The Order of Death

by Hugh Fleetwood

  The basement was as silent as the rest of the building. It was silent as a dungeon, and looked like a dungeon, with its grey brick walls, its stone floor, its naked light bulbs.

  ‘Close the door.’

  Smith slid the grille shut.

  Again Fred stopped, and listened for some sound of life. There was none. Slowly, and with his gun in Smith’s back, they started to walk along the stone flagged corridors. There were metal drums against one wall. There were bags of cement. The various pipes and tubes that ran over the grey walls were painted light green, and were dusty. They walked, Smith seeming to scarcely touch the ground with his feet, and Fred, just as he had never felt stronger in his life, never, in spite of his burden, having felt lighter.

  There was a burglar alarm on the iron green service door. Fred had to lay down Bob’s body so he could turn it off and then carefully, and oh, so quietly, open the lock on the door. But it gave him no difficulty. He was well trained, and could open any door.

  Leaving Bob lying where he was, and with his gun still in Smith’s back—though hidden now in his pocket—Fred stepped out into the night, pushing the boy in front of him.

  The air made him feel light-headed for a second. How noisy the night was! How loud, and careless, and indifferent! The raucous wind, the roaring cars, even, it seemed, the high heavy buildings and the thick black clouds in the sky, lit up every now and then by a trace of moon—how they all joined together to create a thunderous chorus, as if they had conspired together—like the privileged at a party in a land of misery—to drown out the sounds of horror drifting up from the street; all the sounds of life….

  Then Fred pulled himself together. They had to walk up the first three steps before they could see down the street.

  There appeared to be only one person about—a man, walking his dog—and in spite of that first illusion of the noise of traffic, there was little actually on the street; most of it was coming from Central Park West, and, further down, from Columbus Avenue.

  They waited for two minutes, until the dog-walker had dis­appeared, then went back into the basement. Fred made Smith stand in front of him as he leaned down to pick up Bob’s body again. But—though he reckoned the boy could, if he had been clever, have managed to push past him at that moment, when both his hands were full of Bob—Smith still seemed too hypno­tized, too frightened to even move unless he told him to, let alone contemplate, or try to, escape.

  When Bob was over his shoulder again they stepped out once more into the night, and Fred told Smith to pull the door shut behind him. Because, it suddenly occurred to him, rather than come back to this apartment when he had finished with Bob and Smith, it would be better to return the stolen car to where he had found it, and then go back to Brooklyn. There was no point—assuming everything went well—in running the risk, at the very end, of being caught sneaking in through the service entrance. The doorman had seen him, after he had gone out for a few minutes, return to the apartment, and would believe he was upstairs and had gone to sleep. And by the morning—when he should, presumably have left the apartment—that doorman would have gone off duty, and therefore wouldn’t think it odd that he didn’t see the mysterious owner of the apartment on the fifth floor leave. The only minute risk in going back to Brooklyn would be if the doorman called up for some reason, and didn’t find him in. But that risk was infinitesimal, and not worth worrying about.

  He told Smith to check the street once more. The boy did and then, dumbly, shook his head. Fred crouched back into the shadows, going down on his hands and knees, and motioning Smith to do the same. Again, he reckoned that the boy, had he wanted to, could have run. But once again he didn’t and merely, hopelessly, obeyed.

  They heard someone walk by on the other side of the street. Then two people. Then some cars. And then Smith, sent up again by Fred, nodded.

  Fred walked quickly up the steps, crossed the sidewalk, opened the luggage door of the Ford, and shoved Bob’s body inside. Then he motioned Smith into the passenger seat, and closed the door on him. Just as he did another car came down the street. But it didn’t matter now.

  He got into the driver’s seat, stretched across Smith to lock him in, and then leaned down and found the wires he had to connect to start the car.

  It didn’t take him long.

  *

  He drove slowly, and parked the car on the museum side of Seventy-Seventh Street. And now, for the first time since he had hit Bob, he started to feel, just very slightly, nervous. He would have to get Bob’s body out of the car, into the park, have to get Smith to cut Bob’s throat, shoot the boy, and then get away, all without anyone seeing him. But was it possible? There were so many windows, so many eyes in the night; and what lovers might be around, or bums sleeping on benches? He sat still, and watched the cars going past; and then, as if the gods had seen his doubt and wanted, for reasons of their own, to help him, a few drops of rain began to fall on to the windshield of the car. He watched them splatter on the glass, and prayed for more; and more came.

  After two minutes it was raining heavily, and if there had been anyone in the park, they would surely have left by now. Fred looked around, saw no one, got out of the car, closed the driver’s door behind him, went round to the luggage door, opened it, pulled out Bob’s body, lifted it on to his shoulder, and ran into the park—all, as far as he was aware, without breathing.

  No voice shouted at him; no one tried to stop him.

  He dropped Bob’s body in a dark corner by the side entrance to the Museum, then ran back to the car, and got in. Smith’s eyes were staring at him. He unlocked the boy’s handcuffs, took them off and put them in his pocket. Then he pulled the tape off the thin, weak mouth. Then he took Bob’s gun out of his pocket, glanced round once more, waited for a couple of cars to pass, and whispered, ‘Come on. Get out.’

  Smith got out and stood on the wet sidewalk; a pathetic creature who liked to be mistreated, soaking in the rain.

  Fred walked to where he had dropped Bob’s body, and took the bread-knife from his pocket. He handed it to Smith, who took it without a word, and then said softly, ‘Okay then. Cut his throat.’

  Smith stared at him, and didn’t move.

  Fred repeated, ‘Cut his throat.’

  ‘No,’ Smith whispered.

  Fred held the gun up to the boy’s head.

  ‘No,’ Smith said again. ‘I can’t. I’ve never killed anyone.’

  ‘Well you’re going to now.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you want me to help you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘It’ll be quite easy. You just pull the knife hard across his throat, once.’

  Smith started to cry. ‘Please.’

  Fred whispered, ‘If you don’t cut his throat, I’ll kill you.’

  ‘And if I do?’ the boy sobbed.

  ‘Then I’ll let you go. You’ll just be the cop-killer on the run again. You’ll be free.’

  ‘No. Please,’ Smith whined yet again.

  ‘You’ll be free,’ Fred repeated.

  Somewhere, a tree groaned in the storm. It was a horrible noise. It seemed to come from Bob himself …

  And then Smith did something surprising. Without saying an­other word, without a moment’s hesitation, he dropped on to his knees beside Bob, who was lying face down, picked up his head by its dark fair hair, ripped the bread-knife across the throat with a savagery that Fred would have thought him incapable of, threw down the knife and then stood up and faced Fred, with a look of hatred and, almost, pride. He was quivering.

  Fred stared down at Bob. Smith had almost severed his head. He stared down at Bob, then up at the boy, down again at Bob, and then suddenly, wanted to vomit. And then he remembered what he had to do. He lifted the gun, pointed it at Smith’s head, and squeezed the trigger.

  The gun clicked …

  It wasn’t loaded. Compassionate Bob, when he had come to the apartment to take Smith in, had been afraid of accidents, and hadn’t loaded hi
s gun. The gun wasn’t loaded. The gun wasn’t loaded…. In the second after he had so uselessly squeezed the trigger, all these thoughts went through Fred’s mind. He stood there, paralysed, staring at the useless piece of metal in his hand. And then he remembered that Bob never kept his gun loaded. It was against his principles. He should have known. He had known….

  But that little click, that quiet, inoffensive noise, so small amidst the tumult of a windy, rainy night on the island of Man­hattan, had a different effect on Smith. He, who had been hypno­tized, who like a priest in a trance of ecstasy had cut the throat of a human sacrifice, was transformed by that tiny click. He was awoken out of his trance. He was released from his holy duties. He gave one terrible glance at Fred, as if he had never seen him before, or as if he had only just recognized him, and then turned, and started to run.

  Fred hesitated. What should he do? Throw the gun down be­side Bob? No. Bob’s prints weren’t on it. There was no point. Should he follow Smith? Run after him, shouting ‘Stop, Killer’, and say he had seen the boy in the park, but had arrived just too late to save Bob’s life? Bob had already been dead, the autopsy would show—but that simply meant that Smith had killed him earlier. In any case, he would have caught the cop-killer. But if Smith told the truth—told all about the apartment? If—

  He lumbered about within himself, a big man lost in the vast dark apartment of his own consciousness, and tried, as it were, to find the lights.

  And then he did, and knew that he had to catch Smith. He started to run. He had to catch the boy before anyone else did.

  But if he caught him they would surely be seen, the two of them. And then when Bob’s body was found…. He was running, but he was stumbling with confusion. He didn’t know what to do; but he knew what he wanted to do. He wanted to howl a curse out into the night; a curse on Smith, and a curse on Bob; a curse on all the forces of chaos and guilt who had broken into his ordered world, and had destroyed it. Oh, why hadn’t they left him alone in the formal lovely garden of his life. Why had they burst in and tried to touch him, Bob with his so-called humanity, and Smith with his madness? Why hadn’t they left him alone in his coldness and his isolation and his lonely passion?

  He thought he was running fast, but he hardly seemed to have moved. He was still in the park. And there was Smith, running up the street towards Central Park, a thin boy in a black cap with a scarf flapping round his neck. He had to catch him—

  And then he stopped, and stood still. There was someone—a man, it looked like—walking along the sidewalk towards Smith. He stood still, and watched. The boy was running. Would he stop whoever it was and ask for help? He was almost on the man. And then, involuntarily, Fred winced. Smith, in his panic, obviously hadn’t seen the man. He had crashed right into him. He half fell. And then—then he picked himself up and started running again.

  The man stood still and looked after him; looked after him, and seemed to be staring at his hand.

  Fred, very slowly, backed into the shadows; went back into the dark angle where Bob lay with his gaping throat.

  He stayed there until the man, hurrying along again now—glad, obviously, that nothing worse than the rain and a collision had happened to him—had gone past. He stayed there for five minutes. For ten minutes. Because he couldn’t catch Smith now. Smith had got away. And now he—he didn’t know. Everything was over. Everything. The destruction of his life was complete. He stood there in the rain, with the water pouring down his face, and thought of his father, and his mother, of his ugly, wretched childhood. He thought of all the cruelty and sadness of life. He thought of all the illusions, all the vain hopes, all the useless dreams. He thought of Bob, who had been the youngest son of a large family who had adored him, and whom he had adored; a man who had been as aware of misery as Fred himself, but who had thought that it could be made bearable, even trans­formed into something good, by pity; a man who had thought that suffering, weak humanity should be helped; not realizing—or perhaps, yes, realizing, but not allowing himself to admit—that by stooping to help, by stretching out a helping hand, he would, eventually, be pulled down himself. Oh why hadn’t he realized that, Fred thought. Why hadn’t he realized that the horror could only be borne if one ignored it; if one created and lived by the strictest, most artificial, most inhuman rules; that were, paradoxically, and in the deepest sense, the freest, most natural, most human rules? Why hadn’t he realized that the illusion of freedom was the most pernicious form of captivity; and that real freedom—as much, anyway, as it was possible to have, or bear—was only available to those who followed the steps and the discipline of the dance; of the dance that must be danced over the bodies of all who had neither the strength nor the will to take part in it. Oh why, why—and then, as Fred stood there, he realized he was crying; crying for himself, and for Bob, and for the whole sad world. He was even crying, he realized, for Smith.

  And then, because he had never, as far as he recalled, cried like that in his life before, and no longer caring who saw him or what happened to him, and feeling, strangely, glad that every­thing was over; that he no longer had to abide by any rules; that he could, finally, relax, and no longer had to be strong; that, at last, he had, as it were, laid down, and soon would feel the feet of the dancers on him, he walked out of the park, went to the stolen car, got in, started it, drove it back to where he had found it (the gods, the ironical gods, had left him his parking space), slammed the door, walked down to the subway, took the train to Brooklyn, went back to his small shabby apartment, and fell asleep.

  *

  Next morning, when he woke, he decided he would go to Central Park West and wait for someone to fetch him there. At least, he thought, let him be found amidst the ruins of his kingdom; let him have the bitter satisfaction of seeing them laugh at him; of seeing them jeer at his so-called madness, and at his big empty soul.

  *

  He stopped at a supermarket on the way and bought some provisions; he bought enough to last him a long time. Because, he told himself as he walked along laden down with two great cardboard boxes filled with tins, he wasn’t going to leave the apartment again until they did come for him.

  He also stopped briefly at a news-stand to read the headlines of the papers—‘Another Slaying’, ‘Seventh Policeman Killed’—and what was written, in only slightly smaller print, underneath—‘Killer collides with passer-by’, ‘Killer puts bloody hands on passer-by’, but he didn’t bother to buy one. There was no point.

  That they would come to him he had no doubt at all. Smith, he reckoned, if he wasn’t recognized and arrested within twenty-four hours—if he hadn’t already been arrested—would give him­self up within a few days. A week, maybe. Even ten days. But not much longer.

  Should he call in sick, he wondered, or should he just dis­appear, and wait? He didn’t know, and couldn’t decide. On the one hand, it was as pointless to call in as it would have been to buy a newspaper; on the other hand, why not make his last formal gesture before leaving the dance forever?

  He had debated with himself as he rode up in the elevator; he argued with himself as he carried his boxes of provisions into the kitchen.

  And then he called. He said he had hepatitis, and the doctor had told him to stay in bed for about a month. This morning there were no laughing comments; his sickness was accepted without a word. Bob’s death was the only event of importance.

  ‘Yes,’ Fred said in a soft voice, he had heard. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything more.

  When he had hung up he called Bob’s number, not expecting any reply. But Lenore herself answered. She sounded, Fred thought, as he murmured that he was sorry, and she said that she was too, sort of, as sharp and revoltingly slick as ever. But then he told himself that he was no longer in a position to make such judgements, and that everyone’s reaction to tragedy was different, and he added, ‘If I can do anything for you—’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lenore whispered. Then, snappily, ‘Like what?’

 
‘I don’t know,’ Fred said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Lenore repeated. ‘I’ll let you know Fred. Good­bye.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ Fred said.

  He was about to hang up when he heard that Lenore herself hadn’t. And she didn’t, for almost a minute. But she didn’t say anything more. She simply cried. And as Fred listened to her, with his eyes closed, the sound of her tears somehow relieved him; made him feel, almost, happy. And when at last, the line did go dead, he asked himself if the reason for this could be that he, Fred O’Connor, felt guilty. Was it possible….

  *

  He changed into his fine clothes—how stupid they were; they were just clothes, like any others—and went into the living room. He poured himself a glass of whisky, and sat down. After a while he stood up again, and looked out of the window. It was, he saw, the beginning of spring. A wind still bent the trees in the park, and billowed under coats and skirts, and the sky wasn’t as clear and blue as it had been during the period—how long ago it had been—when Smith had been his prisoner, and he had thought that everything was set for life. But the clouds were white, and there was a quickness in the air, and the park—though it hadn’t yet—was obviously about to burst into green. Even the taxi-cabs, yellow and shabby and dented, seemed like the cars of spring from up here; bright toys driving along the straight streets, stop­ping at the red and green and orange traffic lights; like butter­flies moving from flower to flower…. And how all the traffic moved in a neat, inevitable pattern; like a river glistening in the sun; or like the sap rising in the branches of the trees….

  But, Fred thought, this spring would never come through his windows; never come into his blood. His seasons were over. All that was left to him was the dry sterile time between now and when the doorbell rang, and they came to take him away.

  He sat down again.

  Let it be soon, he thought.

  He sat there all day; not exactly sleeping, nor thinking, nor doing anything. He simply sat there and let the green-brown wall-to-wall carpet settle on the floor of his consciousness, and the white walls surround his consciousness, and the white ceiling with its carved plaster borders and its white lightshade in the middle seal the roof of his consciousness. He sat there, and became his room, and didn’t even finish the one glass of whisky he had poured himself.