nursing his rage.
Then with quiet, cold deliberation he unbuttoned his double-breasted jacket, heavy with gun. He took the jacket off completely, and folded it over lengthwise from the collar down, and placed it that way over a chair back.
Then he went over and latched down the windows tight, so little or no sound--sound to come--should escape from them. Then he came back again to where he'd been, rearward of her undulant back, and unfastened his belt buckle. He drew the belt out in its entirety, and took hold of it by the buckle end, using that for a grip.
He reached down and flipped the lightweight covers off her, with a single billowing wave. Rustling taffeta spread and hissing silk sheet. She lay there now in all her sculptured shapeliness, filmy black open to the waist shadowing her.
He grimaced vengefully and flung the belt up overhead, like a writhing snake caught by the head. This was the way you treated women like her! This was what they deserved! This was what they got! This was the only treatment they understood!
The sound it made coming down was like slow, spaced handclapping. Again, and again, and again; faster, and faster, and faster. Now across her rippling shoulder blades and now across her hips and now across the undersides of her thighs. White rents appeared in the black shadowing, as though it were no more than dust that was being removed here and there with the blows. It billowed out, and rippled, and settled again, with each impact. But that was the only movement. . . .
Suddenly the steaming hate that had misted his eyes cleared enough to let him see that she hadn't screamed, she hadn't jumped, she hadn't rolled away in attempt to escape. And she should have, long moments ago.
He dropped the belt in a looping little puddle. He reached down over the bed and pulled her head around his way, by the hair. It came around too easily, it came around too loose. It came around, and nothing else did. Her neck had been broken.
He had, for the past several moments, been whipping a corpse.
All the way up those deliberately curving stairs now, that shadow pursued him along the wall panels, and he fled away from it. But as the stairs curved, it relentlessly overtook him, then swept around before him, to confront him accusingly as he reached their top. He creased his eyes protectively and warded it off with the flat of one hand; plunged through its blue impalpability and gained the bedroom door and the bedroom beyond. It didn't come in there after him. But it was waiting outside.
He drew a shuddering bowel-deep breath, and turned the key in the bedroom door.
She was, or seemed to be, asleep. The aureole of rosy light was out. Her head though, was little, if any, lower on the pillows than when he'd left her. Her eyes were indisputably closed. The daylight came through the spaces of the Venetian blinds like bars of lead bullion.
He put the gun away, giving careful back-shoulder glances at her. Her eyelids never stirred.
He went into the bathroom, and shook a little, even wept a little, with sheer reflex nervousness. Then he wiped his eyes on a towel, and sat on the edge of the tub for some moments, in a dismayed apathy. At last, still sitting there, he partially undressed; took off his coat, his tie, opened his shirt as far as his belt, but went no further.
Sleep, sleep, he had to get sleep; that was the only way to get away from this, to elude it: sleep. He struck his own head a few times with the heel of his hand, pounded it lightly, as if to settle it for sleep. But sleep couldn't be injected into it in that way. Within was a turmoil of nightmare-wakefulness.
He opened the cabinet and took out the bottle of sleeping pills. He poured two into his hand, then three. Raised his hand halfway, scoop-shaped. Then suddenly flung them from him with a whimpering grimace. That would only lock it up inside his own head, that kind of sleep.
He couldn't go through it alone. Couldn't keep it to himself. He had to talk
Then with quiet, cold deliberation he unbuttoned his double-breasted jacket, heavy with gun. He took the jacket off completely, and folded it over lengthwise from the collar down, and placed it that way over a chair back.
Then he went over and latched down the windows tight, so little or no sound--sound to come--should escape from them. Then he came back again to where he'd been, rearward of her undulant back, and unfastened his belt buckle. He drew the belt out in its entirety, and took hold of it by the buckle end, using that for a grip.
He reached down and flipped the lightweight covers off her, with a single billowing wave. Rustling taffeta spread and hissing silk sheet. She lay there now in all her sculptured shapeliness, filmy black open to the waist shadowing her.
He grimaced vengefully and flung the belt up overhead, like a writhing snake caught by the head. This was the way you treated women like her! This was what they deserved! This was what they got! This was the only treatment they understood!
The sound it made coming down was like slow, spaced handclapping. Again, and again, and again; faster, and faster, and faster. Now across her rippling shoulder blades and now across her hips and now across the undersides of her thighs. White rents appeared in the black shadowing, as though it were no more than dust that was being removed here and there with the blows. It billowed out, and rippled, and settled again, with each impact. But that was the only movement. . . .
Suddenly the steaming hate that had misted his eyes cleared enough to let him see that she hadn't screamed, she hadn't jumped, she hadn't rolled away in attempt to escape. And she should have, long moments ago.
He dropped the belt in a looping little puddle. He reached down over the bed and pulled her head around his way, by the hair. It came around too easily, it came around too loose. It came around, and nothing else did. Her neck had been broken.
He had, for the past several moments, been whipping a corpse.
All the way up those deliberately curving stairs now, that shadow pursued him along the wall panels, and he fled away from it. But as the stairs curved, it relentlessly overtook him, then swept around before him, to confront him accusingly as he reached their top. He creased his eyes protectively and warded it off with the flat of one hand; plunged through its blue impalpability and gained the bedroom door and the bedroom beyond. It didn't come in there after him. But it was waiting outside.
He drew a shuddering bowel-deep breath, and turned the key in the bedroom door.
She was, or seemed to be, asleep. The aureole of rosy light was out. Her head though, was little, if any, lower on the pillows than when he'd left her. Her eyes were indisputably closed. The daylight came through the spaces of the Venetian blinds like bars of lead bullion.
He put the gun away, giving careful back-shoulder glances at her. Her eyelids never stirred.
He went into the bathroom, and shook a little, even wept a little, with sheer reflex nervousness. Then he wiped his eyes on a towel, and sat on the edge of the tub for some moments, in a dismayed apathy. At last, still sitting there, he partially undressed; took off his coat, his tie, opened his shirt as far as his belt, but went no further.
Sleep, sleep, he had to get sleep; that was the only way to get away from this, to elude it: sleep. He struck his own head a few times with the heel of his hand, pounded it lightly, as if to settle it for sleep. But sleep couldn't be injected into it in that way. Within was a turmoil of nightmare-wakefulness.
He opened the cabinet and took out the bottle of sleeping pills. He poured two into his hand, then three. Raised his hand halfway, scoop-shaped. Then suddenly flung them from him with a whimpering grimace. That would only lock it up inside his own head, that kind of sleep.
He couldn't go through it alone. Couldn't keep it to himself. He had to talk
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