The Dark Palace

He stood and swayed on his feet. Either the alcohol was begi

He felt with a finger around his eye, probing the loose skin beneath the bony ridge of his forehead.

Yes, there. Dangerous. But convincing.

He raised the glass and touched one point – the longest, most savage-looking – delicately to the place he had just explored. If he pushed it upwards he would avoid the eye. He would not need to go deep to produce the effect he wanted.

He felt the tip of the point bite his skin. His hand shook. The whole of his arm ached from the tension of holding that glass against his face.

The door of the pub creaked and sprang open. Bittlestone moved his hand away from his face and waited for the group which had emerged to make its way down Great Portland Street.

There was no more time for hesitation. That departure no doubt presaged a more general exodus.

It was now or never.

He brought the glass up briskly. Every vein in his body pulsed as his heart pounded and pumped the blood into and away from itself, in a fierce, vital roar of protest. As his hand went up, he felt a soaring exhilaration fill him. This was the most alive he had ever been. Even when he allowed himself to be pierced by lovers, he did not experience this intensity of being.

The moment the point broke through his skin was one of exquisite pleasure. His hand was no longer shaking. And so he was able to control the depth and angle of the intrusion.

He moved the glass slightly to one side, increasing the first shallow nip to a gash of – he judged – a quarter of an inch in extent.

He felt the hot liquid begin to trickle over his eye and down his face. He pulled the glass sharply out and let it drop, smashing to pieces on the pavement.

He held out a hand to fend off the wall. For some reason, the left hand side of his body went icy cold for a moment. His legs felt as if the bones had been removed from them and replaced with particularly elastic springs.

There were more people coming out of the pub. He turned his back on them. And began to grope his way back towards the dark quadrangle of the Middlesex Hospital.

TWENTY-FIVE

The following day, Saturday, the weather was dreary again.

Qui

He could hear raised voices coming from outside his door; high, anxious cries of female agitation. It was this altercation that had woken him.

He could make out Mrs Ibbott’s voice, though not what she was saying. The other voice, well, it was a while since he had heard that other voice. It was not recognizable as belonging to any of the other residents in the lodging house, but it did.

Qui

He found Mrs Ibbott on the landing below, outside Miss Dillard’s room. There was a ferocious, oath-littered stream of invective coming from the other side of the door.

‘She’s drunk,’ said Mrs Ibbott bluntly.

‘But …’

‘Yes, I know. It’s not even eight o’clock yet. I do believe she has been drinking through the night.’

‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘Mr Qui

‘Of course not, Mrs Ibbott.’

‘I have made allowances over the years. Considerable allowances. You would not know.’

‘Oh, but I do know, Mrs Ibbott.’

‘Well, I don’t mean to bring that up, but yes, there were months, when – because of her weakness – she had insufficient money for both rent and food, and I … I …’

‘You made allowances.’

‘I could not see a lady lodger of mine starve to death in my own house. Neither could I see her turned out on to the street to die in a gutter somewhere.’

‘It speaks volumes for your humanity, Mrs Ibbott.’

‘Mr Qui

‘I do. I’m very much afraid I do. Would you like me to … would you like me to see if she will speak to me?’

‘Oh, Mr Qui

‘I … I didn’t …’

‘Oh, come now, Mr Qui

Qui

But it was not entirely silent within. A small regular throb of weeping came to them.

Qui

Mrs Ibbott shook her head dubiously. ‘She will not want to see you, Mr Qui

But as if solely to contradict Mrs Ibbott, the door to Miss Dillard’s room began to open.

Qui

His eye darted around the gloom-soaked room like a buzzing fly looking for an escape point. The curtains were open, but the window was so small and grimy that the light barely penetrated it. It looked as if it had never been opened. The air was cloying. Sour and sickly sweet at the same time. At first he thought it was the smell of gin. But he began to suspect it was the smell of gin-drenched vomit. Where was that? he wondered. What had she done with it? He found the question vaguely preoccupying.

But, God, it was untidy in there. The vomit could have been anywhere. It was probably in a pot under the bed. She might have had just enough presence of mind to push it out of sight. It amazed him how much chaos could be packed into a tiny space. This was a corner of the universe that had let itself go. The single bed was a mess of grubby sheets and bedding, rucked up to expose the stained mattress beneath. The floor was littered with clothes, and – embarrassingly for Qui

He looked instead into her eyes, which were pink and moist from crying. The beautiful pewter grey of her irises eluded him. She would not meet his gaze. It was her turn to be ashamed now. She hid her face in her hands, and then, as if that wasn’t concealment enough, turned her back on him.

‘Miss Dillard …’

She groaned.

‘Are you all right, Miss Dillard?’

‘Leave me alone.’

‘You let me in, Miss Dillard.’

‘It’s all a terrible mess.’

‘It’s nothing that can’t be … sorted out.’

‘I don’t have any money. I don’t have any money to pay her. She’s going to turn me out on the street.’

‘No. Mrs Ibbott would never do that.’

‘But I don’t have any money, I tell you! What else can she do?’

‘Perhaps your sisters …?’

‘My sisters!’

Qui