‘Take off your coat,’ said Crimond. ‘You’re going to stay here a while longer. I don’t like to see you in that coat. Take it off.’
Duncan took off the overcoat which he had been wearing since his arrival. He did this because he now feared that Crimond might spring upon him and he did not want to be impeded by the coat. He also did it because he had begun to be afraid of Crimond. He thought, he’s mad, he might do anything. He threw the heavy coat onto the desk where it overturned the lamp. Crimond returned from the door and set the lamp upright.
Taking refuge from fear in anger, Duncan said, ‘This is false contemptible play-acting. You’re mad with spite because Jean left you. She found you mean and cruel, she found you boring. That’s what this is about.’
At this reference to Jean Crimond flushed, his pale face becoming suddenly crimson. But his expression did not alter. He said in a low voice, ‘How can you! Not that, not that!’
‘Open the door,’ said Duncan.
‘No, not yet,’ said Crimond, who seemed suddenly breathless. He pulled at his neck and dragged off the green scarf and let it fall on the floor. He said in the tone of someone offering a helpful explanation, ‘When I said “fight” I didn’t actually mean like that, I mean like we did once. I just want you to play – that game. I felt it was – appropriate – and that you would think so too.’
‘Game –?’
‘Yes. Like this.’ Crimond stepped forward. Duncan moved hastily back. But Crimond was reaching for an electric light switch. He turned the switch and the room was suddenly full of a cold clear light. Two neon strips across the ceiling flickered then lit again. Crimond opened a drawer in the desk to reveal two revolvers.
When he saw the guns Duncan understood the scene, he understood the significance of the two long tables set end to end. He felt a quick cold death terror, a heavy pain alienating his body. Then a weird excitement like a sexual stirring. He came forward almost with an air of curiosity. Crimond had placed the revolvers side by side on the table. He was pale again and put his hand to his throat, undoing another button on his shirt.
‘Smith and Wesson,’ said Duncan. ‘I suppose you got these in America?’
‘Yes.’
‘Single action.’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you still collect automatic pistols too?’
‘Not – collect –’ Crimond went to close the open door of the cupboard.
As this conversation proceeded Duncan thought about the hammer which was in the pocket of his overcoat on the desk. This now seemed like a dream weapon, something transparent to be wielded in slow motion. What fantasy of revenge had made him bring the thing, what was he supposing he would do with it, take Crimond unawares, as for instance when he had been closing the cupboard door, and smash him between the shoulders? He could not do it. At the tower he could afford to let his anger carry him away. Now he was older, older, and Crimond seemingly as young as ever. There was no question of punching, wrestling. Yet was the dream hammer more unreal than what appeared to be happening now? He thought to himself, it’s all make-believe, it must be. Jean said they did it for a joke with unloaded guns. Of course he wanted her to be frightened too. It’s the same now. Anyway the weight of the cartridge always takes the loaded chamber down to the bottom so there’s no risk, I’ve always known that. All the same, I won’t do it. Of course the man is crazy, perhaps desperate.
‘You see,’ said Crimond in a low conspiratorial voice, ‘what you said at the beginning wasn’t entirely off the point. There is – between us – something to be done – something to be finished with – if we are not to go on obsessively thinking about each other for the rest of our lives, which I believe you would agree would be a sad waste of our time and energy. We want to be free of each other, yes? That was the psychology of duelling in the old days after all. Call what is necessary, if you like, an exorcism, a symbolic release. I want this, I need this, and I think that you, if you are honest, want it and need it too.’
‘I’d like to kill you, if that’s what you mean,’ said Duncan. ‘But I’m not interested in your symbolism. If it’s symbolic it’s not serious, and if it’s serious it’s not what I want either. I certainly don’t want you to kill me! Why should I play your game? I won’t.’
‘You will,’ said Crimond.
Duncan hesitated, actually wondering whether he had now the strength to walk to the door and rattle the handle until Crimond deigned to open it. Would that be what happened? Could Crimond force him to ‘play’ by making some awful humiliation the alternative? Could it happen like that a third time? Suppose he had to beg Crimond to let him go? Duncan, who had imagined all kinds of complicated traps, had let himself be caught in the simplest. Also however, and this dangerous thought strengthened his hesitation, he saw Crimond’s point, and its meeting with his point. Something had to be done, to be finished, oh to finish with Crimond! Could this be done except by killing him? This was a question Duncan had often asked himself, but only as a rhetorical question commanding the answer no. Now common sense, suddenly entering through some amazing hole in the mad argument, informed Duncan that if he did ever actually kill Crimond he would be even, infinitely, more tied to him than he was at present. Duncan, in his ‘speech’, had suggested a symbolic solution to the problem, even that the problem was already solved. He had spoken impromptu under a particular emotional pressure and with an immediate end in view, to escape quickly from a situation into which he should never have entered. Whether he could believe that that solution would have worked seemed an academic question now that Crimond had proposed a far more radical, so perhaps more efficacious, cure. Would a symbolic killing, at the cost of exposing himself to Crimond’s anger, bring about the desired freedom? Duncan was attracted, as Crimond had no doubt calculated that he would be, by Crimond’s formulation. They were, as things stood now, bound to each other as men who, clasped together as each tries to drown the other, both drown.
Crimond, having pushed the guns aside, was now sitting on the table watching Duncan. He said, ‘Yes?’ It sounded almost like a sexual invitation.
‘Describe your game,’ said Duncan.
Crimond gave a long sigh.
Duncan, feeling himself entangled, indeed entangling himself, thought, as a rearguard support to what happened to be his decision, that of course Crimond, following the same chain of argument which Duncan had just followed, would not really want to kill Duncan! The extreme solution would not be a solution. What was required was an extreme symbolism. That’s what made the Greeks write tragedies, Duncan found himself thinking. I’ll tell that to Gerard one day. He also found himself thinking that if he left now, even if he were able to do so with dignity, he would regret this last chance for the rest of his life. Well, that was like sex too.
‘It’s very simple,’ said Crimond, ‘and traditional. Each gun has, out of six chambers, one loaded. We face each other, one at each end of the room, we spin and fire.’
‘We fire at each other.’
‘Of course, it’s not a suicide pact. And of course we must aim to kill. It’s not all that easy to be sure of killing someone even at this distance unless one is very experienced with firearms, which fortunately you are. You are familiar with this type of gun of course. Remember it’s very light on the trigger.’
‘Yes, yes. How many times do we fire?’
‘I envisaged twice, that is assuming… But as many times as you like.’
‘Twice, all right.’
‘A shot which is not properly aimed is not counted.’
‘Agreed.’ He thought, we are both mad! What sort of conversation is this?
‘Another thing, which I hope you will approve of. For absolute fairness the chambers must be of equal weight, otherwise, as we all know, the loaded one tends to descend. I have therefore tamped some spent cartridges with lead, making them the same weight as live cartridges, and put them in the other five chambers. Look.’
Crimond broke open one of the guns and thrust
it towards Duncan.
‘Fine, fine.’ Duncan waved it away.
‘Would you like to examine the guns?’
‘No. Let’s get on.’ It would be indelicate to examine the guns especially if, as he was assuming, neither was loaded!
‘We had better toss for position, though there’s no difference in the light, and of course for who fires first.’
Duncan brought a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Crimond. Crimond said, ‘Who wins has the target end.’ Duncan said ‘Heads.’ Crimond tossed the coin, it fell heads. Crimond handed the coin back to Duncan. Duncan said, ‘Who wins fires first.’ Crimond said ‘Tails.’ Duncan tossed the coin, it fell tails. Crimond placed the guns on the tables, one at each end of the room.
After that they stood still, looking at each other. Duncan could feel his heart beating, his hands sweating. He could hear his breath and Crimond’s breath. Was this a moment at which perhaps… ?
Crimond said in the same soft silky almost ingratiating voice which he had used in the later part of their conversation, ‘Of course, if we had seconds, which we have not, it would be their duty at this point to ask us both if the engagement was really necessary, if we could not agree, even at this late stage, not to fight. Should we not, in order to make this event crystal clear, act now as our own seconds?’
For a moment Duncan wondered: is this what it’s all for? Did he mount the whole play in order to end it like this? He felt angry and also appalled at this sudden last-minute opening, when he had thought to be finished with decisions. ‘That would amount to a reconciliation. No. Certainly not. You know that is impossible.’
‘As you wish,’ said Crimond, bowing his head slightly.
‘Well, as you wish too, presumably?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then we need wait no longer.’
Crimond was staring at Duncan with a new intentness. He said, ‘That left eye of yours, it’s got an odd look. Is your vision all right?’
‘With these glasses, perfect.’ Duncan, who had been unaware of his glasses, suddenly took them off. He stared at Crimond with his vulnerable unassisted eyes and thought, we’ve been looking at each other, which we haven’t done since then.
Duncan put on his glasses again. He took off his tie and his jacket and threw them on top of his overcoat on the desk, and unbuttoned the top buttons of his shirt. Crimond took off his jacket and dropped it on the floor. He undid another button on his shirt and felt about at his throat. We are undressing, thought Duncan, as if we were going to bed. It’s all mad, mad. Oh would it were over.
He turned away from Crimond and walked to the far end of the room and stood beneath the target. Crimond placed a revolver in front of him on the table. Duncan thought, if either of us hits a live one it’ll make a hell of a row. One can’t use a gun like this properly with a silencer anyway. We haven’t discussed what we’re going to do if anything happens. Suppose one of us is horribly wounded. But nothing like that is going to happen. So there was no need for the discussion.
Crimond had reached the other end of the room. Duncan said, ‘You can unlock the door now.’
Crimond unlocked the door.
Duncan stood without touching his gun. He rolled up the sleeves of his shirt. He saw Crimond outlined by the door. What am I going to do? I shall have to decide.
‘Are we to begin then?’ said Crimond.
‘Yes. You first I believe.’
‘Yes.’
There was a faint sound. Duncan realised that Crimond had instantly lifted his gun and spun the cylinder and pulled the trigger. Nothing there.
Duncan felt, with relief, an extraordinary euphoria, and a certainty that he would be all right, it was indeed a game, a ritual, an exorcism. He had been so wise not to ignore Crimond’s invitation, not to funk the meeting, not to evade the rite. He lifted his gun, broke it and spun the cylinder, closed it. As soon as his hand touched the handle an old sensation, something he had not experienced for years, took possession of his whole body: a sensation of power and a demand for accuracy. He held the gun carefully in one hand and aimed it at the centre of Crimond’s forehead. The very centre, the target. As he stood he could see also, to the right of Crimond’s head, a sort of white mark on the door. The door was blue, the colour vividly emerging in the brilliant neon light. Crimond, motionless, was framed in the blue door. This is my first shot, thought Duncan, Crimond can shoot again too. Even if we wanted to kill each other it would be quite difficult. There can be terrible wounds which are worse than death. But wasn’t that what I wanted when I brought that hammer with me? Suppose I were to aim at his right shoulder? For a second he kept the gun steady, holding the sights level at Crimond’s forehead. With this gun and even at this distance there was no such thing as accuracy. Duncan felt a physical spasm and a sense of darkness as if he might faint. Simply in this second to hold Crimond at his mercy was the consummation of the ritual. Nothing more was needed. With the slightest movement he shifted the gun and aimed at the white mark on the door, tensing his fingers on the trigger.
Then, hearing it distantly as in a dream, Duncan heard the odd, the amazing, sound of someone’s feet on the stairs outside. The sound of approaching feet and then a voice that cried out, ‘David! David!’ The door was flying open and instead of the blue rectangle Jenkin Riderhood stood there, emerged from the darkness of the stairs. Duncan, in the very moment of firing, adjusted his aim. The report, echoing in the enclosed room, was deafening. Another sound, a heavy thudding noise, was almost instantaneous. Duncan dropped the gun and put his hand to his head. Jenkin was not there, there was only the open doorway. Duncan walked slowly down the room. Jenkin was lying on the floor on his back. There was a neat red hole in the centre of his forehead in exactly the place at which Duncan had aimed when he was aiming at Crimond. Jenkin was clearly dead. His eyes were open and his face expressed surprise. Duncan closed the door.
Looking back later on what happened next Duncan was amazed at his own cold-blooded coolness. It was clear to him at once that, out of an unimaginable terrible, horrible catastrophe some things at least could be salvaged by swift intelligent action. A strange, weird, uncanny aspect of the situation – and Duncan recalled that he had felt it like that at a time when there were so many things to feel – was that Crimond began instantly, silently, to weep, and continued to shed streaming tears throughout the scene that followed.
Duncan thought, he reflected. He said to Crimond, ‘We must explain this as an accident. Of course it is an accident. But how? What’s the best story? Let’s say we were shooting at the target and he got in the way. That’s the best I can think of now, at least it’s simple. Look, help me, we’ll pull him down to the far end, near the target. Just as well there’s so little blood.’
Duncan began to pull Jenkin’s body by the legs. Crimond did not help, but walked beside him, weeping, as Duncan dragged the thing into position near the target. Crimond then went back to the bed and sat down on it and gave himself up to silent crying, his hands in front of his face.
Duncan pushed the two tables up against the wall. He even picked up some books and put them on the tables.
He said to Crimond, ‘Shall I ring the police or will you?’
Crimond did not reply, continuing to shed tears. Duncan saw his tears, from his bent head, falling to the floor.
It was only at that moment that it occurred to Duncan that he didn’t have to stay there. He could simply vanish.
Duncan picked up his jacket and his tie and put them on. He put on his overcoat, stuffing the gloves well down into the pockets. It took him a moment to realise what the hammer was when he touched it. He said to Crimond, ‘You must telephone the police. I don’t have to be involved. You understand? I wasn’t here. You’re the one who’s got to explain. Just stick to the story, it was an accident, he got in the way. Do you hear, do you understand? I’m going, I was never here at all.’
Crimond did not respond. Duncan stood still, trying to think. What else must he d
o? Something about guns, fingerprints. He took out his gloves and put them on, then picked up the gun which he had fired, broke it, and poured out the contents of the cylinder onto the table. One spent cartridge and five duds. He replaced the spent cartridge in the blackened chamber, then carefully cleaned the handle of the gun with his handkerchief. He took the gun to Crimond and held it out to him, holding it by the barrel. Crimond automatically took it and laid it down on the floor. Duncan repeated the process. Crimond took the gun, held it a moment in his palm, then put it down. He paid no attention to Duncan, did not look up. Duncan decided to leave the gun on the floor near Crimond’s feet. He turned his attention to the other gun, broke it and up-ended the cylinder. He shook it. Nothing came out. He looked at the gun. The chambers were all empty. He said to himself, I’ll think about that later. He put the gun away in the cupboard, which also contained an automatic pistol. He thought, is that everything? No. The five dud cartridges were lying on the table. Crimond had made them carefully, cutting the lead and pressing it in, so that the contest would be fair. Duncan thought, he won’t be able to explain those, I’d better take them with me. He put them in his pocket.
He went to Crimond and shook him, seizing him by the shoulders and pulling him violently to and fro. Crimond raised his head and put out a weak hand to push Duncan’s grip away. Duncan shouted at him, ‘I’m going now. I wasn’t here. You shot him by accident, he got in the way. Just think what happened, picture it. Then ring the police, ring them soon. Do you understand me?’