Weekend by William McIlvanney Page B

an animal but a scavenger. Something that haunts the edges of the kill. Feeding off the savagery of other creatures. Long before the advent of Hyde, Henry Jekyll (‘He was wild when he was young’) has come to acknowledge theanimal impulses in himself, to accept that ‘man is not truly one, but truly two’.
     
     
     
     
    Andrew Lawson’s voice made Marion think of herself. What she had done at the Free-for-all tonight had been like another person suddenly emerging from some hidden place in her to declare that this, as well, was Marion Gibson.
     
     
     
     
    Enter Edward Hyde. Like part of some unnatural compact between the jackal and the lion, personal purveyor of ferocities off which Henry Jekyll may feed. For Hyde is the animal almost, if not quite, pure. The truth is, just as Henry Jekyll is part social man, part bundle of asocial impulses, so Edward Hyde is hybrid too. The aftermath of the early incident of the trampling of the child shows that he can act with great social circumspection when necessary. The animality of his nature is diluted by social pressures. The loose entity that is Jekyll—Hyde is neither quite one thing nor the other – neither sheerly social man nor sheerly animal.
     
     
     
     
    It was a dead calm in the middle of a storm of words. He sensed her sitting behind him, watching. He told himself he must not get angry again.
    ‘I’m sorry about that,’ he said, as he unscrewed the bottle-top.
    She said nothing. He filled his glass. He turned and walked towards her with what he hoped was that expression of boyish shamefacedness women had innocently taught him they liked. He filled her glass. She watched him go back to the desk and put the top back on the bottle. He took his glass and went and sat on the bed again. He took a sip of wine. She studied him. He looked nice sitting there. She had enjoyed his anger, too. The flaring eyes. Those eyes.
    ‘You know,’ she said, ‘I think maybe I could get used to being with you.’ (For a few months anyway.)
    He smiled at the floor.
    ‘Same here,’ he said. ‘With you.’ (But a fakir gets used to a bed of nails.)
    He sighed.
    ‘The thing about it is,’ he said. ‘She didn’t want to come, you know.’
    ‘Sorry?’
    ‘Sandra. She didn’t want to come here. A place was arranged for her and everything. She was supposed to be coming. Then she reneged at the last minute.’
    His voice faded away but she recognised the bait it had left trailing behind it. She decided not to take it. Suddenly he wanted to talk about Sandra. That was dangerous. It was all right to demystify her sacred name but to make her a significant presence in the room with them would leave no space for herself. Digression time.
    ‘I can’t say I blame her.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘No, no. I can see how anybody would want to be with you. I just mean this place. Willowvale. It’s a crap place. A pile ofold rubble passing as a building. Why not bulldoze it and build a modern hotel?’
    ‘That’s a bit extreme.’
    ‘I don’t think so.’
    He was suddenly animated and looking at her directly. It was interesting how a neutral issue had reconnected them. With the image of Sandra out of the way, they could see each other clearly.
    ‘I heard so much about it,’ she said. Kate’s few references were hardly a history of the place but how was he to know? She decided to go for it. The more she talked, the quieter Sandra might be in his head. It was supposed to be an amazing place. I wasn’t at the lecture when Andrew Lawson told them about it. But now that I see the place, I’m glad. Kate Foster was full of it. Ghosts and crap. It’s just a place where the past keeps getting in the way. The plumbing sounds medieval. You know the male students don’t even have an en-suite? I don’t know why they put up with it. It’s a cranky place made by a crank. And gargoyles, for God’s sake. Have you seen them? What are they supposed to be? References from past guests? Photos from