Iris Murdoch - The Book And The Brotherhood

`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 lie 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 do? 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 blackrned chamber, then carefull ycleaned 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, cuttill 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.