“They crammed a pillow over my face,” she gasped, “and then they flogged me with a cane!” She drew her saliva into a ball of fury and spat into the darkness. “They did that to me! I’ll make them pay! I’ll make him pay, too! The treacherous swine! He knew what they’d do! I’ll kill them all for this! All of them!” And she began to cry with rage and pain, wriggling her body and stamping her feet.
George stood in the rain, helpless, watching her with dismayed, bewildered pity, the handkerchief round his hand growing soggy with blood.
Suddenly she grabbed his arm, her fingers biting into his muscles. “Don’t look at me,” she panted, standing first on one leg and then on the other. She contorted her body, arched her back, straightened and bent double again. “Damn You!” She broke away from him and went down the street, only to stop a yard or so farther on. She held her head between her hands and began to walk round in small circles. Then she came back to him and gripped his arm again. He could feel the fever in her, burning through his coat sleeve.
“Take me home,” she cried, pulling at him “For God’s sake, take me home. Pm hurt! I’m on fire! Don’t stand there doing nothing, you stupid, stupid fool! Take me home!”
11
George never quite knew how they reached the little flat above the greengrocer’s shop. He vaguely remembered stopping a taxi, but had no recollection of the actual drive. He remembered the long, painful climb up some stairs, and Cora hammering wildly on a door. He remembered, too, hearing Sydney shout, “All right, all right. I’m coming! Stop banging on that bloody door.”
Then he had a dim recollection of Sydney, in a dirty white dressing-gown, staring at him in blank astonishment.
He took a step forward, and his knees gave under him He fell heavily. Before he blacked out he heard Cora scream: “You swine! You said he wouldn’t touch me! Oh, I hate you! I hate you!” and then he lost consciousness.
He had no idea how long he remained unconscious. He must have drifted into a heavy sleep before coming round. But when he opened his eyes it was morning and he was lying on the floor, a pillow under his head and a blanket over him. He sat up slowly and looked round, not quite remembering where he was.
He was aware of pain, and found his hand had been expertly bandaged and sticking plaster covered the cuts on his face. He pushed the blanket aside and stood up. He didn’t feel too bad. A little weak, perhaps, but otherwise not bad. He looked round the room with blank astonishment. It was a perfect pigsty of a room. The mantelpiece was thick with dust. The fireplace was full of cigarette ash and butts. A table, pushed against the wall, was piled with old newspapers, unwashed crockery and empty bottles. A dish containing some evil-smelling meat was under an armchair. On all the flat surfaces of the furniture were sticky circles made by wet tumblers. Two bluebottles buzzed angrily against the dirty windows.