‘I’m still guilty of killing him,’ Fred muttered.
‘Oh for Chrissake. You sound like me,’ Smith said. ‘No you’re not. You knew that Bob never loaded his gun too—he told me you knew—and you could never have cut his throat yourself.’
Fred shrugged. It was a technical point, he guessed; an academic question for people—other people—to argue over.
‘I was never scared of your killing me,’ Smith continued. ‘In fact I wanted you to try—that first day I was here. Because I know you’d have lost your nerve, and as soon as you had—well, you were mine. But I kept the notebook as a sort of guarantee. Maybe the only time I was really scared was when I ran away after killing Bob, and bumped into that guy. Then I really thought I’d had it—or we’d both had it. I was sure that they would find us. But they didn’t,’ he said lightly. ‘And I guess I was sort of scared after you didn’t even try to kill me, and when you kept me tied up here, because I thought, my God, it’s going to take a year to wear him down, to get under his skin and disturb him until he cracks. I thought I’d bitten off more than I could chew. I mean—I really couldn’t stand it, being kept like a dog. But as I say, Bob’s death speeded everything up. And then today—I knew you’d never kill Lenore, either. I knew you’d tell her something though, and I guessed just how much. Just in case you told her everything and she told the police I took the precaution of shaving my head and tying myself up so I’d be found like that when they came. I mean I would have done that anyway, because Lenore had to see me like that, but—I didn’t want you to tell her everything, because I was scared that even if you told her about Bob, you might not have told her about all the others. Though I guess if she’d asked you would have. You were just dying to confess, weren’t you?’ Then the boy stood up, and pointed the gun at Fred again. ‘I really do know about guilt, don’t I?’ He smiled, and then added mockingly, ‘and I’ll tell you what I’ve discovered Fred-o. That guilt is a dreadful thing. It’s guilt that ruins the world—that’s destroying this country, and everything that’s good in it.’
How bitter the words sounded, like a north wind blowing in from the past….
‘But there are always enough weak people around to offer themselves up as sacrifices so the rest of us can keep going. The innocent weak. God bless you Fred.’
‘I’m not innocent,’ Fred said earnestly. ‘Even if—about Bob—but I mean—for years I’ve been more or less helping sell drugs that were destroying people. And—’
‘Oh being innocent doesn’t mean not doing anything wrong, I don’t think,’ Smith said glibly. ‘And anyway, even if you haven’t been an angel in the past—you’ll do now. In fact, you’ll do perfectly Fred. Just perfectly.’ And with that, and a laugh, the boy turned and walked quickly out of the room.
Fred didn’t move—where was he to move to, he thought—and simply stood there, waiting for him to return; which he would do almost immediately, he guessed. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t leave him alone….
He didn’t. But when he returned, practically running, Fred saw that he was carrying the bread-knife he had bought after Bob’s death, and which had never been used….
‘We better get on with it,’ Smith said, nervous now at last. ‘Otherwise Lenore will be back.’ Then he handed Fred the bread-knife, and went on, ‘Remember though, when they ask you in heaven how it happened, you say that you asked me if you could have a glass of water, and I said yes. But when you got into the kitchen you grabbed the bread-knife and—bop.’ The boy made a gesture with his white hand.
For a second, as he realized what was expected of him, Fred felt he should protest—or should even refuse, and force Smith to shoot him if necessary. But then he thought: why? Why waste breath? Why spoil everything at this stage? Why not just go along with it? And besides—what other way was there? And hadn’t he, for some time now, known it must end like this? Oh yes. And he was even, strangely, glad. Because he was so very tired, and had come such a long, long way. Still, he had one last request.
Wearily, softly, he said, ‘Can we do it here? So I can look out of the window.’
Smith considered for a moment. ‘I guess so,’ he said eventually. ‘I can always say you grabbed the bread-knife and ran back in here and I didn’t dare shoot you.’
‘Thank you,’ Fred murmured, getting down on to his knees, and taking the bread-knife in his right hand.
‘You’re welcome,’ Smith laughed. ‘After all, it’s the least I can do for you. Because like I said—you’re not a bad guy Fred. I mean really, you’re one of the best.’
‘Thank you,’ Fred murmured again. He looked down at the bright shining knife in his big red hand, up at the blue spring sky that now was pouring in through the open window, and then back at Smith. ‘Will you help me please?’ he whispered.
Smith frowned. ‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘I can’t. I’ve never killed anyone. I mean—you’re the cop-killer, aren’t you?’
‘Oh yes,’ Fred whispered. And then, taking a last look up at the window, and the blue sky that now was pouring into him—pouring into his eyes, his blood, his brain; pouring into him, soothing him, thawing any last vestige of ice that might remain anywhere within him—he lifted the knife and pulled it, very hard, across his throat.
Copyright
This ebook edition first published in 2013
by Faber and Faber Ltd
Bloomsbury House
74–77 Great Russell Street
London WC1B 3DA
All rights reserved
© Hugh Fleetwood, 1976
The right of Hugh Fleetwood to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with Section 77 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights, and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly
ISBN 978–0–571–30486–8
The Order of Death Page 20
