What on earth are they up to at this time of night? Caroline wondered. But what worried her were the words they had used, coinciding so exactly with her own thoughts.
And then the typewriter again: tap-tap-tap. She was rooted. ‘My God!’ she cried aloud. ‘Am I going mad?’
As soon as she had said it, and with the sound of her own voice, her mind was filled with an imperative need to retain her sanity. It was the phrase ‘Caroline wondered’ which arrested her. Immediately then, shaken as she was, Caroline began to consider the possibilities, whether the sounds she had heard were real or illusory. While the thought terrified her that she was being haunted by people — spirits or things — beings who had read her thoughts, perhaps who could read her very heart, she could not hope for the horrible alternative. She feared it more; she feared that those sounds, so real that they seemed to have come from the other side of the wall, were hallucinations sent forth from her own mind. Caroline sat for the next half-hour dazed and frightened, wondering what to do. She dreaded a repetition of the experience, yet prayed for some sign that her mind was not unhinged. The question began to appear as one on which she could herself decide; it was like being faced with a choice between sanity and madness.
She had already concluded that the noise could not have come from anyone in the house. The fact that her feelings and reflections were being recorded seemed to point to some invisible source, the issue being, was it objectively real or was it imaginary? If the sounds came from some real, invisible typewriter and voices, Caroline felt she was in danger, might go mad, but the experience was not itself a sign of madness. She was now utterly convinced that what she had heard was not the product of her own imagination. ‘I am not mad. I’m not mad. See; I can reflect on the situation. I am being haunted. I am not haunting myself.’ Meantime, she was trembling, frightened out of her wits, although her fear was not altogether blind.
Tap-click-tap. The voices again: Meantime, she was trembling, frightened out of her wits, although her fear was not altogether blind.
‘Christ!’ she said. ‘Who is it there?’ Although she had decided quite reasonably that no one in the house could be responsible for those sounds, none the less when she actually heard the voices again, so clear, just behind the wall, she sprang up and began to search every corner of the flat, even under the divan, which was too low to conceal a human body; even in the little cupboard where the gas meter was fixed. The activity took the edge off her panic, and although she knew she would not find her tormentors in this way, she put all her energy into the search, moving furniture, opening and shutting doors. She suspected everything, however improbable; even that the sound might be contained in some quite small object — a box with a machine inside, operated from a distance. She acted upon these suspicions, examining everything closely in case she should find something strange.
There was suddenly a knocking from the ceiling. Caroline propelled herself out of the flat and switched on the landing lights.
‘Who’s there?’ she called up the stairs. ‘Who is it?’ Her voice was strained high with fear.
There was a movement above her, round the bend of the stair. A shuffle, and the opening of a door on the second landing. A woman’s voice whispered fiercely, ‘Keep quiet!’
Looking straight above her, Caroline saw the top half of a woman leaning over the banister, long wisps of grey hair falling over her face and her loose white garment showing between the banisters. Caroline screamed, was too late to stop herself when she recognized the woman as the occupant of the flat above.
‘Are you drunk?’ the angry tenant breathed at her. ‘What do you mean by waking the house at this time of night? It’s twenty-two minutes past one, and you’ve been banging about moving furniture and slamming doors for the last hour. I haven’t slept a wink. I’ve got to go out to business in the morning.’
Another door opened on the second floor, and a man’s voice said, ‘Anything the matter? I heard a girl scream.’ The woman scuttled back into her room, being undressed, and finished her complaint with her head only showing outside her door.
‘It was that young woman downstairs. She’s been making a disturbance for the past hour. Did you hear her?’
‘I certainly heard a scream,’ the man’s voice said.
Caroline ran up a few steps so as to see the speakers from the bend in the staircase. ‘I got a terrible fright when I saw you,’ she explained to the woman. ‘Was that you knocking?’
‘Indeed it was,’ said the woman. ‘I’ll complain about this in the morning.’
‘Were you using a typewriter?’ Caroline began to inquire. She was helpless and shaky. ‘I heard a typewriter, and voices.
‘You’re mad!’ said the woman, as she withdrew and shut the door. The young man had also retreated.
Caroline returned to her rooms, and, rapidly and stealthily, began to pack a small suitcase. She wondered where she would spend the rest of the night. A lonely hotel room was unthinkable, it would have to be a friend’s house. She moved about, jerkily snatching at the necessary articles as if she expected some invisible hand, concealed in each object, to close over hers before she had got possession of it. She was anxious to make as little sound as possible, but in her nervousness bumped into the furniture and knocked over a glass dish. To protect herself from the noises of her movements, she contracted a muscle somewhere behind her nose and throat, which produced the effect in her ears as of a rustling breeze — it dulled the sound of her footsteps, making the whole operation sound quieter than it was.
Caroline pressed down the lid of her small case. She had decided where to go for the night. The Baron; he was awake, or at least available, at all hours. She opened the case again, remembering that she had packed her money; she would need it for the taxi to the Baron’s flat in Hampstead. She was absorbed by the pressing need to get out of her flat at the earliest possible moment, and as she searched among her clothes she did not even notice, with her customary habit of self-observation, that she had thrown her night-things together anyhow. The difference between this frenzied packing operation and the deliberate care she had taken, in spite of her rage, to fold and fit her possessions into place at St Philumena’s less than a day ago failed to register.
Tap-tick-tap. Tap. She did not even notice Click-tappity with her customary habit of self-observation, that she had thrown her night-things together anyhow. The difference between this frenzied packing operation and the deliberate care she had taken, in spite of her rage, to fold and fit her possessions into place at St Philumena’s less than a day ago failed to register. Tap.
Coat — hat — handbag — suitcase; Caroline grabbed them and hustled out of the door, slamming it to. She rattled downstairs and out of the front door, which she slammed behind her. At the top of Queen’s Gate, turning in from Old Brompton Road, she got a taxi and secured herself inside it with a slam of the door.
‘It is quite a common thing,’ Willi Stock said. ‘Your brain is overworked.’ This was the Baron speaking. He stood by the electric fire with its flicking imitation coals, sipping Curaçao.
Caroline sipped hers, curled up on the sofa, and crying. Absorbing the warmth of the fire and of the liquor, she felt a warmth of gratitude towards the Baron. For the last hour he had been explaining her mental condition. She was consoled, not by the explanations, but by the fact of his recognizable face, by the familiar limitations of his mind, and by the reality of his warm flat and his bottle of Curaçao.