Speaker 1: The Murderer by Richard Middleton. He walked down to the embankment,
with the paving stones like velvet under his feet, and
he swerved like one running yet still, though he meant
to end his life in a few minutes. He avoided
the traffic with great care, so that paternal policeman judged
him newly from the country. The august sun seemed pitiless
in its strength, and in his fear and wretchedness, he
cursed it better rain, mist, fog, anything but the reproachful
blue of the sky and the dancing glitter of the dust.
He wanted sympathy, and instead nature triumphed over him and
emphasized his failure. The river was a sparkling tumult of gems,
where he had pictured a secret, immutable surface which should
flow darkly over him and his wrongs. In place of
a great, unspeaking god, he found a crowd of dancing,
laughing children. Where should he seek peace and forgiveness. He
leaned on the parapet and groaned. A train thundered by
over Hungerford Bridge, as if in answer, of course, that
was the way safer, quicker. He took a ticket at
Charing Cross station and passed to the end of the
platform with the strange numbness in his mind and body,
as if he were already dead. Yet he walked to
the extreme end because there was no one there to interfere. Presently,
the train appeared, making its way slowly across the bridge,
and he leapt off the platform and laid his head
on the rail. It blistered his cheek because the sun
had made it so hot. Then the earth heaved itself
up and thrust and tore him between the wheels of
the carriages. When the train had passed, he rose to
his feet unsteadily and stared stupidly at the mangled body
lying at his feet. There was a shrill singing in
his ears, which was shortly interrupted by the sound of
human voices, and he felt his arms caught roughly and imprisoned.
Soon he made out the word murderer angrily spoken, and
found that he was held by the plate layers, who
were gesticulating violently and pointing at the body. But he
would not speak, because though the head had become a
crushed horror upon the rails, he knew that the body
was his. Dimly, he was aware that porters and policemen
were crowding from the station, and that they were lifting
the body tenderly from the rails. Then he fainted. He
came to in the police station, and that his face
and hair were dabbed with water. Presently he was formally
charged and warned not to say anything incriminating. He said
only it was me. But this he repeated several times.
He was trying to convince himself. Then he was removed
to the cells and found himself alone. He lay down
and slept deeply, and the sun had set and risen
before he awoke. At his trial and after conviction, he
did not speak. He seemed too dazed. But as they
led him away, he broke his silence. Can a man
die twice? He inquired reflectively, Can a man die twice?
There is no more to chronicle. They were his last
recorded words. The End of the Murderer by Richard Middleton