Эд Макбейн - Learning to Kill - Stories

There has to be a way out, he thought. There has to be some way. A way other than the one... the one...

“Have you ever thought of quitting this job, Jonas?”

“No, Mrs. Hicks,” he lied.

“That’s sensible, you know. Not quitting, I mean. It wouldn’t be wise for you to quit, would it, Jonas? Aside from the salary, I mean, which is rather handsome, wouldn’t you say, Jonas.”

“It’s a handsome salary,” he said.

“Yes. But aside from that, aside from losing the salary if you quit. I wouldn’t like you to quit, Jonas. I would let Mr. Hicks know of my displeasure, and my husband is really quite a powerful man, you know that, don’t you?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“It might be difficult for you to get work afterwards, I mean if you ever decided to leave me. Heaven knows, there’s not much work for Bahamians as it is. And Mr. Hicks is quite powerful, knowing the governor and all, isn’t that right, Jonas?”

When he did not answer, she giggled suddenly.

“Oh, we’re being silly. You like the job, and I like you, so why should we talk of leaving?” She paused. “Has my husband gone to the club?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

“Good,” she said. “Come do my hair, Jonas.”

“I...”

“Come do my hair,” she said slowly and firmly.

“Y... yes, Mrs. Hicks.”

She held out the brush to him, and he took it and then placed himself behind her chair. He could see her face in the mirror of the dressing table, could see the clean sweep of her throat, and beneath that the first rise of her breasts where the neck of the gown ended. She tilted her head back and her eyes met his in the mirror.

“Stroke evenly now, Jonas. And gently. Remember. Gently.”

He began stroking her hair. He watched her face as he stroked, not wanting to watch it, but knowing that he was inside the trap now, and knowing that he had to watch her face, had to watch her lips part as he stroked, had to watch the narrowing of those green eyes. Every morning, every morning the same thing, every morning driving him out of his mind with her body and her glances, always daring him, always challenging him, and always reminding him that it could not be. He stroked, and her breath came faster in her throat, and he watched the animal pleasure on her face as the brush bristles searched her scalp.

And as he stroked, he thought again of the only way out, and he wondered if he had the courage to do it, wondered if he could ever muster the courage to stop all this, stop it finally and irrevocably. She counted softly as he stroked, and her voice was a whisper, and he continued to think of what he must do to end it, and he felt the great fear within him, but he knew he could not take much more of this, not every morning, and he knew he could not leave the job because she would make sure there would never be work for him again.

But even knowing all this, the way out was a drastic one, and he wondered what it would be like without her hair to brush every morning, without the sight of her body, without the soft caress of her voice.

Death, he thought.

Death.

“That’s enough, Jonas,” she-said.

He handed her the brush. “I’ll tell the cook, Mrs. Hicks, to...”

“No, stay.”

He looked at her curiously. She always dismissed him after the brushing. Her eyes always turned cold and forbidding then, as if she’d had her day’s sport and was then ready to end the farce... until the next morning.

“I think something bit me yesterday. An insect, I think,” she said. “I wonder if you’d mind looking. You natives... what I mean, you’d probably be familiar with it.”

She stood up and walked toward him, and then she began unbuttoning the yoke neck of her gown. He watched her in panic, not knowing whether to flee or stand, knowing only that he would have to carry out his plan after this, knowing that she would go further and further unless it were ended, and knowing that only he could end it, in the only possible way open for him.

He watched her take the hem of her gown in her fingers and pull it up over her waist. He saw the clean whiteness of her skin, and then she pulled the gown up over her back, turning, her breasts still covered, bending.

“In the center of my back, Jonas, do you see it?”

She came closer to him. He was wet with perspiration now. He stared at her back, the fullness of her buttocks, the impression of her spine against her flesh.

“There’s... there’s nothing, Mrs. Hicks,” he said. “Nothing.”

She dropped the gown abruptly, and then turned to face him, the smile on her mouth again, the yoke of the gown open so that he could see her breasts plainly.

“Nothing?” she asked, smiling. “You saw nothing, Jonas?”

“Nothing, Mrs. Hicks,” he said, and he turned and left her, still smiling, her hands on her hips.

He slit his wrists with a razor blade the next morning. He watched the blood stain the sand on the beach he’d always kept so clean, and he felt a strange inner peace possess him as the life drained out of him.

The native police did not ask many questions when they arrived, and Mrs. Hicks did not offer to show them her torn and shredded nightgown, or the purple bruises on her breasts and thighs.

She hired a new caretaker that afternoon.

This little story by Richard Marsten appeared in Manhunt in 1953. There is little to say about it except that it is a quintessential Innocent Bystander story — and it still remains one of my favorites.

It was the next poor bastard who got it.

You must understand, first, that the sun was very hot on that day and Miguel had been working in it from just after dawn. He had eaten a hearty breakfast, and then had taken to the fields early, remembering what had to be done and wanting to do it quickly.

There were many rocks among the beans that day, and perhaps that is what started it all. When Miguel discovered the first rock, he reached down gingerly and tossed it over his shoulder to the rear of his neat rows of beans. The sun was still not high in the sky and the earth had not yet begun to bake, and so a smile worked its way over his brown features as he heard the rock thud to the soft earth behind. He started hoeing again, thinking of Maria and the night before.

He would never regret having married Maria. Jesus, she was a one! There was the passion of the tigress in her, and the energy of the rabbit. He thought again of her, straightening up abruptly, and feeling the ache in his back muscles.

That was when he saw the second rock.

He shrugged, thinking, Dios, another one!

He lifted it, threw it over his shoulder, and began hoeing again. He was surprised when he came across more rocks. At first he thought someone had played a joke on him, and he pulled his black brows together, wondering who it could have been. Juan, that pig? Felipe, that animal with the slobbering lips? Pablo?

Then he remembered that it had rained the night before, and he realized that the waters had washed the soil clean, exposing the rocks, bringing them to the surface.

He cursed himself for not having thought to protect the beans in some way. Then he cursed the rocks. And since the sun was beginning to climb in the sky, he cursed that too, and got to work.

The rocks were not heavy. They were, in fact, rather small.

It was that there were very many of them. He picked them up painstakingly, tossing them over his shoulders. How could a man hoe his beans when the rows were full of rocks? He started to count them, stopping at ten because that was as far as he knew how to count, and then starting with one all over again.

The sun was very hot now. The hoe lay on the ground, the rich earth staining its long handle. He kept picking up the rocks, not looking up now, swearing softly, the sweat pouring down his neck and back. When a long shadow fell over the land before him, he almost didn’t notice it.