The Black Prince

I went into the dining-room and looked at her. She was sitting on the floor with her mouth wide open and her two hands squeezing either side of her face. I saw her mouth as a round O, she looked subhuman and damned, her face without features, her flesh drained and blue, like those who live underground. «Rachel. Don't worry. They're coming.»

«Dobbin. Dobbin. Dobbin.»

I went out and sat on the stairs and found that I was saying, «Oh-oh-oh-oh-« and could not stop.

The police arrived first. I let them in and pointed to the back room. Through the open front door I saw the sunny street and cars coming, an ambulance. I heard somebody say, «He's dead.»

«What happened?»

«Ask Mrs. Baffin. In there.»

«Who are you?»

Men in dark clothes were coming in, then men in white clothes.

The dining-room door was shut. I was explaining who Arnold was, who I was, how I came to be there.

«Cracked his skull like an egg shell.»

Rachel screamed behind a closed door.

«Come with us, please.»

I sat in a police car between two men. I started explaining again. I said, «He hit her, I think. It was an accident. It wasn't murder.»

At the police station I told them all over again who I was. I sat with several men in a small room.

«Why did you do it?»

«Do what?»

«Why did you kill Arnold Baffin?»

«I didn't kill Arnold Baffin.»

«What did you hit him with?»

«I didn't hit him.»

«Why did you do it? Why did you do it? Why did you kill him?»

«I didn't kill him.»

«Why did you do it?»
Postscript By Bradley Pearson
How little in fact any human being understands about anything the practice of the arts soon teaches one. An inch away from the world one is accustomed to there are other worlds in which one is a complete stranger. Nature normally heals with oblivious forgetfulness those who are rudely hustled by circumstance from one into another. But if after reflection and with deliberation one attempts with words to create bridges and to open vistas one soon finds out how puny is one's power to describe or to connect. Art is a kind of artificial memory and the pain which attends all serious art is a sense of that factitiousness. Most artists are the minor poets of their little world, who have only one voice and can sing only one song.
The first days were a maelstrom of confusion, misunderstandings, incredulity. Not only could I not believe what had happened, I could not conceptualize it. However I am not going to tell anything more of this as a story. The story is over. And what it is the story of I shall attempt in a little while to say. As the time went on I tried various attitudes, said various things, changed my mind, told the truth, then lied, then broke down, was impassive,