“The question you must ask yourself is this: will the good you do the other man by helping him overcome his problem–whatever that may be–gout, let’s say–will the help you do to the other man in overcoming his gout exceed the harm, exhaustion and general sense of distaste that you incur to yourself in helping him? I know it doesn’t sound very noble, Harry, but then neither does damaging yourself for the sakes of others, as you will then require fixing, and others will be damaged in the attempt, and so it goes on and on and on, and frankly everyone ends up a worse mess than they were to begin with.” A pause while he considered his own world view, before adding, “Besides, gout? Are you really going to help someone get through gout?”
Two weeks later I followed Richard Lisle to the home of Rosemary Dawsett. He stayed for an hour and emerged somewhat less groomed and rather content. She stood in the door and smiled at him as he departed into the dark, and the next day I bought a gun.
Chapter 38
I’d never killed in cold blood before.
Sitting in Richard Lisle’s apartment on a winter’s night in 1948 when the ice was beginning to scratch its teeth across the inside of the window, waiting for him to come home, I knew that I would be perfectly capable of pulling the trigger. My anxiety, therefore, was not so much as to whether I could commit the deed, but as to how confident I was of this fact. It is not so far from such a state of mind to absolute sociopath, I reflected. Would it be appropriate to wail? To sob? To bite my lip, to acquire perhaps a nervous twitch? I hoped that my body, if not my mind, would at least have the good grace to demonstrate some psychosomatic disorder, some unconscious manifestation of guilt at the deed I was about to commit. I spent the long waiting hours sitting in the silence and the dark, reproaching myself for my lack of self-reproach. A self-defeating exercise, but even when the logical absurdity of my own thought processes became apparent to me, I was rather annoyed that even this slim manifestation of conscience was so intellectual. I would have far preferred crying into my pillow at night over this calm analysis of my own moral degeneration.
I broke into Richard Lisle’s apartment at 9.12 p.m.
He did not come home until 1.17 a.m.
This wasn’t particularly uncharacteristic, but nine o’clock had been the optimum time between neighbours settling down and my entry causing an unnecessary disturbance. I kept the light off to avoid questions and waited, gun in my lap, silently in the chair in the living room, which was also the bedroom and, partitioned by a low work surface only, the kitchen too.
He was tipsy without being drunk when he came in.
The sight of me, black leather gloves and small silenced pistol, brought an instant return of struggling sobriety. Rationality, if not intellect, can still overwhelm alcohol when death is on the line.
I should have shot him right then, but the sight of him standing in the door, keys still dangling from their ring, which was threaded over his index finger, a brown woollen vest pulled over his green woollen jumper and face smeared grey from the smog, froze me as well as him. I had no desire to speak to him–nothing I could possibly say–but as I reached for the trigger he blurted, “I don’t have much for you to take, but anything you want is yours.”
I hesitated, then raised the gun.
“You don’t want to do this.” His voice was a bare whisper, his words really rather banal as I was already resolved that this was precisely what I wanted to do, and even if I did not, this was now something that needed to be done. “Please.” He dropped to his knees, the tears already flowing down his face. “I never done nothing wrong.”
I thought about it.
Then pulled the trigger.
Chapter 39
I like Russian trains.
Not for comfort, of which there is none, nor speed, of which there is barely any to be spoken about, particularly when you relate it to the size of the country that must be crossed. Not even, particularly, for the view, which is inevitably repetitive, as Mother Nature decrees that her works of wonder can only occur so frequently across such a vast and cultivated space.
I like Russian trains, or at least those I travelled on in the early spring of 1956, so many centuries after I gunned Lisle down in cold blood; I like the trains for the sense of unity that all these hardships create in its passengers. I suspect the experience is relative. Take a long, cold, uncomfortable, tedious journey in a carriage with just one difficult, dangerous or mad individual, and it seems plausible that the entire carriage will be dull and silent, for its own protection as much as anything else. But take that same journey in the company of cheerful companions, and you can find the time passes far more quickly.
My companions as I headed north-east from Leningrad under the cover of my new papers were nothing if not cheerful.
“Where I come from is shit,” explained Petyr, a seventeen-year-old boy desperately excited by the prospect of working eleven hours a day in a foundry. “All the people are shit, all the land is shit, and shit doesn’t even make the land less shit. But where I’m going–there I’m going to be something, I’m going to do something, and I’m going to meet a girl who wants to be with me and we’re going to have babies, and our children, they’re not going to have to know the shit that I have.”