7

Rud slept but little that night. He got out of bed. He got back into bed. He got out again. He went to the window and stared at a blank wall opposite. He tried to assemble the situation in his mind. He murmured and then recited fragments of his speech so far as he could recall it. He was trying not to think of something—a silly impossible idea, but at the same time very ugly and disagreeable. Kidnapping was in it and thumbscrews, and a vast large freckled face with the eyes too close together, that continually approached, full of menace, full of cruel deliberation. He would not think of it. He would not. If he had to keep repeating his speech all night…

His insomnia exasperated him more and more. Never had the contrast between his immense ambitions and his flimsy body, his lurid imagination and his unbalanced nerves, distressed him so acutely. He wanted to sleep and there was no sleep; no sleep, no repose, no position in which he could keep still. And always these foolish imaginations kept creeping nearer to him and nearer. They wouldn't keep away. He was awake and yet he was dreaming.

He cursed. For a moment he got quite out of hand. He made a feeble slog at nothing with his fist. "No, you don't," he shouted. "No, you don't. Don't come another step nearer me!" His sudden movement upset a row of books on his chest of drawers and the end one fell with a resounding smack on the floor. He was moved to fling all the other books after it. He realised the need for self–control in time.

He addressed himself as though he was a public meeting. "Get to sleep," he said. "You've things to do to–morrow. Tremendous things! To–morrow is the day. You've got to sleep. Got to sleep. Hold yourself together, man. You've got to go through with it now. Hold yourself together. Have you got it, Rud my boy? Hold yourself together. Rap. Rap. Rap on the wall. A drowsy, angry voice was calling to him through the thin partition. "Hold yourself together, man. Yes, and shut up. Go to sleep, yes, or by God! I'll come another step nearer you and no mistake. I'll come and I'll bloody–well kill you."

It was astonishing, but there was a sort of relief in hearing this thick, wholesomely angry, human voice.

"Talking in my sleep," called Rud, after a moment's reflection. "Nightmare." (No good ending a political career prematurely in a fight with an unknown fellow–lodger.)

"Rot! Shut up!"

"Good night," said Rud, sitting on his bed.

"Goo' ni', you howling monkey, and don't let me hear you again. See?"

Silence.

The unknown fellow–lodger was presently audible as a formidable snore. Rud sat quite still, thinking and gnawing his knuckles.

He forgot the snore for a moment. His hand gripped upon imaginary weapons of defence.

"Don't think of it," he whispered very low. It was nothing. But he had better sit up. If he went to sleep he'd certainly have a real nightmare and shout again. There ought to be some sort of drug to tranquillise a brain too fatigued to quiet down of its own accord. Perhaps if he jotted down a few notes…

"There ought to be a doctor in the Party," thought Rud. "Someone to stand by me. I wish we had some chap…Carstall for example."