Fear

his is the police station,’ said a voice. ‘Is that Mr Streeter?’

Walter said it was.

‘Well, Mr Streeter, how is everything at your place? All right, I hope? I’ll tell you why I ask. I’m sorry to say we quite forgot about that little job we were going to do for you. Bad coordination, I’m afraid.’

‘But,’ said Walter, ‘you did send someone.’

‘No, Mr Streeter, I’m afraid we didn’t.’

‘But there’s a policeman here, here in this very house.’

There was a pause, then his interlocutor said, in a less casual voice:

‘He can’t be one of our chaps. Did you see his number by any chance?’

‘No.’

After another pause the voice said:

‘Would you like us to send somebody now?’

‘Yes, p – please.’

‘All right then, we’ll be with you in a jiffy.’

Walter put back the receiver. What now? he asked himself. Should he barricade the door? Should he run out into the street? Should he try to rouse his housekeeper? A policeman of any sort was something to be reckoned with: but a rogue policeman! A law-keeper turned law-breaker, roaming about loose, savaging people! How long would it take the real police to come? What was a jiffy in terms of minutes? While he was debating, the door opened and his guest came in.

‘No room’s private when the street door’s once passed,’ he said. ‘Had you forgotten I was a policeman?’

‘Was?’ said Walter, edging away from him. ‘You are a policeman.’

‘I have been other things as well,’ the policeman said. ‘Thief, pimp, blackmailer, not to mention murderer. You should know.’

The policeman, if such he was, seemed to be moving towards him and Walter suddenly became alive to the importance of small distances – the space between the sideboard and the table, and between one chair and another.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ he said. ‘Why do you speak like that? I’ve never done you any harm. I’ve never set eyes on you before.’

‘Oh, haven’t you?’ the man said. ‘But you’ve thought about me, and’ – his voice rose – ‘you’ve written about me. You got some fun out of me, didn’t you? Now I’m going to get some fun out of you. You made me just as nasty as you could. Wasn’t that doing me harm? You didn’t think what it would feel like to be me, did you? You didn’t put yourself in my place, did you? You hadn’t any pity for me, had you? Well, I’m not going to have any pity for you.’

‘But I tell you,’ cried Walter, clutching the table’s edge, ‘I don’t know you!’

‘And now you say you don’t know me! You did all that to me and then forgot me.’ His voice became a whine, charged with self-pity. ‘You forgot William Stainsforth.’

‘William Stainsforth!’

‘Yes. I was your scapegoat, wasn’t I? You unloaded all your self-dislike on me. You felt pretty good while you were writing about me. Now, as one W. S. to another, what shall I do, if I behave in character?’

‘I – I don’t know,’ muttered Walter.

‘You don’t know?’ Stainsforth sneered. ‘You ought to know, you fathered me. What would William Stainsforth do if he met his old dad in a quiet place, his kind old dad who made him swing?’

Walter could only stare at him.

‘You know what he’d do as well as I,’ said Stainsforth. Then his face changed and he said abruptly, ‘No you don’t, because you never really understood me. I’m not so black as you painted me.’ He paused and a flame of hope flickered in Walter’s breast. ‘You never gave me a chance, did you? Well, I’m going to give you one. That shows you never understood me, doesn’t it?’

Walter nodded.

‘And there’s another thing you have forgotten.’