Джонатан Крейг - Manhunt. Volume 1, Number 12, December, 1953

Clifford was dumbfounded. He stood petrified, his arms and legs frozen into chunks of lead. His heart began a wild patter and a thin, acid fluid rose into his mouth. He realized, in a kind of daze, that they were being held up. This was so foreign to Clifford Leighton’s secure, routine existence that it took on all the aspects of a distorted dream.

The man prodded him again and his legs obediently carried him up against the stone wall that edged the sidewalk. The man’s free hand darted skillfully through Clifford’s pockets, relieving him of his billfold, watch and Woodmen of the World pin. All Clifford could do was stand there with his hands raised and clamp his teeth tightly together to keep them from rattling. Beryl stood off to one side with her finger tips up against her lips and her eyes about to pop out of her head.

The man looked at her again, then back at Clifford. Suddenly, he put the knife in the other hand and swung his right fist against Clifford’s jaw.

It was a totally unexpected blow. It struck Clifford’s chin, causing his head to bounce against the stone wall and he collapsed in a heap. He was not completely unconscious, but half-stunned and unable to coordinate his muscles. He was dimly aware that the man and Beryl were scuffling on the ground, nearby. Beryl was making stifled, whimpering sounds, as if she were trying to scream, but the man had his hand over her mouth. With great effort, Clifford rolled over so that he could get a better look at them. His head was buzzing and his eyes were out of focus. He heard cloth tear, and then he saw the pale gleam of Beryl’s thighs, exposed.

It dawned on him what was taking place. It was unbelievable, inconceivable. Things like this did not occur in this safe little town, to nice, respectable people like Clifford and Beryl Leighton.

He rose to his feet, drunkenly. Something greater than his own will powered his muscles. He towered over Beryl’s attacker and he got his hands around the man’s throat. The criminal came to a half-standing position, strangling and clawing at Clifford’s fingers. But Leighton held on stubbornly, digging them in deeper into the soft, yielding flesh. The man’s muscles exploded into a mighty spasm, but his frantic efforts did not dislodge the man who was strangling him. Clifford’s lips drew back from his teeth and something like an animal snarl came from his throat. The man’s struggles grew weaker, but Clifford held on, snarling and digging his fingers in deeper. Beryl was crouched near by, watching with horror-fascinated eyes. Her clothes had been torn nearly off her. As he was choking the man to death, Clifford Leighton glanced toward his half-naked wife. Something bright and hot came into his eyes. He continued to look at her long after the attacker had ceased to struggle beneath him. Long after she said, “He’s dead, Clifford. He’s dead. You’ve killed him...”

“Name?”

“Clifford Leighton.”

“Age?”

“Thirty-two.”

“Married?”

“Yes.”

“Occupation?”

“Office Manager.”

“Employer?”

“Allied Finance Company...”

He answered the necessary questions. The police filled out their forms. Routine stuff, they apologized. Everyone was solicitous, respectful. Beryl was whisked to a hospital for first aid treatment. She had not been harmed, merely frightened out of her wits, and shaken up.

They were taken home in a police car. The next day, there was a court where they had to appear. Clifford told his story. Beryl confirmed it. A policeman came in with a police record of the dead man. He read off the list of previous convictions and arrests with a bored voice. The whole thing was over in a few minutes. “Justifiable homicide,” was the verdict. Everybody shook Clifford’s hand. As they went home, people slapped Clifford’s back. At his office, the others looked at him with sudden new interest and respect. Imagine, a quiet, shy guy like Clifford Leighton. A Town Hero. There was a story about him in the paper that evening, how he’d saved his wife from an attacker.

Clifford went about his business in his quiet, unassuming way. He and Beryl talked, the night after it happened, and they agreed they should try and forget about it. Clifford had done the right thing. He had been brave, saving her that way and she was proud of him, Beryl said, but it was a morbid, ugly thing to happen to anybody and it would be best if they could quickly forget about it.

Clifford never said any more about it after that. A couple of weeks passed and people began forgetting it ever happened. Clifford didn’t talk about it. In fact, he didn’t talk about much of anything. He became even more taciturn and reserved. At times he would sit alone in the evenings, staring off into space for hours without uttering a syllable.

Otherwise, he went about the confines of his routine existence with little change. He arose at seven-thirty, took the bus to work, returned home at five-thirty and cut the grass or puttered about in the flower beds. Only one change was noticeable. Beryl, who had begun to sense the routine and boredom that had crept into their five-year-old marriage, was surprised and secretly pleased at a sudden renewal of his romantic interest in her. Their nights took on the roseate glow of a second honeymoon.

Clifford wasn’t sure just when he began having the Dream. Possibly three weeks or a month after the killing on Seventh Street. The first few times it was vague, growing into sharper focus until the final night, when he frightened Beryl half to death. That night, the dream started the usual way: Beryl was walking toward him through a mist. As she approached, her clothes dissolved until she was stripped. He moved in her direction with a quirt in his hands. She stood, waiting, head bowed, until he was close to her, and then he slashed her quivering flesh; she fell to her knees, screaming, and he threw the quirt away and reached for her throat. But he was not angry with her, in the dream. He kissed her while she was strangling.

Her screams shook him loose from the dream. The moonlight fell across their bed and her swollen, frightened face stared up at him, goggle-eyed. In a daze, he pried his fingers from her throat and sat up. Beryl, choking and coughing, scrambled out of the bed, snapped on a bedside lamp. She massaged her bruised throat, looking at him with frightened eyes.

Clifford looked away and gazed down at his sweat-drenched palms.

Beryl was very solicitous, the next few days. She told him that the killing was preying on his mind because he was a moral person. Even though he had been justified, he had taken a life and it was worrying him, subconsciously. She made him take her to a show, or have company over for bridge, every evening, to occupy his mind. She chattered constantly, brightly. The next week-end, they went to the coast for a little holiday.

They returned early Monday and Clifford was at work as usual, suntanned and apparently cheerful. But, that evening, he was behind the garage, sharpening the lawn-mower, when the neighborhood dog came running over, barking. Clifford reached for the animal and things dissolved in a haze. When it cleared, the dog was a limp form, its broken neck clenched in his hands. Quietly, he took out the shovel and buried the dog under a tree. He spoke little to Beryl that night. The next day, while sitting at his desk, working on some figures, he suddenly burst out crying. He put his head down on his arms and sobbed loudly. They took him to the hospital. The family doctor told Beryl that Clifford was suffering from a nervous breakdown and would have to have psychiatric care for a few weeks. She came to see him every day.

The psychiatrist asked Clifford many questions. Clifford couldn’t tell him too much. He would lie on the bed, staring at the ceiling and try to think about when he had been a little boy. It was hard to recall. He’d had a good mother, he remembered, who had protected him a lot because he had been a frail, small boy. The bullies had beaten him up often in school. He had grown afraid of them, afraid of all violence. He took part in few athletics. When the war came he was put in 4-F because, they told him, of nervous instability. He’d wondered if that had been another word for cowardice. He had always been a coward, he’d known, until that night on Seventh Street...