Fragment of Fear Page #5

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is what you know. Not what you imagine. I know what I know. I made my report to sergeant Matthews. I came down here

to help you out voluntarily. All you've done is go on and on at me. Now look, I promise you, I have not

taken drugs for more than a year now, therefore I cannot possibly

be hallucinating, can I? There are two reasons, mr Brett. One, we cannot find

any trace of any woman having lodged a complaint

against you at this station, or indeed in any other station

in the metropolitan area. Well, then your bloody filing system

is a bloody shambles. Look, sergeant Matthews read me

that report yesterday morning. He was issued the report

by the desk sergeant who was on duty when the woman

made the complaint the night before. Now, if some of your

fat-arsed, flat-footed coppers have flushed it down the loo,

or lost it, don't blame me for it, go and ask the bloody desk sergeant,

or sergeant Matthews. That may not be as easy

as you seem to imagine, mr Brett. We have nobody here

called sergeant Matthews. About those people

who are persecuting you. The ones whose voices you hear

over the telephone, or type messages to you

on your own typewriter, and leave cigarettes in your toilet. Well, I think it might be a good idea

to see a doctor, sir. Especially as you're getting married. Blackmail. That charitable old lady

turned out to be my bloody aunt. My bloody aunt and mrs gray

used mr copsey. And my bloody aunt threw a lifeline

to every poor drowning first offender. The intelligent ones, of course.

The ones that were worth saving, right? The ones that she thought

would make it in the long term. She threw a lifeline and hauled them

graciously to shore, gave them the kiss of life,

and mothered them maybe for years. Until, eventually, they managed

to stay on their own two feet. And when they walked far enough, when they managed

to make enough money, when they were good and rich

and couldn't afford to be nailed as jailbirds, because they were manager of this,

or they were the chairman of that, or the governor of something else, then she'd give the lifeline

a little bit of a tug. And then, they'd come as the...

You know, and pay the bill. And even in sorrento, she asked me for

the names of my former associates. The reformed ones,

the ones that might make good, so that she could

add them to her list. This is as cold as Kenny's worm.

Nino! I wish you'd eat more. I can't eat more. A policeman came to see me today. Superintendent from the cid. Oh, did he? I suppose he told you

that he thought that I needed

to see a doctor, right? Yes. Nino? Fill that, will you? Look, if I'd gone back on mescalin

or I'd gone back on acid, or any of the other things, I wouldn't still be subject

to those kinds of hallucinations. I wouldn't see cigarette butts,

typewritten notes in buff envelopes, and the voices that I hear

wouldn't be lucid. I mean, the... They didn't say it was drugs, darling. They said that they thought

you were overwrought. That perhaps the shock

of your aunt's murder had set you into some sort

of an obsession, and that because you hadn't fully recovered

in your mind or your body from... From what? From your past. Tim, please drop it. For my sake. Look, either I am mad and all this

isn't happening to me, or else I am sane and it is. Either way, if I pack it in now,

i won't know, and you won't know whether

you've married a raving lunatic who's going to give you

lunatic babies. I mean, it's on the cards, isn't it? If there's any chance of us

getting married at all. No. No, it's not.

Not if you go and see a doctor. Oh, doctor,

thank you very much indeed. "Good morning, mr Brett,

you're a little overwrought. "There's a lot of that about

these days. "Why don't you take two disprin and a

cup of bournvita when you go to bed "and then if you, perhaps,

don't feel too well in the morning, "go back on the needle,

go back on the hard stuff. "There's a lot of that about, too." Please stop it. I'm afraid I can't stop it. You'll never find them. All right then, they'll have

to find me then, won't they? And so will you. Disgusting. Hey, Timmy! Come up on my side.

It's legal. As prescribed by the national health. Yes? The answer is no. No to any further single step

you may take in your childish and obstinate

pursuit of the Dawson case. You already have the death of one poor

unidentified woman on your conscience. You killed her. All seven hundred of you. We don't like killing people,

mr Brett. Killing interests the police, and we prefer to arrange for the police

to be as uninterested in our activities as they appear to be in yours. The poor woman died of a heart attack. Anyway, I don't suppose she meant

as much to you as your fianoe. What about my fiance? Get her to wear her glasses

at the wedding on Saturday. Why? For her own good.

And for yours. That is, if you still love her after. After what? After she has, shall we say,

earned a bad mark. A mark of our displeasure. Make her wear her glasses, mr Brett. Thank you. Juliet? Juliet? I thought you were dead. I took one of your sleeping pills. What happened? Nothing. I'm sorry. Sssshh, it's okay. All right.

Go on, get some sleep. Are you going to wear

your glasses at the wedding? Mmm? I said I want you to wear

your glasses at the wedding. Oh, I know what you look like. I know what you look like, too. I just want you to wear them. Okay. Promise? Mmm. Good morning, Columbus. Your geranium's dying. Because you water it too much. What happened at the restaurant

last night after I left? Nothing. The man at the table next to us

got up and walked out. Why? He said "disgusting",

got up, and left. - And left?

- Mmm-hmm. Is a mr nugent, signor Tim. He come three, four times

and ask to open an account. Do you know his address, nino? It is care of the home office, whitehall.

I hope he comes back. Yes, I want to apologise to him, too. I must say that's very civil.

Very civil indeed. But really, I ought to be

apologising to you. Who are you? May I put it this way? My department, which has accommodation

here for liaison with the home office, received a report on your interrogation from

special branch via the Kensington police. To be quite frank with you, mr Brett, the police don't believe in

your illusions of persecution. I don't think my fiancee

believes in them either. But the superintendent

was careful to point out that the illusions were at least

consistent enough not to have been

experienced by a, if you'll forgive me,

a totally irrational madman. I mean, you didn't say that

you were being followed by Napoleon one minute

and Boris karloff the next. There was a rational pattern. Your experiences

could have been credible, if the evidence for them all

hadn't been... well, intangible. Except for this. We've had it analysed, of course. They found nothing in it

but muck from the drain. I got a bit mucky myself,

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