CunningLinguist

i may know the craft of writing but vic knows the art of it. here`s a story she wrote me today:

Hundreds of years ago in a tiny village in the south of what is now France in a time yet to be tyrannised by the rule of clocks lived a man and a woman.

“In a time long before now, in the forests on the edge of the great river lived a man and a woman. The man as he had been known for centuries was Ki and the woman, as he had always known her was Ving…

Technorati Tags:
short stories, wyf

i`m glad to see Lamb to the Slaughter was so well received. he is far and away my favourite short story writer, many writers have borrowed liberally from him in terms of style and content.

a lot of his short stories also translated into tales from the unexpected episode and the following story was the very first episode of tales of the unexpected, filmed on location in jamaica most recently adapted for the final tale in the movie four rooms. edit: now with all the links.

Man From the South

BY ROALD DAHL

It was getting on toward six o’clock so I thought I’d buy myself a beer and go out and sit in a deck chair by the swimming pool and have a little evening sun.

I went to the bar and got the beer and carried it outside and wandered down the garden toward the pool.

It was a fine garden with lawns and beds of azaleas and tall coconut palms, and the wind was blowing strongly through the tops of the palm trees making the leaves hiss and crackle as though they were on fire.  I could see the clusters of big brown nuts handing down underneath the leaves.

There were plenty of deck chairs around the swimming pool and there were white tables and huge brightly colored umbrellas and sunburned men and women sitting around in bathing suits.  In the pool itself there were three or four girls and about a dozen boys, all splashing about and making a lot of noise and throwing a large rubber ball at one another.

I stood watching them.  The girls were English girls from the hotel.  The boys I didn’t know about, but they sounded American and I thought they were probably naval cadets who’d come ashore from the U.S. naval training vessel which had arrived in the harbor that morning.

I went over and sat down under a yellow umbrella where there were four empty seats, and I poured my beer and settled back comfortably with a cigarette.

It was very pleasant sitting there in the sunshine with beer and a cigarette.  It was pleasant to sit and watch the bathers splashing about in the green water.

The American sailors were getting on nicely with the English girls.  They’d reached the stage where they were diving under the water and tipping them up by their legs.

Just then I noticed a small, oldish man walking briskly around the edge of the pool.  He was immaculately dressed in a white suit and he walked very quickly with little bouncing strides, pushing himself high up onto his toes with each step.  He had on a large creamy Panama hat, and he came bouncing along the side of the pool, looking at the people and the chairs.

He stopped beside me and smiled, showing two rows of very small, uneven teeth, slightly tarnished.  I smiled back.

“Excuse pleess, but may I sit here?”

“Certainly,” I said.  “Go ahead.”

He bobbed around to the back of the chair and inspected it for safety, then he sat down and crossed his legs.  His white buckskin shows had little holes punched all over them for ventilation.

“A fine evening,” he said.  “They are all evenings fine here in Jamaica.”  I couldn’t tell if the accent were Italian or Spanish, but I felt fairly sure he was some sort of a South American.  And old too, when you saw him close.  Probably around sixty-eight or seventy.

“Yes,” I said.  “It is wonderful here, isn’t it.”

“And who, might I ask are all dese?  Dese is no hotel people.”  He was pointing at the bathers in the pool.

“I think they’re American sailors,” I told him.  “They’re Americans who are learning to be sailors.”

“Of course dey are Americans.  Who else in de world is going to make as much noise as dat?  You are not American, no?”

“No,” I said.  “I am not.”

Suddenly one of the American cadets was standing in front of us.  He was dripping wet from the pool and one of the English girls was standing there with him.

“Are these chairs taken?” he said.

“No,” I answered.

“Mind if I sit down?”

“Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” he said.  He had a towel in his hand and when he sat down he unrolled it and produced a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.  He offered the cigarettes to the girl and she refused; then he offered them to me and I took one.  The little man said, “Tank you, no, but I tink I have a cigar.”  He pulled out a crocodile case and got himself a cigar, then he produced a knife which had a small scissors in it and he snipped the end off the cigar.

“Here, let me give you a light.”  The American boy held up his lighter.

“Dat will not work in dis wind.”

“Sure, it’ll work.  It always works.”

The little man removed his unlighted cigar from his mouth, cocked his head on one side and looked at the boy.

“All-ways?” he said softly.

“Sure, it never fails.  Not with me anyway.”

The little man’s head was still cocked over on one side and he was still watching the boy.  “Well, well.  So you say dis famous lighter it never fails.  Iss dat you say?”

“Sure,” the boy said.  “That’s right.”  He was about nineteen or twenty with a long freckled face and a rather sharp birdlike nose.  His chest was not very sunburned and there were freckles there too, and a few wisps of pale-reddish hair.  He was holding the lighter in his right hand, ready to flip the wheel.  “It never fails,” he said, smiling now because he was purposely exaggerating his little boast.  “I promise you it never fails.”

“One momint, pleess.”  The hand that held the cigar came up high, palm outward, as though it were stopping traffic.  “Now juss one momint.”  He had a curiously soft, toneless voice and he kept looking at the boy all the time.

“Shall we not perhaps make a little bet on dat?”  He smiled at the boy.  “Shall we not make a little bet on whether your lighter lights?”

“Sure, I’ll bet,” the boy said.  “Why not?”

“You like to bet?”

“Sure, I’ll always bet.”

#SPLIT#

The man paused and examined his cigar, and I must say I didn’t much like the way he was behaving.  It seemed he was already trying to make something out of this, and to embarrass the boy, and at the same time I had the feeling he was relishing a private little secret all his own.

He looked up again at the boy and said slowly, “I like to bet, too.  Why we don’t have a good bet on dis ting?  A good big bet?

“Now wait a minute,” the boy said.  “I can’t do that.  But I’ll bet you a dollar, or whatever it is over here-some shillings, I guess.”

The little man waved his hand again.  “Listen to me.  Now we have some fun.  We make a bet.  Den we go up to my room here in de hotel where iss no wind and I bet you you cannot light dis famous lighter of yours ten times running without missing once.”

“I’ll bet I can,” the boy said.

“All right.  Good.  We make a bet, yes?”

“Sure.  I’ll bet you a buck.”

“No, no.  I make you very good bet.  I am rich man and I am sporting man also.  Listen to me.  Outside de hotel iss my car.  Iss very fine car.  American car from your country.  Cadillac-”

“Hey, now.  Wait a minute.”  The boy leaned back in his deck chair and he laughed.  “I can’t put up that sort of property.  This is crazy.”

“Not crazy at all.  You strike lighter successfully ten times running and Cadillac is yours.  You like to have dis Cadillac, yes?”

“Sure, I’d like to have a Cadillac.”  The boy was still grinning.

“All right.  Fine.  We make a bet and I put up my Cadillac.”

“And what do I put up?”

“The little man carefully removed the red band from his still unlighted cigar.  “I never ask you, my friend, to bet something you cannot afford.  You understand?”

“Then what do I bet?”

“I make it very easy for you, yes?”

“Okay.  You make it easy.”

“Some small ting you can afford to give away, and if you did happen to lose it you would not feel too bad.  Right?”

“Such as what?”

“Such as, perhaps, de little finger of your left hand.”

“My what!  The boy stopped grinning.

“Yes.  Why not?  You win, you take de car.  You looss, I take de finger.”

“I don’t get it.  How d’you mean, you take the finger?”

“I chop it off.”

“Jumping jeepers!  That’s a crazy bet.  I think I’ll just make it a dollar.”

The man leaned back, spread out his hands palms upward and gave a tiny contemptuous shrug of the shoulders.  “Well, well, well,” he said.  “I do not understand.  You say it lights but you will not bet.  Den we forget it, yes?”

The boy sat quite still, staring at the bathers in the pool.  Then he remembered suddenly he hadn’t lighted his cigarette.  He put it between his lips, cupped his hands around the lighter and flipped the wheel.  The wick lighted and burned with a small, steady, yellow flame and the way he held his hands the wind didn’t get to it at all.

“Could I have a light, too?” I said.

“Gee, I’m sorry.  I forgot you didn’t have one.”

I held out my hand for the lighter, but he stood up and came over to do it for me.

“Thank you,” I said, and he returned to his seat.

“You having a good time?” I asked.

“Fine,” he answered.  “It’s pretty nice here.”

There was a silence then, and I could see that the little man has succeeded in disturbing the boy with his absurd proposal.  He was sitting there very still, and it was obvious that a small tension was beginning to build up inside him.  Then he started shifting about in his seat, and rubbing his chest, and stroking the back of his neck, and finally he placed both hands on his knees and began tapping his fingers against his knee-caps.  Soon he was tapping with one of his feet as well.

“Now just let me check up on this bet of yours,” he said at last.  “You say we go up to your room and if I make this lighter light ten times running I win a Cadillac.  If it misses just once then I forfeit the little finger of my left hand.  Is that right?”

“Certainly.  Dat is de bet.  But I tink you are afraid.”

“What do we do if I lose?  Do I have to hold my finger out while you chop it off?”

“Oh, no!  Dat would be no good.  And you might be tempted to refuse to hold it out.  What I should do I should tie one of your hands to de table before we started and I should stand dere with a knife ready to go chop de momint your lighter missed.”

“What year is the Cadillac?” the boy asked.

“Excuse.  I not understand.”

“What year-how old is the Cadillac?”

“Ah!  How old?  Yes.  It is last year.  Quite now car.  But I see you are not betting man.  Americans never are.”

The boy paused for just a moment and he glanced first at the English girl, then at me.  “Yes,” he said sharply.  “I’ll bet you.”

“Good!” The little man clapped his hands together quietly, once.  “Fine,” he said.  “We do it now.  And you, sir,” he turned to me, “you would perhaps be good enough to, what you call it, to-to referee.”  He had pale, almost colorless eyes with tiny bright black pupils.

“Well,” I said.  “I think it’s a crazy bet.  I don’t think I like it very much.”

“Nor do I,” said the English girl.  It was the first time she’d spoken.  “I think it’s a stupid, ridiculous bet.”

“Are you serious about cutting off this boy’s finger if he loses?” I said.

“Certainly I am.  Also about cutting off this boy’s finger if he loses?” I said.

“Certainly I am.  Also about giving him Cadillac if he win.  Come now.  We go to my room.”

He stood up.  “You like to put on some clothes first?” he said.

“No,” the boy answered.  “I’ll come like this.”  Then he turned to me.  “I’d consider it a favor if you’d come along and referee.”

“All right,” I said.  “I’ll come along, but I don’t like the bet.”

“You come too,” he said to the girl.  “You come and watch.

The little man led the way back through the garden to the hotel.  He was animated now, and excited, and that seemed to make him bounce up higher than ever on his toes as he walked along.

“I live in annex,” he said.  “You like to see car first?  Iss just here.”

He took us to where we could see the front driveway of the hotel and he stopped and pointed to a sleek pale-green Cadillac parked close by.

“Dere she iss.  De green one.  You like?”

“Say, that’s a nice car,” the boy said.

“All right.  Now we go up and see if you can win her.”

We followed him into the annex and up one flight of stairs.  He unlocked his door and we all trooped into what was a large pleasant double bedroom.  There was a woman’s dressing gown lying across the bottom of one of the beds.

“First,” he said, “we’ave a little Martini.”

The drinks were on a small table in the far corner, all ready to be mixed, and there was a shaker and ice and plenty of glasses. He began to make the Martini, but meanwhile he’d rung the bell and now there was a knock on the door and a colored maid came in.

“Ah!” he said, putting down the bottle of gin, taking a wallet from his pocket and pulling out a pound note.  “You will do something for me now, pleess.”  He gave the maid the pound.

“You keep dat,” he said.  “And now we are going to play a little game in here and I want you to go off and find for me two-no three tings.  I want some nails; I want a hammer, and I want a chopping knife, a butcher’s chipping knife which you can borrow from de kitchen.  You can get, yes?”

“A chopping knife!” The maid opened her eyes wide and clasped her hands in front of her.  “You mean a real chopping knife?”

“Yes, yes, of course.  Come on now, pleess.  You can find dose tings surely for me.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll try, sir.  Surely I’ll try to get them.”  And she went.

The little man handed round the Martinis.  We stood there and sipped them, the boy with the long freckled face and the pointed nose, bare-bodied except for a pair of faded brown bathing shorts; the English girl, a large-boned, fair-haired girl wearing a pale blue bathing suit, who watched the boy over the top of her glass all the time; the little man with the colorless eyes standing there in his immaculate white suit drinking his Martini and looking at the girl in her pale blue bathing dress.  I didn’t know what to make of it all.  The man seemed serious about the bet and he seemed serious about the business of cutting off the finger.  But hell, what if the boy lost?  Then we’d have to rush him to the hospital in the Cadillac that he hadn’t won.  That would be a fine thing.  Now wouldn’t that be a really find thing?  It would be a damn silly unnecessary thing so far as I could see.

“Don’t you think this is rather a silly bet?” I said.

“I think it’s a fine bet,” the boy answered.  He had already downed one large Martini.

“I think it’s a stupid, ridiculous bet,” the girl said.  “What’ll happen if you lose?”

“It won’t matter.  Come to think of it, I can’t remember ever in my life having had any use for the little finger on my left hand. Here he is.”  The boy took hold of the finger.  “Here he is and he hasn’t ever done a thing for me yet.  So why shouldn’t I bet him.  I think it’s a fine bet.”

The little man smiled and picked up the shaker and refilled our glasses.

“Before we begin,” he said, “I will present to de-to de referee de key of de car.”  He produced a car key from his pocket and gave it to me.  “De papers,” he said, “de owning papers and insurance are in de pocket of de car.”

Then the colored maid came in again.  In one hand she carried a small chopper, the kind used by butchers for chopping meat bones, and in the other a hammer and a bag of nails.

“Good!  You get dem all.  Tank you, tank you.  Now you can go.”  He waited until the maid had closed the door, then he put the implements on one of the beds and said, “Now we prepare ourselves, yes?”  And to the boy “Help me, pleess, with dis table.  We carry it out a little.”

It was the usual kind of hotel writing desk, just a plain rectangular table about four feet by three with a blotting pad, ink, pens and paper.  They carried it out into the room away from the wall, and removed the writing things.

“And now,” he said, “a chair.”  He picked up a chair and placed it beside the table.  He was very brisk and very animated, like a person organizing games at a children’s party.  “And now de nails.  I must put in de nails.”  He fetched the nails and he began to hammer them into the top of the table.

We stood there, the boy, the girl, and I, holding Martinis in out hands, watching the little man at work.  We watched him hammer two nails into the table, about six inches apart.  He didn’t hammer them right home; he allowed a small part of each one to stick up.  Then he tested them for firmness with his fingers.

Anyone would think the son of a bitch had done this before, I told myself.  He never hesitates.  Table, nails, hammer, kitchen chopper.  He knows exactly what he needs and how to arrange it.

“And now,” he said, “all we want is some string.”  He found some string.  “All right, at last we are ready.  Will you pleess to sit here at de table,” he said to the boy.

The boy put his glass away and sat down.

“Now place de left hand between dese two nails.  De nails are only so I can tie your hand in place.  All right, good.  Now I tie your hand secure to de table-so,”

He wound the string around the boy’s wrist, then several times around the wide part of the hand, then he fastened it tight to the nails.  He made a good job of it and when he’d finished there wasn’t any question about the boy being able to draw his hand away. But he could move his fingers.

“Now pleess, clench de fist, all except for de little finger.  You must leave de little finger sticking out, lying on de table.”

“Ex-cellent!  Ex-cellent!  Now we are ready.  Wid your right hand you manipulate de lighter.  But one momint, pleess.”

He skipped over to the bed and picked up the chopper.  He came back and stood beside the table with the chopper in his hand.

“We are all ready?” he said.  “Mister referee, you must say to begin.”

The English girl was standing there in her pale blue bathing costume right behind the boy’s chair.  She was just standing there, not saying anything.  The boy was sitting quite still, holding the lighter in his right hand, looking at the chopper.  The little man was looking at me.

“Are you ready?” I asked the boy.

“I’m ready.”

“And you?” to the little man.

“Quite ready,” he said and he lifted the chopper up in the air and held it there about two feet above the boy’s finger, ready to chop.  The boy watched it, but he didn’t flinch and his mouth didn’t move at all.  He merely raised his eyebrows and frowned.

“All right,” I said.  “Go ahead.”

The boy said, “Will you please count aloud the number of times I light it.”

“Yes,” I said.  “I’ll do that.”

With his thumb he raised the top of the lighter, and again with the thumb he gave the wheel a sharp flick.  The flint sparked and the wick caught fire and burned with a small yellow flame.

“One!” I called.

He didn’t blow the flame out; he closed the top of the lighter on it and he waited for perhaps five seconds before opening it again.

He flicked the wheel very strongly and once more there was a small flame burning on the wick.

“Two!”

No one else said anything.  The boy kept his eyes on the lighter.  The little man held the chipper up in the air and he too was watching the lighter.

“Three!”

“Four!”

“Five!”

“Six!”

“Seven!” Obviously it was one of those lighters that worked.  The fling gave a big spark and the wick was the right length.  I watched the thumb snapping the top down onto the flame.  Then a pause.  Then the thumb raising the top once more.  This was an all-thumb operation.  The thumb did everything.  I took a breath, ready to say eight.  The thumb flicked the wheel.  The flint sparked.  The little flame appeared.

“Eight!” I said, and as I said it the door opened.  We all turned and we saw a woman standing in the doorway, a small, black-haired woman, rather old, who stood there for about two seconds then rushed forward shouting, “Carlos!  Carlos!”  She grabbed his wrist, took the chopper from him, threw it on the bed, took hold of the little man by the lapels of his white suit and began shaking him very vigorously, talking to him fast and loud and fiercely all the time in some Spanish-sounding language.  She shook him so fast you couldn’t see him any more.  He became a faint, misty, quickly moving outline, like the spokes of a turning wheel.

Then she slowed down and the little man came into view again and she hauled him across the room and pushed him backward onto one of the beds.  He sat on the edge of it blinking his eyes and testing his head to see if it would still turn on his neck.

“I am so sorry,” the woman said.  “I am so terribly sorry that this should happen.”  She spoke almost perfect English.

“It is too bad,” she went on.  “I suppose it is really my fault.  For ten minutes I leave him alone to go and have my hair washed and I come back and he is at it again.”  She looked sorry and deeply concerned.

The boy was untying his hand from the table.  The English girl and I stood there and said nothing.

“He is a menace,” the woman said.  “Down where we live at home he has taken altogether forty-seven fingers from different people, and he has lost eleven cars.  In the end they threatened to have him put away somewhere.  That’s why I brought him up here.”

“We were only having a little bet,” mumbled the little man from the bed.

“I suppose he bet you a car,” the woman said.

“Yes,” the boy answered.  “A Cadillac.”

“He has no car.  It’s mine.  And that makes it worse,” she said, “that he should bet you when he has nothing to bet with.  I am ashamed and very sorry about it all.”  She seemed an awfully nice woman.

“Well,” I said, “then here’s the key of your car.”  I put it on the table.

“We were only having a little bet,” mumbled the little man.

“He hasn’t anything left to bet with,” the woman said.  “He hasn’t a thing in the world.  Not a thing.  As a matter of fact I myself won it all from him a long while ago.  It took time, a lot of time, and it was hard work, but I won it all in the end.”  She looked up at the boy and she smiled, a slow sad smile, and she came over and put out a hand to take the key from the table.

I can see it now, that hand of hers; it had only one finger on it, and a thumb.

Technorati Tags:
roald dahl, short stories

a short story by Roald Dahl

The room was warm and clean, the curtains drawn, the two table lamps alight-hers and the one by the empty chair opposite. On the sideboard behind her, two tall glasses, soda water, whiskey.  Fresh ice cubes in the Thermos bucket.

Mary Maloney was waiting for her husband to come him from work.

Now and again she would glance up at the clock, but without anxiety, merely to please herself with the thought that each minute gone by made it nearer the time when he would come.  There was a slow smiling air about her, and about everything she did.  The drop of a head as she bent over her sewing was curiously tranquil.  Her skin -for this was her sixth month with child-had acquired a wonderful translucent quality, the mouth was soft, and the eyes, with their new placid look, seemed larger darker than before. When the clock said ten minutes to five, she began to listen, and a few moments later, punctually as always, she heard the tires on the gravel outside, and the car door slamming, the footsteps passing the window, the key turning in the lock.  She laid aside her sewing, stood up, and went forward to kiss him as he came in.

“Hullo darling,” she said.

“Hullo darling,” he answered.

She took his coat and hung it in the closer.  Then she walked over and made the drinks, a strongish one for him, a weak one for herself; and soon she was back again in her chair with the sewing, and he in the other, opposite, holding the tall glass with both hands, rocking it so the ice cubes tinkled against the side.

For her, this was always a blissful time of day.  She knew he didn’t want to speak much until the first drink was finished, and she, on her side, was content to sit quietly, enjoying his company after the long hours alone in the house.  She loved to luxuriate in the presence of this man, and to feel-almost as a sunbather feels the sun-that warm male glow that came out of him to her when they were alone together.  She loved him for the way he sat loosely in a chair, for the way he came in a door, or moved slowly across the room with long strides.  She loved intent, far look in his eyes when they rested in her, the funny shape of the mouth, and especially the way he remained silent about his tiredness, sitting still with himself until the whiskey had taken some of it away.

“Tired darling?”

“Yes,” he said.  “I’m tired,”  And as he spoke, he did an unusual thing.  He lifted his glass and drained it in one swallow although there was still half of it, at least half of it left.. She wasn’t really watching him, but she knew what he had done because she heard the ice cubes falling back against the bottom of the empty glass when he lowered his arm.  He paused a moment, leaning forward in the chair, then he got up and went slowly over to fetch himself another.

“I’ll get it!” she cried, jumping up.

“Sit down,” he said.

When he came back, she noticed that the new drink was dark amber with the quantity of whiskey in it.

“Darling, shall I get your slippers?”

“No.”

She watched him as he began to sip the dark yellow drink, and she could see little oily swirls in the liquid because it was so strong.

“I think it’s a shame,” she said, “that when a policeman gets to be as senior as you, they keep him walking about on his feet all day long.”

He didn’t answer, so she bent her head again and went on with her sewing; bet each time he lifted the drink to his lips, she heard the ice cubes clinking against the side of the glass.

“Darling,” she said.  “Would you like me to get you some cheese?  I haven’t made any supper because it’s Thursday.”

“No,” he said.

“If you’re too tired to eat out,” she went on, “it’s still not too late.  There’s plenty of meat and stuff in the freezer, and you can have it right here and not even move out of the chair.”

Her eyes waited on him for an answer, a smile, a little nod, but he made no sign.

“Anyway,” she went on, “I’ll get you some cheese and crackers first.”

“I don’t want it,” he said.

She moved uneasily in her chair, the large eyes still watching his face.  “But you must eat!  I’ll fix it anyway, and then you can have it or not, as you like.”

She stood up and placed her sewing on the table by the lamp.

“Sit down,” he said.  “Just for a minute, sit down.”

It wasn’t till then that she began to get frightened.

“Go on,” he said.  “Sit down.”

She lowered herself back slowly into the chair, watching him all the time with those large, bewildered eyes.  He had finished the second drink and was staring down into the glass, frowning.

“Listen,” he said.  “I’ve got something to tell you.”

“What is it, darling?  What’s the matter?”

He had now become absolutely motionless, and he kept his head down so that the light from the lamp beside him fell across the upper part of his face, leaving the chin and mouth in shadow.  She noticed there was a little muscle moving near the corner of his left eye.

“This is going to be a bit of a shock to you, I’m afraid,” he said.  “But I’ve thought about it a good deal and I’ve decided the only thing to do is tell you right away.  I hope you won’t blame me too much.”

And he told her.  It didn’t take long, four or five minutes at most, and she say very still through it all, watching him with a kind of dazed horror as he went further and further away from her with each word.

“So there it is,” he added.  “And I know it’s kind of a bad time to be telling you, bet there simply wasn’t any other way.  Of course I’ll give you money and see you’re looked after.  But there needn’t really be any fuss.  I hope not anyway.  It wouldn’t be very good for my job.”

Her first instinct was not to believe any of it, to reject it all.  It occurred to her that perhaps he hadn’t even spoken, that she herself had imagined the whole thing.  Maybe, if she went about her business and acted as though she hadn’t been listening, then later, when she sort of woke up again, she might find none of it had ever happened.

“I’ll get the supper,” she managed to whisper, and this time he didn’t stop her.

When she walked across the room she couldn’t feel her feet touching the floor.  She couldn’t feel anything at all- except a slight nausea and a desire to vomit.  Everything was automatic now-down the steps to the cellar, the light switch, the deep freeze, the hand inside the cabinet taking hold of the first object it met.  She lifted it out, and looked at it.  It was wrapped in paper, so she took off the paper and looked at it again.

A leg of lamb.

All right then, they would have lamb for supper.  She carried it upstairs, holding the thin bone-end of it with both her hands, and as she went through the living-room, she saw him standing over by the window with his back to her, and she stopped.

“For God’s sake,” he said, hearing her, but not turning round.  “Don’t make supper for me.  I’m going out.”

At that point, Mary Maloney simply walked up behind him and without any pause she swung the big frozen leg of lamb high in the air and brought it down as hard as she could on the back of his head.

#SPLIT#

She might just as well have hit him with a steel club.

She stepped back a pace, waiting, and the funny thing was that he remained standing there for at least four or five seconds, gently swaying.  Then he crashed to the carpet.

The violence of the crash, the noise, the small table overturning, helped bring her out of he shock.  She came out slowly, feeling cold and surprised, and she stood for a while blinking at the body, still holding the ridiculous piece of meat tight with both hands.

All right, she told herself.  So I’ve killed him.

It was extraordinary, now, how clear her mind became all of a sudden.  She began thinking very fast.  As the wife of a detective, she knew quite well what the penalty would be.  That was fine.  It made no difference to her.  In fact, it would be a relief.  On the other hand, what about the child?  What were the laws about murderers with unborn children?  Did they kill then both-mother and child?  Or did they wait until the tenth month?  What did they do?

Mary Maloney didn’t know.  And she certainly wasn’t prepared to take a chance.

She carried the meat into the kitchen, placed it in a pan, turned the oven on high, and shoved t inside.  Then she washed her hands and ran upstairs to the bedroom.  She sat down before the mirror, tidied her hair, touched up her lops and face.  She tried a smile.  It came out rather peculiar.  She tried again.

“Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, aloud.

The voice sounded peculiar too.

“I want some potatoes please, Sam.  Yes, and I think a can of peas.”

That was better.  Both the smile and the voice were coming out better now.  She rehearsed it several times more.  Then she ran downstairs, took her coat, went out the back door, down the garden, into the street.

It wasn’t six o’clock yet and the lights were still on in the grocery shop.

“Hullo Sam,” she said brightly, smiling at the man behind the counter.

“Why, good evening, Mrs. Maloney.  How’re you?”

“I want some potatoes please, Sam.  Yes, and I think a can of peas.”

The man turned and reached up behind him on the shelf for the peas.

“Patrick’s decided he’s tired and doesn’t want to eat out tonight,” she told him.  “We usually go out Thursdays, you know, and now he’s caught me without any vegetables in the house.”

“Then how about meat, Mrs. Maloney?”

“No, I’ve got meat, thanks.  I got a nice leg of lamb from the freezer.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t know much like cooking it frozen, Sam, but I’m taking a chance on it this time.  You think it’ll be all right?”

“Personally,” the grocer said, “I don’t believe it makes any difference.  You want these Idaho potatoes?”

“Oh yes, that’ll be fine.  Two of those.”

“Anything else?” The grocer cocked his head on one side, looking at her pleasantly.  “How about afterwards?  What you going to give him for afterwards?”

“Well-what would you suggest, Sam?”

The man glanced around his shop.  “How about a nice big slice of cheesecake?  I know he likes that.”

“Perfect,” she said.  “He loves it.”

And when it was all wrapped and she had paid, she put on her brightest smile and said, “Thank you, Sam.  Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Maloney.  And thank you.”

And now, she told herself as she hurried back, all she was doing now, she was returning home to her husband and he was waiting for his supper; and she must cook it good, and make it as tasty as possible because the poor man was tired; and if, when she entered the house, she happened to find anything unusual, or tragic, or terrible, then naturally it would be a shock and she’d become frantic with grief and horror.  Mind you, she wasn’t expecting to find anything.  She was just going home with the vegetables. Mrs. Patrick Maloney going home with the vegetables on Thursday evening to cook supper for her husband.

That’s the way, she told herself.  Do everything right and natural.  Keep things absolutely natural and there’ll be no need for any acting at all.

Therefore, when she entered the kitchen by the back door, she was humming a little tune to herself and smiling.

“Patrick!” she called.  “How are you, darling?”

She put the parcel down on the table and went through into the living room; and when she saw him lying there on the floor with his legs doubled up and one arm twisted back underneath his body, it really was rather a shock.  All the old love and longing for him welled up inside her, and she ran over to him, knelt down beside him, and began to cry her heart out.  It was easy.  No acting was necessary.

A few minutes later she got up and went to the phone.  She know the number of the police station, and when the man at the other end answered, she cried to him, “Quick!  Come quick!  Patrick’s dead!”

“Who’s speaking?”

“Mrs. Maloney.  Mrs. Patrick Maloney.”

“You mean Patrick Maloney’s dead?”

“I think so,” she sobbed.  “He’s lying on the floor and I think he’s dead.”

“Be right over,” the man said.

The car came very quickly, and when she opened the front door, two policeman walked in.  She know them both-she know nearly all the man at that precinct-and she fell right into a chair, then went over to join the other one, who was called O’Malley, kneeling by the body.

“Is he dead?” she cried.

“I’m afraid he is.  What happened?”

Briefly, she told her story about going out to the grocer and coming back to find him on the floor.  While she was talking, crying and talking, Noonan discovered a small patch of congealed blood on the dead man’s head.  He showed it to O’Malley who got up at once and hurried to the phone.

Soon, other men began to come into the house.  First a doctor, then two detectives, one of whom she know by name.  Later, a police photographer arrived and took pictures, and a man who know about fingerprints.  There was a great deal of whispering and muttering beside the corpse, and the detectives kept asking her a lot of questions.  But they always treated her kindly.  She told her story again, this time right from the beginning, when Patrick had come in, and she was sewing, and he was tired, so tired he hadn’t wanted to go out for supper.  She told how she’d put the meat in the oven-”it’s there now, cooking”- and how she’d slopped out to the grocer for vegetables, and come back to find him lying on the floor.

Which grocer?” one of the detectives asked.

She told him, and he turned and whispered something to the other detective who immediately went outside into the street.

In fifteen minutes he was back with a page of notes, and there was more whispering, and through her sobbing she heard a few of the whispered phrases-”…acted quite normal…very cheerful…wanted to give him a good supper… peas…cheesecake…impossible that she…”

After a while, the photographer and the doctor departed and two other men came in and took the corpse away on a stretcher.  Then the fingerprint man went away.  The two detectives remained, and so did the two policeman.  They were exceptionally nice to her, and Jack Noonan asked if she wouldn’t rather go somewhere else, to her sister’s house perhaps, or to his own wife who would take care of her and put her up for the night.

No, she said.  She didn’t feel she could move even a yard at the moment.  Would they mind awfully of she stayed just where she was until she felt better.  She didn’t feel too good at the moment, she really didn’t.

Then hadn’t she better lie down on the bed?  Jack Noonan asked.

No, she said.  She’d like to stay right where she was, in this chair.  A little later, perhaps, when she felt better, she would move.

So they left her there while they went about their business, searching the house.  Occasionally on of the detectives asked her another question.  Sometimes Jack Noonan spoke at her gently as he passed by.  Her husband, he told her, had been killed by a blow on the back of the head administered with a heavy blunt instrument, almost certainly a large piece of metal.  They were looking for the weapon.  The murderer may have taken it with him, but on the other hand he may have thrown it away or hidden it somewhere on the premises.

“It’s the old story,” he said.  “Get the weapon, and you’ve got the man.”

Later, one of the detectives came up and sat beside her.  Did she know, he asked, of anything in the house that could’ve been used as the weapon?  Would she mind having a look around to see if anything was missing-a very big spanner, for example, or a heavy metal vase.

They didn’t have any heavy metal vases, she said.

“Or a big spanner?”

She didn’t think they had a big spanner.  But there might be some things like that in the garage.

The search went on.  She knew that there were other policemen in the garden all around the house.  She could hear their footsteps on the gravel outside, and sometimes she saw a flash of a torch through a chink in the curtains.  It began to get late, nearly nine she noticed by the clock on the mantle.  The four men searching the rooms seemed to be growing weary, a trifle exasperated.

“Jack,” she said, the next tome Sergeant Noonan went by.  “Would you mind giving me a drink?”

“Sure I’ll give you a drink.  You mean this whiskey?”

“Yes please.  But just a small one.  It might make me feel better.”

He handed her the glass.

“Why don’t you have one yourself,” she said.  “You must be awfully tired.  Please do.  You’ve been very good to me.”

“Well,” he answered.  “It’s not strictly allowed, but I might take just a drop to keep me going.”

One by one the others came in and were persuaded to take a little nip of whiskey.  They stood around rather awkwardly with the drinks in their hands, uncomfortable in her presence, trying to say consoling things to her.  Sergeant Noonan wandered into the kitchen, come out quickly and said, “Look, Mrs. Maloney.  You know that oven of yours is still on, and the meat still inside.”

“Oh dear me!” she cried.  “So it is!”

“I better turn it off for you, hadn’t I?”

“Will you do that, Jack.  Thank you so much.”

When the sergeant returned the second time, she looked at him with her large, dark tearful eyes.  “Jack Noonan,” she said.

“Yes?”

“Would you do me a small favor-you and these others?”

“We can try, Mrs. Maloney.”

“Well,” she said.  “Here you all are, and good friends of dear Patrick’s too, and helping to catch the man who killed him.  You must be terrible hungry by now because it’s long past your suppertime, and I know Patrick would never forgive me, God bless his soul, if I allowed you to remain in his house without offering you decent hospitality.  Why don’t you eat up that lamb that’s in the oven.  It’ll be cooked just right by now.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sergeant Noonan said.

“Please,” she begged.  “Please eat it.  Personally I couldn’t tough a thing, certainly not what’s been in the house when he was here.  But it’s all right for you.  It’d be a favor to me if you’d eat it up.  Then you can go on with your work again afterwards.”

There was a good deal of hesitating among the four policemen, but they were clearly hungry, and in the end they were persuaded to go into the kitchen and help themselves.  The woman stayed where she was, listening to them speaking among themselves, their voices thick and sloppy because their mouths were full of meat.

“Have some more, Charlie?”

“No.  Better not finish it.”

“She wants us to finish it. She said so.  Be doing her a favor.”

“Okay then.  Give me some more.”

“That’s the hell of a big club the gut must’ve used to hit poor Patrick,” one of them was saying.  “The doc says his skull was smashed all to pieces just like from a sledgehammer.”

“That’s why it ought to be easy to find.”

“Exactly what I say.”

“Whoever done it, they’re not going to be carrying a thing like that around with them longer than they need.”

One of them belched.

“Personally, I think it’s right here on the premises.”

“Probably right under our very noses.  What you think, Jack?”

And in the other room, Mary Maloney began to giggle.

Technorati Tags:
short stories, roald dahl, lamb to the slaughter