The Complete Stories Of Evelyn Waugh

THE SYMPATHETIC PASSENGER

As Mr. James shut the side door behind him, radio music burst from every window of his house. Agnes, in the kitchen, was tuned in to one station; his wife, washing her hair in the bathroom, to another.

The competing programmes followed him to the garage and into the lane.

He had twelve miles to drive to the station, and for the first five of them he remained in a black mood.

He was in most matters a mild-tempered person—in all matters, it might be said, except one; he abominated the wireless.

It was not merely that it gave him no pleasure; it gave active pain, and, in the course of years, he had come to regard the invention as being directed deliberately against himself, a conspiracy of his enemies to disturb and embitter what should have been the placid last years of his life.

He was far from being an old man; he was, in fact, in his middle fifties; he had retired young, almost precipitously, as soon as a small legacy had made it possible. He had been a lover of quiet all his life.

Mrs. James did not share this preference.

Now they were settled in a small country house, twelve miles from a suitable cinema.

The wireless, for Mrs. James, was a link with the clean pavements and bright shop windows, a communion with millions of fellow beings.

Mr. James saw it in just that light too. It was what he minded most—the violation of his privacy. He brooded with growing resentment on the vulgarity of womankind.

In this mood he observed a burly man of about his own age signalling to him for a lift from the side of the road. He stopped.

“I wonder if by any chance you are going to the railway station?” The man spoke politely with a low, rather melancholy voice.

“I am; I have to pick up a parcel. Jump in.”

“That’s very kind of you.”

The man took his place beside Mr. James. His boots were dusty, and he sank back in his seat as though he had come from far and was weary.

He had very large, ugly hands, close-cut grey hair, a bony, rather sunken face.

For a mile or so he did not speak. Then he asked suddenly, “Has this car got a wireless?”

“Certainly not.”

“What is that knob for?” He began examining the dashboard. “And that?”

“One is the self-starter. The other is supposed to light cigarettes. It does not work. If,” he continued sharply, “you have stopped me in the hope of hearing the wireless, I can only suggest that I put you down and let you try your luck on someone else.”

“Heaven forbid,” said his passenger. “I detest the thing.”

“So do I.”

“Sir, you are one among millions. I regard myself as highly privileged in making your acquaintance.”

“Thank you. It is a beastly invention.”

The passenger’s eyes glowed with passionate sympathy. “It is worse. It is diabolical.”

“Very true.”

“Literally diabolical. It is put here by the devil to destroy us. Did you know that it spread the most terrible diseases?”

“I didn’t know. But I can well believe it.”

“It causes cancer, tuberculosis, infantile paralysis, and the common cold. I have proved it.”

“It certainly causes headaches,” said Mr. James.

“No man,” said his passenger, “has suffered more excruciating headaches than I.

“They have tried to kill me with headaches. But I was too clever for them. Did you know that the BBC has its own secret police, its own prisons, its own torture chambers?”

“I have long suspected it.”

“I know. I have experienced them. Now it is the time of revenge.”

Mr. James glanced rather uneasily at his passenger and drove a little faster.

“I have a plan,” continued the big man. “I am going to London to put it into execution. I am going to kill the Director-General. I shall kill them all.”

They drove on in silence. They were nearing the outskirts of the town when a larger car driven by a girl drew abreast of them and passed. From inside it came the unmistakable sounds of a jazz band. The big man sat up in his seat, rigid as a pointer.

“Do you hear that?” he said. “She’s got one. After her, quick.”

“No good,” said Mr. James. “We can never catch that car.”

“We can try. We shall try, unless,” he said with a new and more sinister note in his voice, “unless you don’t want to.”

Mr. James accelerated. But the large car was nearly out of sight.

“Once before,” said his passenger, “I was tricked. The BBC sent one of their spies. He was very like you. He pretended to be one of my followers; he said he was taking me to the Director-General’s office. Instead he took me to a prison. Now I know what to do with spies. I kill them.” He leaned towards Mr. James.

“I assure you, my dear sir, you have no more loyal supporter than myself. It is simply a question of cars. I cannot overtake her. But no doubt we shall find her at the station.”

“We shall see. If we do not, I shall know whom to thank, and how to thank him.”

They were in the town now and making for the station. Mr. James looked despairingly at the policeman on point duty, but was signalled on with a negligent flick of the hand. In the station yard the passenger looked round eagerly.

“I do not see that car,” he said.

Mr. James fumbled for a second with the catch of the door and then tumbled out. “Help!” he cried. “Help! There’s a madman here.”

With a great shout of anger the man dodged round the front of the car and bore down on him.

At that moment three men in uniforms charged out of the station doorway. There was a brief scuffle; then, adroitly, they had their man strapped up.

“We thought he’d make for the railway,” said their chief. “You must have had quite an exciting drive, sir.”

Mr. James could scarcely speak. “Wireless,” he muttered weakly.

“Ho, he’s been talking to you about that, has he? Then you’re very lucky to be here to tell us. It’s his foible, as you might say. I hope you didn’t disagree with him.”

“No,” said Mr. James. “At least, not at first.”

“Well, you’re luckier than some. He can’t be crossed, not about wireless. Gets very wild. Why, he killed two people and half killed a third last time he got away. Well, many thanks for bringing him in so nicely, sir. We must be getting him home.”

Home. Mr. James drove back along the familiar road.

“Why,” said his wife when he entered the house. “How quick you’ve been. Where’s the parcel?”

“I think I must have forgotten it.”

“How very unlike you. Why, you’re looking quite ill. I’ll run in and tell Agnes to switch off the radio. She can’t have heard you come in.”

“No,” said Mr. James, sitting down heavily. “Not switch off radio. Like it. Homely.”