The Book And The Brotherhood

point. Something had to be done, to be finished, oh to finish with Crimond! Could this be done except by killing him? This was a question Duncan had often asked himself, but only as a rhetorical question commanding the answer no. Now common sense, suddenly entering through some amazing hole in the mad argument, informed Duncan that if he did ever actually kill Crimond he would be even, infinitely, more tied to him than he was at present. Duncan, in his 'speech', had suggested a symbolic solution to the problem, even that the problem was already solved. He had spoken impromptu under a particular emotional pressure and with an immediate end in view, to escape quickly from a situation into which he should never have entered. Whether he could believe that that solution would have worked seemed an academic question now that Crimond had proposed a far more radical, so perhaps more efficacious, cure. Would a symbolic killing, at the cost of exposing himself to Crimond's anger, bring about the desired freedom? Duncan was attracted, as Crimond had no doubt calculated that he would be, by Crimond's formulation. They were, as things stood now, bound to each other as men who, clasped together as each tries to drown the other, both drown.

Crimond, having pushed the guns aside, was now sitting on the table watching Duncan. He said, 'Yes?' It sounded almost like a sexual invitation.

`Describe your game,' said Duncan.

Crimond gave a long sigh.

Duncan, feeling himself entangled, indeed entangling himself, thought, as a rearguard support to what happened to be his decision, that of course Crimond, following the same chain of argument which Duncan had just followed, would not really want to kill Duncan! The extreme solution would not be a solution. What was required was an extreme symbolism. That's what made the Greeks write tragedies, Duncan found himself thinking. I'll tell that to Gerard one day. He also found himself thinking that if he left now, even if he were able to do so with dignity, he would regret this last chance for the rest of his life. Well, that was like sex too.

`It's very simple,' said Crimond, 'and traditional. Each gun has, out of'six chambers, one loaded. We face each other, one at each end of the room, we spin and fire.'

`We fire at each other.'

`Of course, it's not a suicide pact. And of course we must aim to kill. It's not all that easy to be sure of killing someone even at this distance unless one is very experienced with firearms, which fortunately you are. You are familiar with this type of gun of course. Remember it's very light on the t rigger.'

`Yes, yes. How many times do we fire?'

`I envisaged twice, that is assuming. But as many times as you like.'

`Twice, all right.'

`A shot which is not properly aimed is not counted.' `Agreed.' He thought, we are both mad! What sort of onversation is this?

`Another thing, which I hope you will approve of. For bsolute fairness the chambers must be of equal weight, therwise, as we all know, the loaded one tends to descend. I ave therefore tamped some spent cartridges with lead, makng them the same weight as live cartridges, and put them in e other five chambers. Look.'

Crimond broke open one of the guns and thrust it towards uncap.

`Fine, fine.' Duncan waved it away.

`Would you like to examine the guns?'

`No. Let's get on.' It would be indelicate to examine the ups especially if, as he was assuming, neither was loaded!

'We had better toss for position, though there's no differnce in the light, and of course for who fires first.'

Duncan brought a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Crimond. Crimond said, 'Who wins has the target end.' Duncan said 'Heads.' Crimond tossed the coin, it fell heads. Crimond handed the coin back to Duncan. Duncan said, Who wins fires first.' Crimond said 'Tails.' Duncan tossed the coin, it fell tails. Crimond placed the guns on the tables, one at each end of the room.

After that they stood still, looking at each other. Duncan could feel his heart beating, his hands sweating. He could heat his breath and Crimond's breath. Was this a moment at which perhaps…?

Crimond said in the same soft silky almost ingratiating voice which he had used in the later part of their conversation, `Of course, if we had seconds, which we have not, it would he their duty at this point to ask us both if the engagement was really necessary, if we could not agree, even at this late stage, not to fight. Should we not, in order to make this event crystal clear, act now as our own seconds?'

For a moment Duncan wondered: is this what it's all for? Did he mount the whole play in order to end it like this? He fell angry and also appalled at this sudden last-minute opening, when he had thought to be finished with decisions. 'That would amount to a reconciliation. No. Certainly not. You know that is impossible.'

`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.