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The Murderer by Richard Middleton. He
walked down to the embankment, with the

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paving stones like velvet under his feet, and he swerved like one running yet

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still, though he meant to end
his life in a few minutes. He

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avoided the traffic with great care,
so that paternal policeman judged him newly from

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the country. The august sun seemed
pitiless in its strength, and in his

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fear and wretchedness, he cursed it
better rain, mist, fog, anything

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but the reproachful blue of the sky
and the dancing glitter of the dust.

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He wanted sympathy, and instead nature
triumphed over him and emphasized his failure.

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The river was a sparkling tumult of
gems, where he had pictured a secret,

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immutable surface which should flow darkly over
him and his wrongs. In place

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of a great, unspeaking god,
he found a crowd of dancing, laughing

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children. Where should he seek peace
and forgiveness. He leaned on the parapet

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and groaned. A train thundered by
over Hungerford Bridge, as if in answer,

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of course, that was the way
safer, quicker. He took a

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ticket at Charing Cross station and passed
to the end of the platform with the

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strange numbness in his mind and body, as if he were already dead.

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Yet he walked to the extreme end
because there was no one there to interfere.

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Presently, the train appeared, making
its way slowly across the bridge,

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and he leapt off the platform and
laid his head on the rail. It

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blistered his cheek because the sun had
made it so hot. Then the earth

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heaved itself up and thrust and tore
him between the wheels of the carriages.

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When the train had passed, he
rose to his feet unsteadily and stared stupidly

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at the mangled body lying at his
feet. There was a shrill singing in

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his ears, which was shortly interrupted
by the sound of human voices, and

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he felt his arms caught roughly and
imprisoned. Soon he made out the word

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murderer angrily spoken, and found that
he was held by the plate layers,

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who were gesticulating violently and pointing at
the body. But he would not speak,

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because though the head had become a
crushed horror upon the rails, he

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knew that the body was his.
Dimly, he was aware that porters and

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policemen were crowding from the station,
and that they were lifting the body tenderly

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from the rails. Then he fainted. He came to in the police station,

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and that his face and hair were
dabbed with water. Presently he was

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formally charged and warned not to say
anything incriminating. He said only it was

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me. But this he repeated several
times. He was trying to convince himself.

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Then he was removed to the cells
and found himself alone. He lay

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down and slept deeply, and the
sun had set and risen before he awoke.

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At his trial and after conviction,
he did not speak. He seemed

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too dazed. But as they led
him away, he broke his silence.

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Can a man die twice? He
inquired reflectively, Can a man die twice?

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There is no more to chronicle.
They were his last recorded words.

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The End of the Murderer by Richard
Middleton