The Collector (10 page)

Stop it, I said again, that’s enough.

But suddenly she came behind the sofa, going for the plates. I got between her and the door, she tried to dodge under my arm; however, I caught hers.

Then she suddenly changed.

“Let go,” she said, all quiet. Of course I didn’t, I thought she might be joking still.

But then suddenly she said, “Let go,” in a nasty voice that I did at once. Then she went and sat down by the fire.

After a while she said, “Get a broom. I’ll sweep up.”

I’ll do it tomorrow.

“I
want
to clear up.” Very my-lady.

I’ll do it.

“It’s your fault.”

Of course.

“You’re the most perfect specimen of petit bourgeois squareness I’ve ever met.”

Am I?

“Yes you
are
. You despise the real bourgeois classes for all their snobbishness and their snobbish voices and ways. You do, don’t you? Yet all you put in their place is a horrid little refusal to have nasty thoughts or do nasty things or be nasty in any way. Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?”

I don’t know what you’re talking about, I said.

“Yes you do. Why do you keep on using these stupid words—nasty, nice, proper, right? Why are you so worried about what’s proper? You’re like a little old maid who thinks marriage is dirty and everything except cups of weak tea in a stuffy old room is dirty. Why do you take all the life out of life? Why do you kill all the beauty?”

I never had your advantages. That’s why.

“You can change, you’re young, you’ve got money. You can learn. And what have you done? You’ve had a little dream, the sort of dream I suppose little boys have and masturbate about, and you fall over yourself being nice to me so that you won’t have to admit to yourself that the whole business of my being here is nasty, nasty, nasty—”

She stopped sudden then. “This is no good,” she said. “I might be talking Greek.”

I understand, I said. I’m not educated.

She almost shouted. “You’re so stupid. Perverse.”

“You have money—as a matter of fact, you aren’t stupid, you could become whatever you liked. Only you’ve got to shake off the past. You’ve got to kill your aunt and the house you lived in and the people you lived with. You’ve got to be a new human being.”

She sort of pushed out her face at me, as if it was something easy I could do, but wouldn’t.

Some hope, I said.

“Look what you could do. You could… you could collect pictures. I’d tell you what to look for, I’d introduce you to people who would tell you about art-collecting. Think of all the poor artists you could help. Instead of massacring butterflies, like a stupid schoolboy.”

Some very clever people collect butterflies, I said.

“Oh, clever… what’s the use of that? Are they human beings?”

What do you mean? I asked.

“If you have to ask, I can’t give you the answer.”

Then she said, “I always seem to end up by talking down to you. I hate it. It’s you. You always squirm one step lower than I can go.”

She went like that at me sometimes. Of course I forgave her, though it hurt at the time. What she was asking for was someone different to me, someone I could never be. For instance, all that night after she said I could collect pictures I thought about it; I dreamed myself collecting pictures, having a big house with famous pictures hanging on the walls, and people coming to see them. Miranda there, too, of course. But I knew all the time it was silly; I’d never collect anything but butterflies. Pictures don’t mean anything to me. I wouldn’t be doing it because I wanted, so there wouldn’t be any point. She could never see that.

She did several more drawings of me which were quite good, but there was something in them I didn’t like, she didn’t bother so much about a nice likeness as what she called my inner character, so sometimes she made my nose so pointed it would have pricked you and my mouth was all thin and unpleasant, I mean more than it really is, because I know I’m no beauty. I didn’t dare think about the four weeks being up, I didn’t know what would happen, I just thought there would be arguing and she’d sulk and I’d get her to stay another four weeks—I mean I thought I had some sort of power over her, she would do what I wanted. I lived from day to day, really. I mean there was no plan. I just waited. I even half expected the police to come. I had a horrible dream one night when they came and I had to kill her before they came in the room. It seemed like a duty and I had only a cushion to kill her with. I hit and hit and she laughed and then I jumped on her and smothered her and she lay still, and then when I took the cushion away she was lying there laughing, she’d only pretended to die. I woke up in a sweat, that was the first time I ever dreamed of killing anyone.

She started talking about going several days before the end. She kept on saying that she would never tell a soul, and of course I had to say I believed her, but I knew even if she meant it the police or her parents would screw it out of her in the end. And she kept on about how we’d be friends and she’d help me choose pictures and introduce me to people and look after me. She was very nice to me those days; not that of course she didn’t have her reasons.

At last the fatal day (November 10th, the 11th was her release day) came. The first thing she said when I took her in her coffee was, could we have a celebration party tonight?

What about guests, I said, joking, not that I was feeling lighthearted, need I add.

“Just you and me. Because… oh, well, we’ve come through, haven’t we?”

Then she said, “And upstairs, in your dining-room?”

To which I agreed. I had no choice.

She gave me a list of things to buy at the posh grocer’s in Lewes, and then she asked if I’d buy sherry and a bottle of champagne and of course I said I would. I never saw her get so excited. I suppose I got excited too. Even then. What she felt, I felt.

To make her laugh I said, evening dress, of course. And she said, “Oh, I wish I had a nice dress. And I must have some more hot water to wash my hair.”

I said, I’ll buy you a dress. Just tell me like before the colour and so on and I’ll see what there is in Lewes.

Funny, I’d been so careful, and there I was, going red. She gave me a smile, however,

“I knew it was Lewes. There’s a ticket on one of the cushions. And I’d like either a black dress, or no, a biscuit, stone—oh, wait…” and she went to her paint-box and mixed colours like she did before when she wanted a scarf of a special colour when I was going to London. “This colour, and it must be simple, knee-length, not long, sleeves like this (she drew it), or no sleeves, something like this or like this.” I always liked it when she drew. She was so quick, fluttery, you felt she couldn’t wait to draw whatever it was.

Naturally my thoughts were far from happy that day. It was just like me not to have a plan. I don’t know what I thought would happen. I don’t even know if I didn’t think I would keep the agreement, even though it was forced out of me and forced promises are no promises, as they say.

I actually went into Brighton and there after looking at a lot I saw just the dress in a small shop; you could tell it was real class, at first they didn’t want to sell it without a fitting although it was the right size. Well, going back to where I parked the van I passed another shop, a jeweller’s, and I suddenly had the idea that she would like a present, also it might make things easier when it came to the point. There was a sapphire and diamond necklace lying on a bit of black velvet, shape of a heart I remember—I mean they’d arranged the necklace into a heart shape. I went in and it was three hundred pounds and I nearly walked right out again, but then my more generous nature triumphed. After all, I had the money. The woman in the shop put it on and it looked really pretty and expensive. It’s only small stones, she said, but all very fine water and these Victorian designs. I remembered Miranda talking one day about how she liked Victorian things, so that did it. There was trouble about the cheque, of course. The woman wouldn’t take it at first, but I got her to ring my bank and she changed her tune very quick. If I’d spoken in a la-di-da voice and said I was Lord Muck or something, I bet… still, I’ve got no time for that.

It’s funny how one idea leads to another. While I was buying the necklace I saw some rings and that gave me the plan I could ask her to
marry
me and if she said no then it would mean I had to keep her. It would be a way out. I knew she wouldn’t say yes. So I bought a ring. It was quite nice; but not very expensive. Just for show.

When I got home I washed the necklace (I didn’t like to think of it touching that other woman’s skin) and hid it so that I could get it out at the correct time. Then I made all the preparations she said: there were flowers, and I put the bottles on the side-table, and laid out everything really grand hotel, with all the usual precautions, of course. We arranged I was to go down and fetch her at seven. After I took in the parcels I wasn’t to see her, it was like it is before a wedding.

What I decided was I would let her come up ungagged and untied just this once, I would take the risk but watch her like a knife and I would have the chloroform and CTC handy, just in case trouble blew up. Say someone knocked at the door, I could use the pad and have her bound and gagged in the kitchen in a very short time, and then open up.

Well, at seven I had my best suit and shirt and a new tie I bought on and I went down to see her. It was raining, which was all to the good. She made me wait about ten minutes and then she came out. You could have knocked me down with a feather. For a moment I thought it wasn’t her, it looked so different. She had a lot of French scent which I gave her on and she was really made up for the first time since she was with me; she had the dress on and it really suited her, it was a creamy colour, very simple but elegant, leaving her arms and her neck bare. It wasn’t a girl’s dress at all, she looked a real woman. Her hair was done up high unlike before, very elegant. Empire, she called it. She looked just like one of those model girls you see in magazines; it really amazed me what she could look like when she wanted. I remember her eyes were different too, she’d drawn black lines round them so she looked sophisticated. Sophisticated, that’s exactly the word. Of course, she made me feel all clumsy and awkward. I had the same feeling I did when I had watched an imago emerge, and then to have to kill it… I mean, the beauty confuses you, you don’t know what you want to do any more, what you should do.

“Well?” she said. She turned round, showing off.

Very nice, I said.

“Is that all?” She gave me a look under her eyebrows. She looked a real sensation.

Beautiful, I said. I didn’t know what to say, I wanted to look at her all the time and I couldn’t. I felt sort of frightened, too.

I mean, we seemed further apart than ever. And I knew more and more I couldn’t let her go.

Well, I said, shall we go up?

“No cords, no gag?”

It’s too late for that, I said. That’s all over.

“I think what you’re doing today, and tomorrow, is going to be one of the best things that ever happened to you.”

One of the saddest, I couldn’t help saying.

“No, it’s not. It’s the beginning of a new life. And a new you.” And she reached out her hand and took mine and led me up the steps.

It was pouring and she took one breath only before she went into the kitchen and through the dining-room into the lounge.

“It’s nice,” she said.

I thought you said that word meant nothing, I said.

“Some things are nice. Can I have a glass of sherry?” I poured us one out each. Well, we stood there, she made me laugh, she kept on pretending that the room was full of people, waving at them, and telling me about them, and them about my new life, and then she put a record on the gramophone, it was soft music, and she looked beautiful. She was so changed, her eyes seemed alive, and what with the French scent she had that filled the room and the sherry and the heat from the fire, real logs, I managed to forget what I had to do later. I even said some silly jokes. Anyway she laughed.

Well, she had a second glass and then we went through to the other room where I’d slipped my present in her place, which she saw at once.

“For me?”

Look and see, I said. She took off the paper and there was this dark blue leather case and she pressed the button and she just didn’t say anything. She just stared at them.

“Are they real?” She was awed, really awed.

Of course. They’re only little stones, but they’re high quality.

“They’re fantastic,” she said. Then she held out the box to me. “I can’t take them. I understand, I think I understand why you’ve given them to me, and I appreciate it very much, but… I can’t take them.”

I want you to, I said.

“But… Ferdinand, if a young man gives a girl a present like this, it can only mean one thing.”

What, I asked.

“Other people have nasty minds.”

I want you to have them. Please.

“I’ll wear them for now. I’ll pretend they’re mine.”

They are yours, I said.

She came round the table with the case.

“Put them on,” she said. “If you give a girl jewellery, you must put it on yourself.”

She stood there and watched me, right up close to me, then she turned as I picked up the stones and put them round her neck. I had a job fastening them, my hands were trembling, it was the first time I had touched her skin except her hand. She smelt so nice I could have stood like that all the evening. It was like being in one of those adverts come to life. At last she turned and there she was looking at me.