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Authors: David Stacton
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medicines. No one would question such an errand. The bottle was filled up with flour.
Before Payne loomed the Old Clubhouse, Sewardâs home, where Key had once been killed. Now it would have another death. From the outside it was an ordinary enough house of the gentry. He clomped heavily up the stoop and rang the bell. Like the bell at Mass, the doorbell was pitched too high. It was still Good Friday, after all.
A nigger boy opened the door. Payne did not notice him. He was thinking chiefly of Cap. If their schedules were to synchronize, there was no point in wasting time. He pushed his way inside.
For a moment the hall confused him. This was the largest house he had ever been in, almost the largest building, except for a hotel. He had no idea where Sewardâs room would be. In the half darkness the banisters gleamed, and the hall seemed enormous. Above him somewhere were the bedrooms. Seward would be up there.
He explained his errand, but without bothering much to make it plausible, for he felt something well up in him which was the reason why he had fled the army. He did not really want to kill, but as in the sexual act, there was a moment when the impulse took over and could not be downed, even while you watched yourself giving way to it. He was no longer worried. Everything would be all right. He knew that in this mood he could not be stopped.
Still, the sensation always surprised him. It was a thrill he felt no part in. He could only watch with a sort of gentle dismay while his body did these quick, appalling, and efficient things.
He brushed by the idiotic boy and lumbered heavily up the stairs. They were carpeted, but made for pumps and congress gaiters, not the great clodhoppers he wore. The sound of his footsteps was like a muffled drum.
At the top of the stairs he ran into somebody standing there angrily in a dressing gown. He stopped and whispered his errand. Young Frederick Seward held out his hand. Panting a little, Payne shook his head. Dr. Verdi had told him to deliver his package in person.
Frederick Seward said his father was sleeping, and then went through a pantomime at his fatherâs door, to prove the statement.
âVery well,â Payne said. âI will go.â He smiled, but now that he knew where the elder Seward was, he did not intend to go. He pulled out his pistol and fired it. It made no sound. It had misfired. Reversing it, he smashed the butt down on Frederick Sewardâs head, over and over again.
It was the first blow that was always difficult. After that, violence was exultantly easy. He got caught up into it and became a different person. Only afterwards did an act like that become meaningless, so that he would puzzle over it for days, whereas at the time it had seemed quite real.
The nigger boy fled down the stairs, screaming, âMurderâ.
It was not murder at all. Payne was more methodical than that. He was merely clearing a way to what he had to do.
He ran for the sick room, found his pistol was broken, and threw it away. A knife would do. From childhood he had known all about knives. Someone blocked the door from inside. He smashed it in and tumbled into darkness. He saw only dimly moving figures, but when he slashed them they yelled and fled. He went for the bed, jumped on it, and struck where he could, repeatedly. It was like finally getting into oneâs own nightmares to punish oneâs dreams.
Two men pulled him off. Nobody said anything. Payne hacked at their arms. There was a lady there, in a nightdress. He would not have wanted to hurt a lady. Another man approached, this one fully dressed. When the knife went into his chest, he went down at once.
âIâm mad,â shouted Payne, as he ran out into the hall. âIâm mad,â and only wished he had been. That would have made things so much easier. But he was not mad. He was only dreaming.
He clattered down the stairs and out of the door. Somewhere in the fog, the nigger
Before Payne loomed the Old Clubhouse, Sewardâs home, where Key had once been killed. Now it would have another death. From the outside it was an ordinary enough house of the gentry. He clomped heavily up the stoop and rang the bell. Like the bell at Mass, the doorbell was pitched too high. It was still Good Friday, after all.
A nigger boy opened the door. Payne did not notice him. He was thinking chiefly of Cap. If their schedules were to synchronize, there was no point in wasting time. He pushed his way inside.
For a moment the hall confused him. This was the largest house he had ever been in, almost the largest building, except for a hotel. He had no idea where Sewardâs room would be. In the half darkness the banisters gleamed, and the hall seemed enormous. Above him somewhere were the bedrooms. Seward would be up there.
He explained his errand, but without bothering much to make it plausible, for he felt something well up in him which was the reason why he had fled the army. He did not really want to kill, but as in the sexual act, there was a moment when the impulse took over and could not be downed, even while you watched yourself giving way to it. He was no longer worried. Everything would be all right. He knew that in this mood he could not be stopped.
Still, the sensation always surprised him. It was a thrill he felt no part in. He could only watch with a sort of gentle dismay while his body did these quick, appalling, and efficient things.
He brushed by the idiotic boy and lumbered heavily up the stairs. They were carpeted, but made for pumps and congress gaiters, not the great clodhoppers he wore. The sound of his footsteps was like a muffled drum.
At the top of the stairs he ran into somebody standing there angrily in a dressing gown. He stopped and whispered his errand. Young Frederick Seward held out his hand. Panting a little, Payne shook his head. Dr. Verdi had told him to deliver his package in person.
Frederick Seward said his father was sleeping, and then went through a pantomime at his fatherâs door, to prove the statement.
âVery well,â Payne said. âI will go.â He smiled, but now that he knew where the elder Seward was, he did not intend to go. He pulled out his pistol and fired it. It made no sound. It had misfired. Reversing it, he smashed the butt down on Frederick Sewardâs head, over and over again.
It was the first blow that was always difficult. After that, violence was exultantly easy. He got caught up into it and became a different person. Only afterwards did an act like that become meaningless, so that he would puzzle over it for days, whereas at the time it had seemed quite real.
The nigger boy fled down the stairs, screaming, âMurderâ.
It was not murder at all. Payne was more methodical than that. He was merely clearing a way to what he had to do.
He ran for the sick room, found his pistol was broken, and threw it away. A knife would do. From childhood he had known all about knives. Someone blocked the door from inside. He smashed it in and tumbled into darkness. He saw only dimly moving figures, but when he slashed them they yelled and fled. He went for the bed, jumped on it, and struck where he could, repeatedly. It was like finally getting into oneâs own nightmares to punish oneâs dreams.
Two men pulled him off. Nobody said anything. Payne hacked at their arms. There was a lady there, in a nightdress. He would not have wanted to hurt a lady. Another man approached, this one fully dressed. When the knife went into his chest, he went down at once.
âIâm mad,â shouted Payne, as he ran out into the hall. âIâm mad,â and only wished he had been. That would have made things so much easier. But he was not mad. He was only dreaming.
He clattered down the stairs and out of the door. Somewhere in the fog, the nigger
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