The place looked—well, maybe you’ll have seen some of Doré’s pictures of sinners in hell. But Doré couldn’t include the sounds: the sobbing, the murmurous moaning, and occasionally a forlorn cry.
A minute or two of it was all I could stand. I fled back up the stairs.
There was the feeling that I ought to do something about it. Lead them out into the street, perhaps, and at least put an end to that dreadful slow milling. But a glance had been enough to show that I could not hope to make my way to the door to guide them there. Besides, if I were to, if I did get them outside—what then?
I sat down on a step for a while to get over it, with my head in my hands and that awful conglomerate sound in my ears all the time. Then I searched for, and found, another staircase. It was a narrow service flight which led me out by a back way into the yard.
* * *
—
Maybe I’m not telling this part too well. The whole thing was so unexpected and shocking that for a time I deliberately tried not to remember the details. Just then I was feeling much as though it were a nightmare from which I was desperately but vainly seeking the relief of waking myself. As I stepped out into the yard I still half refused to believe what I had seen.
But one thing I was perfectly certain about. Reality or nightmare, I needed a drink as I had seldom needed one before.
There was nobody in sight in the little side street outside the yard gates, but almost opposite stood a pub. I can recall its name now—the Alamein Arms. There was a board bearing a reputed likeness of Viscount Montgomery hanging from an iron bracket, and below it one of the doors stood open.
I made straight for it.
Stepping into the public bar gave me for the moment a comforting sense of normality. It was prosaically and familiarly like dozens of others.
But although there was no one in that part, there was certainly something going on in the saloon bar, round the corner. I heard heavy breathing. A cork left its bottle with a pop. A pause. Then a voice remarked:
“Gin, blast it! T’hell with gin!”
There followed a shattering crash. The voice gave a sozzled chuckle.
“Thash th’mirror. Wash good of mirrors anyway?”
Another cork popped.
“？’S’damned gin again,” complained the voice, offended. “T’hell with gin.”
This time the bottle hit something soft, thudded to the floor, and lay there gurgling away its contents.
“Hey!” I called. “I want a drink.”
There was a silence. Then:
“Who’re you?” the voice inquired cautiously.
“I’m from the hospital,” I said. “I want a drink.”
“Don’ ’member y’r voice. Can you see?”
“Yes,” I told him.
“Well, then, for God’s sake get over the bar, Doc, and find me a bottle of whisky.”
“I’m doctor enough for that,” I said.
I climbed across and went round the corner. A large-bellied, red-faced man with a graying walrus mustache stood there clad only in trousers and a collarless shirt. He was pretty drunk. He seemed undecided whether to open the bottle he held in his hand or to use it as a weapon.
“？’F you’re not a doctor, what are you?” he demanded suspiciously.
“I was a patient—but I need a drink as much as any doctor,” I said. “That’s gin again you’ve got there,” I added.
“Oh, is it! Damned gin,” he said, and slung it away. It went through the window with a lively crash.