Willem Hermans - The Darkroom of Damocles

Osewoudt left the wood and sprinted in a wide arc across the potato field towards the house. He looked over his shoulder: the man was obviously still accompanying the girl and the child. Osewoudt trained his eyes on the windows, but could only make out the shapes of furniture inside. None of the windows had net curtains. The bungalow’s name, De Hazenwal, was painted on the façade. Suddenly he noticed that the place was less isolated than he had thought. To the left, beyond the wasteland, was a farm; a white cow grazed nearby.

Miraculously, he made no sound as he advanced. Just as well there was no gravel surrounding the house. No effort had been made to create a garden, either. The house stood in the middle of a stretch of heath, which was only worn away in the immediate vicinity.

He had seen them emerge from behind the house, so there had to be a door there, probably to the kitchen. There was also a shed at the rear, he now noticed. Having come this far he could see the entire rear of the house. The eaves came low over a door, which was open. He ran to it. When he stepped inside, the kitchen seemed dark; all he saw was the light of a paraffin stove, then a woman turning to face him. Before she could make a sound she was on her knees. He held the back of her head by the hair and broke her neck on the edge of the draining board. Then he let her fall to the floor. A door stood open. He came into an unlit passage. This passage led to a small space that served as a hallway, because the front door was at the end. He posted himself by the door. It wasn’t a proper front door; it had six small panels of glass, like the other doors in the house. No net curtain here either. Osewoudt looked outside, but the man was still nowhere to be seen. Would he be going all the way to the station with his boy and the youth leader? Plenty of time either way to get the woman out of the kitchen and hide her somewhere. Then the man would enter the kitchen unsuspectingly and go on in to look for his wife. If he saw her lying in the middle of the kitchen floor he might do a runner.

Risky to have to shoot him outside … Osewoudt took out his pistol and looked in all directions again. The cow on the farm was no longer alone: there were two men in cloth caps walking around it. What were they up to? Would they spend the next half-hour inspecting the cow, or would they move even further away from the farmhouse? Would they come this way? Drop in for a chat maybe? For the first time that afternoon it occurred to Osewoudt that he could still call it off and have another go the next day, or even the day after, when circumstances might be more favourable.

But the two farmers continued to occupy themselves with their cow. For a moment Osewoudt let his eyes wander, having made up his mind now to drag the body out of the kitchen. Then he saw Lagendaal approaching the house. Every thought of postponement vanished. It had to be done now, in the next few minutes. Come here! he ordered under his breath, recoiling from the door as far as possible while keeping Lagendaal in sight. As if he was afraid that Lagendaal would turn tail as soon as he took his eyes off him, the very notion of moving the body from the kitchen went from his mind.

Lagendaal took long, slow strides. He was poking around in his mouth. Something lodged between his back teeth, no doubt. Then he chewed his thumb. He kept his head down. His hair was thinning and greasy, his pink scalp showing through. He kept to the path, inasmuch as you could call it a path. Abruptly, he took a few steps to one side. He had seen something, and bent down to pick it up. Pliers! He stood still for a moment, lifted the pliers with both hands to eye level and opened and closed them. Then he returned to the path leading to his house. The pliers were in his right hand, and he kept opening and closing them. Osewoudt felt his teeth begin to chatter. He now had a clear view of Lagendaal’s face, the thin elongated nose, the creases on either side. He also saw Lagendaal’s eyes. The sockets were huge, and deep. He had thick eyebrows which were joined in the middle, each eyebrow a well-defined circumflex accent. Each eye seemed to sit in its own little house with a pitched roof. Watery, dull eyes they were, even the surrounding skin looked bloated. Without a glance towards the door, Lagendaal moved out of sight.

Osewoudt turned round, the pistol in his trembling fist almost level with his eyes. He positioned himself with one foot forward while keeping watch on the door to the kitchen, which was slightly ajar. He couldn’t see into the kitchen because the door was at right angles to the passage. He should have left it open, he now realised. He listened intently, but could hear only the muffled sound of Lagendaal’s footsteps approaching. Then came the thud on the kitchen floorboards. A cry: ‘What on earth?’

‘Help! Help!’ yelled Osewoudt.

The kitchen door swung open and Lagendaal took a step into the passage. Osewoudt fired instantly. The whole passage lit up as if by lightning. But Lagendaal did not collapse. He ducked back through the door. Osewoudt sprang after him, and found him standing in the middle of the kitchen. Osewoudt fired again, but Lagendaal took another step. Osewoudt fired two more shots. Lagendaal fell but did not crumple up, his torso remained upright. One leg was doubled under him, the other kicking savagely across the floor. Osewoudt went up to him and, bracing his right elbow with his left hand, emptied the pistol into Lagendaal’s back. Lagendaal keeled over, his head crashing on to Osewoudt’s shoes. His mouth sagged, his eyes had stopped moving. Osewoudt looked up. Ribbons of blue vapour drifted towards the open kitchen door. He put the pistol in his pocket, stepped over Lagendaal and walked directly to the shed. It was not locked. Inside was a man’s bicycle. He wheeled it out, slammed the shed door, and mounted. He set off, but braked almost immediately, got off the bicycle and left it lying there. He ran back to the kitchen and snatched the pliers from Lagendaal’s clenched hand. Then he blew out the paraffin burner.

The two farmers, hands in pockets, were still chatting beside the cow. One of them stepped forward, patted the animal’s rump. Then he stepped back and resumed his conversation with the other.

Cycling over the bumpy terrain was not easy. Osewoudt went past a rudimentary gateway made of two large stones painted white. He twisted round for another look. They had black letters on them. One said D E and the other H A Z E N W A L.

He rode on. He saw the telephone wires suddenly end and then begin again. He couldn’t remember exactly where they had left the murdered youth leader. Standing up on the pedals he made quite rapid progress. Soon he was on the asphalt road. He sat back down on the saddle, relaxed, and rode on with one hand on the handlebars. He looked about him and whistled a tune: ‘ Mit dir war es immer so schön ’. There was the letter box, red and shiny as ever.

Then a heavy rumble sounded in the grey sky. Not far away field guns fired salvos of three shots at a time. A huge aluminium bomber hove into view, low over the trees. Osewoudt saw the glint of gun turrets, he even saw the circular shimmer around the four engines. Above the aircraft puffs of dirty brown smoke appeared, from bursting ack-ack shells. With his free hand Osewoudt waved to the bomber until it disappeared from sight.

He parked the bicycle against a tree by the station and made for the waiting room. There sat Hey You, with the little boy in front of her. The waiting room was a narrow space with a single bench running along the side, no refreshment counter. Not a soul about.

‘Hey You! How are you doing?’ called Osewoudt.

‘Shake hands with the gentleman now!’

‘I’m Walter,’ said the little boy, putting out his hand.