he got what she wanted . by Nigel Morland . he was haunted by an income-tax man - and she by desire . the years have passed at times like beads told by ancient fumbling fingers ; in other moods I have seen those years race , tearing out of my uncertain grasp , leaving me with a sense of time laughing at me . but time in its flight has no pity , nor have the skies mercy . I have tried to flee my twin devils only to see them running at my side , pacing me with nonchalant disinterest , neither mocking nor savage , just there . they stay , impalpable , inflexible , constant , yet beyond reach as a man &apos;s shadow . and when did it actually start ? the first frail tendons of misery wrapped round me unseen tentacles as tenuous as the first shoots of a malignant tumour which remains unknown &amp;hellip; and triumphant on the day the surgeon &apos;s knife finds it and is defeated by it . it grew round me like that , sheltering in my sense of shame , overwhelming me until I could do nothing , bringing with it a resurgent second devil , one I thought I had lost . a monstrous towering pair , the hunger and the thirst , the unfilled , the unslaked &amp;hellip; . but autobiography is apt to run amok with a writer &apos;s sense of drama , for I am , indeed , a writer by trade : were I on my death-bed , as well I might be , my pen would record the moments as the self-experimental researcher notes his symptoms . writing is surely nothing but the tape recorder of its creator . he might hide , with thin furtiveness , behind the hedge of fiction , yet , nevertheless , all writing is merely the writer playing to the audience of himself , abject before the rowdy despot of the subconscious mind . I write because I must , write as Dr Jekyll might have written when Mr Hyde was absent . but I have no doubts of my closeness to my Mr Hyde . I am both a human being and the devil &apos;s cherished , indissolvably one in an unending oneness . when I look round and see my friends , such as they are , and when I think on them I am lost in a sense of wonder . they see me as I see myself now in the mirror on the far side of this table at which I am writing . ordinary ? indeed so . a slightly built man of medium height ; slim , rather feminine hands , small feet and good bones . my face is simply that , the epitome of John Doe : quiet blue eyes , dark hair and what the nice-minded call pleasing features . a man , a passable , civilised , modest man of perhaps forty . obviously cleanly ; obviously of good parentage and of good education . those who attend to my wants call me sir and I treat them fairly ; head waiters are polite to me . my friends see all that in me , too . Frank Damon ? so they would answer an enquiry , old Frank ? lord , yes , a nice chap . quiet , you know . good company over a drink and a useful man at bridge and tennis . writes , you know - here that inevitable apologetic English chuckle - and good at political stuff . thrillers as well . here the amused smiles . never read the things myself , of course ! but they must be good . he makes money . old Frank , and I look in the mirror at old Frank , one invisible devil on each shoulder . I always did like political science , but thrillers pay , not that I really need it . I use a pseudonym , John Laker Considine ( carefully chosen , that - Carr , Chandler , Charteris , Cheyney , Christie ; and Considine fits neatly in the middle on the shelves , picking up some reflected glory ) . you know my characters ? Dr Malobo ? the red aces of justice ? Rafferty of Scotland Yard ? colourful stuff , wild , and perhaps melodramatic , but impervious to my devils . John Laker Considine and his bright jackets . poor old shadow ! piling up wilderness of escapism for those who would flee themselves . and behind this veritable escapist stands his alter ego , the substantial presence of Frank Damon , old Frank , the nice chap who would give everything in his world , unto the clothes he wears , to become John Laker Considine who dwells in his one-dimensioned pseudonymous world . out of the windows of my gracious study I can look across my small garden , backing on this house my family left me , and becoming Hyde Park . on the other side , the front of the house , is the rear of Knightsbridge . a noble and valuable house , big for a solitary man , and one that I love . however , I digress . with my ballpoint in my hand and my thoughts arrayed , my greater morbidities shrink back though they do not leave me entirely , even with the spring brightness of Hyde Park to delight my eyes . brightness in nature in no way detracts from my devils . the one , the older one , I endured and continue to endure though its continuation shocked me ; the second devil came on me a year after Dunkirk , over a decade ago ; it was the more awful of the pair . fortunately it was in London in the chaos of war with bombs turning civic life to ruin . I was able to disappear , for money I had and I was able to buy oblivion and secrecy . that second devil came on me so stealthily that I did not believe it at first ; then I shrank back affrighted , crushed , nauseated . I had to bear it alone - and it is only now , thinking on it all , that I understand how the leper must feel . my mother and father died before the second world war broke out ; they left me this house in which I have returned to live again , and they left me money . writing I took up as a release from myself , and as a means to power without visibility - a purely morbid passion ! yet I always require anonymity . that is easily found in London . the world and the people I knew before Dunkirk went with those same tides of war which washed smooth the sands of my acquaintance , enabling me to start again . so , too , went Mary Damon . the world had no need to recall her at all , for those same tides had washed her away as well . but this little man must come enquiring . a troublesome little man , seemingly as harmless as a fly on the wall : brownish - hair , skin , eyes - and slight . not young , and sadly dressed , with fraying cuff edges and a dusty old hat , a man you could see with a cake and a glass of milk in a cheap restaurant , a man no one would ever notice , wholly a human zero except , perhaps , in his name - Arthur George Zink . he was here last week , enquiring so mildly , blinking at me from behind his thick spectacles , affable , self-effacing , desiring not to trouble me , enquiring for Mary Damon , apologising for bothering me , gentle , kindly Arthur George Zink - as weakly persistent as a dripping tap , so damnably , politely , endlessly persistent ! I see the tremendous juggernauts of bureaucracy hauled by regiments of Arthur George Zinks , little men and even little women at their eternal writing , making their entries , adding their sums , putting one and one together , until a total must emerge . and asking questions , unavoidable questions , persistently , persistently &amp;hellip; . the inspector &apos;s glare was ferocious . you think that , sir ? he put both hands on the desk , leaning forward to tower over the plump amiability of Superintendent Leeds . it &apos;s the fifth one - do n&apos;t forget it . Leeds beamed at Detective-Inspector Chater . because they had become friends when they met as uniformed probationers on their two basic years , they usually forgot rank when alone . you &apos;re letting the thing infuriate you , Tom - Chater threw up his arms and sat down , placated by the use of his Christian name . naturally I &apos;m a trifle distrait . he glared . five kidnappings and five kids returned without a hair of their dear little heads being harmed , without a single mother screaming blue murder after the first knowledge of the thing - Chater jerked a thumb to indicate all New Scotland Yard . the pundits must be delighted . they are indeed . Leeds flapped his hands at the lean black highland fury of his friend . but I &apos;m your super , old boy . will n&apos;t the mothers say a thing ? you can tell me . tush ! compounding , dammit ! and do they care ? Chater sniffed . ach ! and how can I move ? I can n&apos;t even prove they &apos;ve paid or how much or where . women ! kids all right , I s&apos;pose ? I &apos;ve got my methods in finding out . aye , they &apos;re bonny . clean , well-fed , cared for , happy as Larry . I &apos;ve known a few kidnappings but none like this . and why will n&apos;t the mothers talk ? what &apos;s behind it ? can n&apos;t you get one of the Yanks to come across and help us ? they &apos;re used to the snatch racket . Leeds grimaced . now , Tom . we &apos;re in a cleft stick , you know it . nobody &apos;s complained , at least the complaints &apos;ve been withdrawn as soon as made . we can n&apos;t prove anything , or even how the money passed - there &apos;s such a thing as compounding - be quiet , Tom . it &apos;d be a hellish charge to get across in court . can you see the Attorney-General &apos;s face if he was asked to support a charge against a mother for compounding when her child has been kidnapped and she wanted it back ? Leeds leaned forward . Tom , get the bastard , will you ? apart from everything else , it &apos;s a dirty business . Chater snorted irately . but this is not work . I have the newest adventure of Dr Malobar to finish , a matter of ten thousand words , yet I find essays at autobiography so fascinating , the ancient principle of confession being good for the soul ! it may be . it is also a minor antidote to devils . I am feeling clearer in mind , more comfortable . there is the Malobar manuscript to fetch . I am old-fashioned in that I write in longhand , for my mind constructs and perfects the next sentence while I am still writing . the folder of manuscript lives in the built-in cupboard in the bedroom , for no sensible reason . when I opened the door and bent to pick up the folder , a wave of nostalgia swept over me . not for months had it happened . perhaps the spring air intensified the deep scent of gardenia , that well-remembered scent . all carefully preserved , hanging there , the outer world of Mary Damon &amp;hellip; there was the coral taffeta with the full skirt , the brown check suit - a costly article - bought in Bond Street , and the ivory satin cloak that had gone to all the best theatres in London . there was the fur coat - Persian lamb , a most expensive thing , costly , too , but I saw it as hateful , for only the other day I read of what happens to those small lambs &amp;hellip; . I touched garment after garment , each fashioned article had a memory a decade old , a story , an appeal , and each reached out to me , disturbing me , hurting - me , a man , a writer of bloodthirsty tales , John Laker Considine , no less ! but the requested danegeld was paid in the coinage of uneasy recollection which memory demanded . I was a fool , a thrice damned fool to keep these things here , a stupid danger in their way , yet I could do nothing , could not get rid of them any more than could a mother throw away the relics of a dead child . five children kidnapped - and no clue to the guilty . then it began worrying me again , that probing little man , that subtle and insinuating Zink . a wholly absurd name which comes dangerously close to Mary &amp;hellip; . God forbid that he can disinter her , yet in a most shocking sense he can do that if he comes too close , and then ? these morbid thoughts did not help me . I thrust the pen at the paper , back again at my table , and thought of Dr Malobar , the tall man with the dramatic green eyes seemed to tower over the whole room , a growing domination of terror . there it stopped , a hiatus which remained . it was no use trying ; I could not write . that brownish little man of the frayed cuffs and the dusty hat would not leave my mind . 