Дональд Уэстлейк - Collected Stories

He came almost to believe that the Listener really existed. At times, he would stop suddenly and turn to the right, meaning to explain a point he thought might be obscure, and he would be shocked, for just a second, to find that no one was there. But then he would remember, and laugh at his foolishness, and walk on, continuing to speak.

Slowly, the Listener took on dimension. Slowly, it became a woman, and then a young woman, who listened attentively and appreciatively to what he had to say. She still had no appearance, no particular hair color, shape of face, no voice, but he did give her a name, Doreen. Doreen Palmer, the woman he had never met, had always wanted to meet.

She grew more rapidly. He realized one day that she had honey-colored hair, rather long, and that it waved back gracefully from her head when the breeze blew across the island from the sea. It came to him that she had blue eyes, round and intelligent and possessing great depths, deeper even than the ocean. He understood that she was four inches shorter than he, five foot three, and that she had a sensuous but not overly voluptuous body and dressed in a white gown and green sandals. He knew that she was in love with him, because he was brave and strong and interesting.

But he still wasn’t completely mad, not yet. Not until the day he first heard her voice.

It was a beautiful voice, clear and full and caressing. He had said, “A man alone is only half a man,” and she replied, “you aren’t alone.”

In the first honeymoon of his insanity, life was buoyant and sweet. Over and over, he recited the completed chapters of his book to her, and she would interrupt, from time to time, to tell him how fine it was, to raise her head and kiss him, her honey-blonde hair falling about her shoulders, to squeeze his hand and tell him that she loved him. They never talked about his life before he had come to the island, the incandescent office and the ruled and rigid ledgers.

They walked together, and he showed her the island, every grain of sand, every branch of every tree, every bush and bird. He showed her how he killed the birds, and how he kept the fire going, because he only had eight matches. And when the infrequent storms came, whipping the island in their insensate rages, she huddled close to him in the lean-to he had built, her blonde hair soft against his cheek, her breath warm against his neck, and they would wait out the storm, their arms clasped tightly about each other, their eyes staring at the guttering fire, hoping and hoping that it wouldn’t be blown out.

Twice it was, and he had to use precious matches to start it going again. But they reassured each other both times, saying that next time the fire would be more fully protected and would not go out.

One day, as he was talking to her, reciting the last chapter he had so far finished of the book, she said, “You haven’t written any more in a long while. Not since I first came here.”

He stopped, his train of thought broken, and realized that what she had said was true. He told her, “I will start the next chapter today.”

“I love you,” she answered.

But he couldn’t seem to get the next chapter started. He didn’t want to start another chapter, really. He wanted to recite for her the chapters he had already completed.

She insisted that he start a new chapter, and for the first time since she had come to join him, he left her. He walked away, to the other end of the island, and sat there, staring out at the ocean.

She came to him after a while and begged his forgiveness. She pleaded with him to recite the earlier chapters of the book once more, and finally he took her in his arms and forgave her.

But she brought the subject up again, and again, more sternly each time, until finally one day he snapped at her, “Don’t nag me!” and she burst into tears.

They were getting on each other’s nerves, he realized that, and he slowly came to realize, too, that Doreen was coming to behave more and more like his mother, the only woman he had ever really known. She was possessive, as his mother had been, never letting him alone for a minute, never letting him go off by himself so he could think in peace. And she was demanding, as his mother had been, insisting that he show ambition, that he return to work on the book. He almost felt she wanted him to be just a clerk again.

They argued violently, and one day he slapped her, as he had never dared to do to his mother. She looked shocked, and then she wept, and he apologized, kissing her hands, kissing her cheek where the red mark of his hand stood out like fire against her skin, running his fingers through the softness of her hair, and she told him, in a subdued voice, that she forgave him.

But things were never again the same. She became more and more shrewish, more and more demanding, more and more like his mother. She had even started to look something like his mother, a much younger version of his mother, particularly in her eyes, which had grown harder and less blue, and in her voice, which was higher now and more harsh.

He began to brood, to be secretive, to keep his thoughts to himself and to not speak to her for hours at a time. And when she would interrupt his thoughts, either to gently touch his hand as she had used to do or, more often now, to complain that he wasn’t doing any work on his book, he would think of her bitterly as an invader, as an interloper, as a stranger. Bitterly, he would snap at her to leave him alone, to stay away from him, to leave him in peace. But she would never leave.

He wasn’t sure when the thought of murder first came to his mind, but once there, it stayed. He tried to ignore it, tried to tell himself that he wasn’t the type of person who committed murder. He was a bookkeeper, a small and mild and silent man, a calm and passive man.

But he wasn’t that at all, not any more. He was an adventurer, a roamer of the sea, a dweller in the middle of the Pacific, envied by all the poor and pathetic bookkeepers in all the incandescent offices in the world. And he was, he knew now, quite capable of murder.

Day and night he thought about it, sitting before the tiny fire, staring into its flames and thinking about the death of Doreen. And she, not knowing his thoughts, not knowing how dangerous her actions were, continued to nag him, continued to demand that he work on the book. She took to watching the fire, snapping at him to bring more bark, more wood, not to let the fire go out as he had done the last two times, and he raged at the viciousness and unfairness of the charge. The storms had put the fire out, not he. But, she answered, the storm wouldn’t have put the fire out had he paid it the proper attention.

Finally, he could stand it no longer. In their earlier, happier days, they had often gone swimming together, staying near the shore for fear of sharks and other dangerous animals that might be out in the deeper water. They hadn’t swum together for a long time, and one day, casually and cunningly, he suggested that they take up the practice again.

She agreed at once, and they stripped together and ran into the water, laughing and splashing one another as though they were still lovers and still delighted with one another. He ducked her, as he had done in the old days, and she came up laughing and spluttering. He ducked her again, and this time he held her under. She fought him, when she realized his intentions, but he felt the new muscles in his arms grow taut, and he held her in a terrible grip, keeping her underwater until her struggles grew feebler and feebler and finally subsided. He then released her, and watched the ebb and flow of the waves carry her body out to sea, the honey-blonde hair swaying in the water, the blue eyes closed, the soft body lying limp in the water. He stumbled back to the beach, shaken and exhausted, and collapsed on the sand.