

He read the brief jottings which Walter had made in his notebook during the interview and a small fly, attracted by its brightness under the neon, settled on the left-hand page. Hawksmoor noticed its legs waving like filaments bending in a sudden heat, and the shape of its wings cast a shadow upon the whiteness of the paper. Then as he turned the page he killed the insect, and its body smeared across the ink became an emblem of this moment when Hawksmoor had a vision of the tramp dancing around a fire, with the smoke clinging to his clothing and then wrapping him in mist.

'It is the same man,' he said again, 'It must be him.'

Walter anticipated his thoughts now: 'And we must be seen to be taking some action. At last'.

And so they walked to the Incident Room from where a carefully worded press statement was released, suggesting that the police were anxious to interview a certain vagrant in connection with the murders and giving a description of the man in question. And Hawksmoor called out to the various members of the investigating teams, 'I want the hostels checked, and the parks, and the derelict houses. Even the churches…' A young uniformed officer, who had a large birth mark splayed across his cheek, came up to him: 'One of the problems, sir, is obviously going to be the fact that there may be a few like him, a few who look like him'. Hawksmoor avoided looking at the scarlet brand: 'I know that, but that's the way it is And once again his voice trailed off for he knew that, just as he would recognise the murderer, so also would the murderer recognise him.

It was dusk now as he walked down Brick Lane to Christ Church, Spitalfields, passing Monmouth Street and turning down Eagle Street where the east wall of the old church rose among the ruined houses.

As he walked forward the street lamps flckered alight, and the shape of the church itself altered in their sudden illumination. Hawksmoor reached the gate through which he could see the abandoned tunnel, now boarded up, and in the neon's reflected light the grass and trees beside the church seemed to glow. He opened the gate, and as he walked down the path he was momentarily startled by a white moth which flew around his shoulders: he lengthened his stride to escape it but it stayed with him until he had turned the corner of the church and saw the main road and the market in front of him. In the gathering darkness he moved towards the small pyramid, placed his hands upon it as if to warm them, but in that instant he felt a wave of disorder -and, with it, the sensation that someone was staring fixedly at him.