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Speaker 1: The Murderer by Richard Middleton. He walked down to the embankment,

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with the paving stones like velvet under his feet, and

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he swerved like one running yet still, though he meant

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to end his life in a few minutes. He avoided

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the traffic with great care, so that paternal policeman judged

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him newly from the country. The august sun seemed pitiless

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in its strength, and in his fear and wretchedness, he

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cursed it better rain, mist, fog, anything but the reproachful

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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

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emphasized his failure. The river was a sparkling tumult of gems,

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where he had pictured a secret, immutable surface which should

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flow darkly over him and his wrongs. In place of

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

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laughing children. Where should he seek peace and forgiveness. He

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leaned on the parapet and groaned. A train thundered by

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over Hungerford Bridge, as if in answer, of course, that

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was the way safer, quicker. He took a ticket at

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Charing Cross station and passed to the end of the

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platform with the strange numbness in his mind and body,

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as if he were already dead. Yet he walked to

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the extreme end because there was no one there to interfere. Presently,

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

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and he leapt off the platform and laid his head

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on the rail. It blistered his cheek because the sun

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had made it so hot. Then the earth heaved itself

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up and thrust and tore him between the wheels of

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the carriages. When the train had passed, he rose to

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his feet unsteadily and stared stupidly at the mangled body

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lying at his feet. There was a shrill singing in

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his ears, which was shortly interrupted by the sound of

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human voices, and he felt his arms caught roughly and imprisoned.

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Soon he made out the word murderer angrily spoken, and

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found that he was held by the plate layers, who

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were gesticulating violently and pointing at the body. But he

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would not speak, because though the head had become a

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crushed horror upon the rails, he knew that the body

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was his. Dimly, he was aware that porters and policemen

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were crowding from the station, and that they were lifting

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the body tenderly from the rails. Then he fainted. He

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came to in the police station, and that his face

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and hair were dabbed with water. Presently he was formally

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charged and warned not to say anything incriminating. He said

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only it was me. But this he repeated several times.

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He was trying to convince himself. Then he was removed

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to the cells and found himself alone. He lay down

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and slept deeply, and the sun had set and risen

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before he awoke. At his trial and after conviction, he

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did not speak. He seemed too dazed. But as they

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led him away, he broke his silence. Can a man

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

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There is no more to chronicle. They were his last

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recorded words. The End of the Murderer by Richard Middleton