It’s a Battlefield by Graham Greene Page B

down a brick-paved passage to the back door. (Behind him he could hear Crosse put up his safety catch.) With his hands on the iron rail of the fire escape, he thought of innumerable clerics rising in innumerable pulpits to talk of cleanliness as next to godliness (the rails struck cold through his gloves, and it was difficult to mount quietly, the nails on his shoes striking the steel steps), praising the clean body as an indication of the clean mind. He thought of Crippen shaving carefully every day of his trial, particular about small things. It was these contradictions, the moral maxims which did not apply, that made it impossible for a man to found his life on any higher motive than doing his job. A life spent with criminals would never fail to strip the maxims of priests and teachers from the underlying chaos.
    The moon burnt for a moment through the clouded sky and silvered the rails and the steps of the fire escape, showed the huddle of chimney pots above him, and dimmed the light in the top room. It travelled between the clouds with the swiftness of a car, and the whole globe heeled over with it. The Assistant Commissioner clutched the rail and lowered his head, attacked again by dizziness. Every attack was followed by a great fear, not the fear of death, but the fear of enforced retirement, a fear which he fought with his efficiency, his hesitations which conserved his energy, and his meticulousness. With that chill at his brain he mounted the last steps.
    A man was talking. He could hear the voice before he could see the face. The window above was open.
    â€˜Come to Jesus,’ the voice said. ‘Come to Jesus.’ The Assistant Commissioner mounted slowly; there was no lamp in the yard below, there was darkness everywhere now that the moon had gone, except where the bulb in the room lit a few feet of steel platform and a step or two. ‘Oh, come to Jesus all of you. Come to Jesus.’ The Assistant Commissioner was alone with the voice. The policeman at the back door, in the pool of night, made no sound; the house had swallowed up Crosse and his companions. ‘Don’t think I don’t understand you. Oh, I’ve sinned too, friends, believe me, I’ve sinned too.’ The Assistant Commissioner’s shoe struck a spark on the penultimate step, but the voice with its absurd unction and its intolerable theatricality went on. ‘I’ve got a bleeding heart, friends. If you could see inside –’
    The Assistant Commissioner stood on the platform and stared in. He gripped his stick and listened for Crosse’s coming. He did not believe that the man would shoot, but he was a little disturbed by the flow of sweet words. The man stood before a mirror buttoning a jacket with a high collar across a great naked chest, tufted between the breasts with red hair. The Assistant Commissioner was puzzled for a moment at the blue braided uniform, but then he noticed on a chair a cap with a red band. ‘I’ve been as big a sinner as any of you. But I’ve come to Jesus and I’ve been forgiven.’ The Assistant Commissioner swung his stick, listening for the feet upon the stairs, and the man moved and pursed his lips and turned his head to see that he was clean behind the ears. When he spoke he circled his lips as if to whistle, and the words popped out one by one like little sticky sweets.
    â€˜Oh, if you only knew, friends, the sweetness of forgiveness, the balm, the peace.’ It was impossible to doubt his sincerity. He was as sincere as the actor-manager aware for an act, for a scene, for a soliloquy’s length, of the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, before the packed stalls and the respectful ‘gods’.
    â€˜When you feel the flames of Hell, friends, tearing at your heart, don’t say, “It’s too late”. Then’s the moment to come to Jesus, and oh, the balm of it and the peace.’
    The Assistant Commissioner wondered: Has