That Hideous Strength

II

“Are you awake now?” said Mrs. Dimble’s voice, quietly, in the middle of the night.

“Yes,” said Jane. “I’m so sorry. Did I wake you up? Was I shouting?”

“Yes. You were shouting out about someone being hit on the head.”

“I saw them killing a man . . . a man in a big car driving along a country road. Then he came to a crossroads and turned off to the right past some trees, and there was someone standing in the middle of the road waving a light to stop him. I couldn’t hear what they said; I was too far away. They must have persuaded him to get out of the car somehow, and there he was talking to one of them. The light fell full on his face. He wasn’t the same old man I saw in my other dream. He hadn’t a beard, only a moustache. And he had a very quick, kind of proud, way. He didn’t like what the man said to him and presently he put up his fists and knocked him down. Another man behind him tried to hit him on the head with something, but the old man was too quick and turned round in time. Then it was rather horrible, but rather fine. There were three of them at him and he was fighting them all. I’ve read about that kind of thing in books, but I never realised how one would feel about it. Of course they got him in the end. They beat his head about terribly with the things in their hands. They were quite cool about it and stooped down to examine him and make sure he was really dead. The light from the lantern seemed all funny. It looked as if it made long uprights of light-sort of rods-all round the place. But perhaps I was waking up by then. No thanks, I’m all right. It was horrid, of course, but I m not really frightened . . . not the way I would have been before. I’m more sorry for the old man.”

“You feel you can go to sleep again?”

“Oh rather! Is your headache better, Mrs. Dimble?”

“Quite gone, thank you. Good night.”