Tom looked at his watch. ‘Ten-thirty.’
‘My watch says - oh I started changing it about, it’s crazy now. Whatever have you done to your eye?’
‘I suppose there’s something to eat in the house?’ said Greg.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Tom. ‘I don’t remember.’ He suddenly realized that he was very hungry.
‘Didn’t I tell you?’ said Greg to Judy.
‘We can go out to the Running Dog.’
‘It’ll be shut.’
‘Not the restaurant. Anyway let’s have a drink, I bet there’s some, where there’s a McCaffrey there’s drink.’
‘There’s drink,’ said Tom.
‘Come on downstairs, I feel so over-excited, I must have something.’
They went down to the sitting-room and Greg found whisky and glasses while Judy pranced restlessly about, touching things, touching Tom, laughing.
‘Oh it’s so marvellous, we’ve had such a time, we went to New Orleans, the South is fantastic, have we got southern accents, I quite feel I have.’
Tom saw on the sofa the plastic bag containing Judy’s dress which he had evidently brought back from Belmont without noticing it. He said, ‘Oh Ju, I’m so sorry, someone spilt wine on your dress, look, but Gabriel fixed it.’
‘Who was wearing it?’ said Greg.
‘Oh well - a friend of mine - I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Let me see,’ said Judy.
‘Gabriel dyed it with tea.’
‘With tea?’
‘Was Gabriel wearing it?’
‘No, Greg, a girl, a - I’m terribly sorry.’
‘Well, it’s not quite its old self,’ said Judy, ‘but it doesn’t matter.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Tom dear, don’t worry, it doesn’t matter, we’re so glad to see you! Aren’t we, darling?’
‘What else have you done?’ said Greg, looking round.
‘Oh nothing else - the place is fine - if I’d known you were coming I’d have cleaned up, changed the sheets.’
‘And how is Ennistone, and how is everybody? Isn’t it funny to think that you’ve all been leading your quiet little lives here while we’ve been having the most amazing time, we must tell you all about it.’
‘William Eastcote died,’ said Tom.
‘Oh - I’m sorry to hear that,’ said Greg putting down his glass. ‘I am sorry - such a dear good man - an old friend of my father’s. When?’
‘Oh recently,’ said Tom. He felt he could not give details, count days, describe the funeral.
‘How sad, a dear man,’ said Judy.
‘I’m going to telephone the Running Dog,’ said Greg. He left the room.
‘We haven’t slept for ages, we couldn’t sleep on the plane,’ said Judy, ‘we were travelling first class, there was a staircase and a bar, it was super, I enjoyed every second, even the silly film, and - oh Tom, it’s so good to see your old familiar face, only you look so pale! See how brown we are! We got quite tired of the sun. Look.’ She rolled up the sleeves of her dress and displayed a sunburnt arm.
‘I must go,’ said Tom.
‘Of course not - you must stay tonight - mustn’t he, Greg - Tom says he’s going — ’
‘Shut up,’ said Greg from the hall. ‘A table for two if we come at once?’
‘For three,’ called Judy.
‘I must go,’ said Tom. ‘I’ve got to catch the train to London, I was just packing up when you came.’
‘Nonsense, you were fast asleep when we came. Anyway you’ve missed the ten forty-five.’
‘We can have dinner if we go now,’ said Greg.
‘I must go,’ said Tom.
‘Certainly not, don’t go!’
‘Let him go if he wants to,’ said Greg. ‘God, I feel terrible.’
‘I’ll just pack my bag,’ said Tom. He ran upstairs into his bedroom and closed the door. He saw the room, so bleak now, with his stuff strewn around, his suitcase which he had so cheerfully unpacked, the room with the view over the town which he had chosen when he had moved in such a long time ago, in a previous era, when he had been young and happy and innocent and free. He pushed his things roughly into the case and then he couldn’t close it. He wanted to wail with vexation. He thrust the case, with its lid almost closed, into a corner, and began to tidy up the messy unmade bed. He began to pull the sheets off, then left them as they were. He went downstairs.
‘Judy, do you mind if I leave my suitcase here? I’ve tidied my stuff away. I’ll come and fetch it later - I’ll ring up - I must just get off to London. Thank you so much for letting me have the house, I’ve loved it here.’
‘Thank you for looking after it,’ said Gregory, who felt he had been churlish. ‘You must come and stay,’ said Judy, ‘any time you like — ’
‘I must run — ’
‘And we’ll tell you all about it.’
When Tom got as far as the Institute he hurried along the front of the building making for the entrance to the Ennistone Rooms where there was always a porter on duty. However, when he got as far as the big main door, which was usually closed at this time, he saw that it was very slightly ajar and there was a light inside. He went to the door, pushed it cautiously, and peered in. A light was on at the far end of the Promenade. There was no one about.
It occurred to Tom that if he were able to get through to the Rooms by the back way through the Baptistry he could find out what he wanted to know (whether Rozanov was still in Ennistone) by looking to see if his name was on the board in the corridor. If he went by the Lodge he would have to speak to the porter, and while a porter who knew him would no doubt be chattily informative, a porter who did not might ask him who he was and what he wanted; and in his present guilty frightened state Tom felt that any unsympathetic questioning might simply elicit a flood of tears. Tom could also picture Rozanov suddenly appearing, seeing him in the brightly lit Lodge, and cornering him, glaring at him through the glass partition, his huge face distorted by rage and hate. Tom was in the state of restless obsessive nervous energy which drives people to meddle when they are too stupid to think clearly and too frightened to act decisively. What he needed was some sort of symbolic or magical act which concerned or touched his situation without running any danger of changing it. He wanted, as it were, to light a candle or recite a formula, he needed to busy himself about his state of mind.
The Promenade was empty, silent, half dark. The tables had been pushed to one side and the chairs stacked. The counter was covered with white cloths. Tom took a few careful noiseless steps, conscious of his shadow behind him. A flood of excited physical fear took possession of the lower part of his body, a painful vertiginous thrilling urgent pressuring feeling, like sexual desire. Then Tom thought, it’s not like sexual desire, it is sexual desire. He moved quickly now, his mouth open, his eyes wide. He padded on his toes toward the source of light, which was the partly open door of the Baptistry, which housed the descent to the source, and led also to the long downstairs corridor of the Rooms. Tom paused, listening, then slipped through the door.
He had for a moment been aware of a warm steamy smell and a kind of vapour in the air. Now he stood still, amazed. The Baptistry was full of steam. The big bronze nail-studded doors under their stone pediment stood wide open. There was a low throbbing humming sound. Tom moved toward the opening. He touched one of the open doors and quickly withdrew his hand. The door was scalding hot. He stepped through the doorway, blinking, his eyelashes already wet with steam.
Before him and below him a great many extremely bright lights were on. He stood on a sort of railed- In shelf or gallery from which metal stairways led steeply down to left and right. A great mass of gleaming pipes, some very small, some enormous, filled the space below. The pipes were a light silver gilt in colour, a very very pale gold, and covered with tiny droplets of moisture which glittered here and there like diamonds. The design made by the pipes, obscured by areas of steam, seemed geometric yet made an unintelligible jumbled impression. They went on down and down for a long way without any floor or bottom being visible. Tom was aware of a warm breeze blowing and could see, looking down, that the steam which seemed to pervade the chasm was in irregular motion. There were evidently hidden fans, air currents which were intended to keep the space clear of steam, perhaps now unable to do so.