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become
friendly
—the very word distressed him—with Anthony Johnson were forming in his mind. For in this way he might perhaps persuade Anthony Johnson to draw his curtains when his light was on, or provide himself with a Venetian blind as an ostensible heat-retaining measure (Stanley Caspian would never provide one) or even succeed—and this would take much subtle and weary work—in convincing him that he, Arthur, had some legitimate occupation in the cellar, developing photographs, for instance, or doing carpentry.
    But as he gathered up his laundry and stuffed it into the orange plastic carrier, he felt a fretful dismay. He didn’t want to get involved with the man, he didn’t want to get involved with anyone. How upsetting it was to have to
know
people, and how unnecessary it had been for twenty years!
       
The psychopath is asocial—more than that, he is in positive conflict with society. Atavistic desires and a craving for excitement drive him. Self-centred, impulsive, he disregards society’s taboos
.… Anthony had been making notes all the morning, but now as he heard Stanley Caspian leave the house, he laid down his pen. Was there any point in beginning on his thesis before he had attended that particular lecture on criminology? On the other hand, there was so little else to do. The music from upstairs, which had been hindering his concentration for the past half-hour, now ceased and two doors slammed. So far he had met none of the other tenants but Arthur Johnson and, as fresh sound broke out, he went into the hall.
    Two men were sitting on the stairs, presumably so that one of them, smallish with wild black hair, could do up his shoelaces. The other was chanting:
    “Then trust me, there’s nothing like drinking,
So pleasant on this side the grave.
    It keeps the unhappy from thinking,
And makes e’en the valiant more brave!”
    Anthony said hallo.
    His shoelaces tied, the small dark man came down the stairs, extended his hand and said in a facetious way, “Mr. Johnson, I presume?”
    “That’s right. Anthony. The ‘other’ Johnson.”
    This remark provoked laughter out of all proportion to its wit. “Put that on your doorbell, why don’t you? Brian Kotowsky at your service, and this is Jonathan Dean, the best pal a man ever had.”
    Another hand, large, red and hairy, was thrust out. “We are about to give our right arms some exercise in a hostelry known to its habituates as the Lily, and were you to …”
    “He means, come and have a drink.”
    Anthony grinned and accepted, although he was already wondering if he would regret this encounter. Jonathan Dean slammed the front door behind them and remarked that this would shake old Caspian’s ceilings up a bit. They crossed Trinity Road and entered Oriel Mews, a cobbled passage whose cottages had all been converted into small factories and warehouses. The cobbles were coated with a smelly patina of potato peelings and coffee grounds, spilt from piled rubbish bags.
    Anthony wrinkled his nose. “Have you lived here long?”
    “For ever and a day, but I’m soon to depart.”
    “Leaving me alone with that she-devil,” said Brian. “Without your moderating influence she’ll kill me, she’ll tear me to pieces.”
    “Very right and proper. All the best marriages are like that. Not beds of roses but fields of battle. Look at Tolstoy, look at Lawrence.”
    They were still looking at, and hotly discussing, Tolstoy and Lawrence, when they entered the Waterlily. It was crowded, smoky, and hot. Anthony bought the first round, the wisest measure if one wants to make an early escape. His tentative question had been intended as a preamble to another and now, in the first brief pause, he asked it.
    “What is there to do in this place?”
    “Drink,” said Jonathan simply.
    “I don’t mean in here. I mean Kenbourne Vale.”
    “Drink, dispute, make love.”
    “There’s the Taj Mahal,” said Brian. “It used to be called the Odeon but now it