The Victim by James P. D
Author:James, P. D. [James, P. D.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Crime, Mystery, thriller
ISBN: 9780571354689
Amazon: 0571354688
Goodreads: 43159257
Publisher: Faber & Faber
Published: 2019-01-03T08:00:00+00:00
After that brief visit I never saw or spoke to her again. I stayed in the shack, but life became pointless after Collingfordâs death. Planning his murder had been an interest, after all. Without Elsie and without my victim there seemed little point in living. And, about a year after his death, I began to dream. I still dream, always on a Monday and Friday. I live through it all again; the noiseless run along the towpath over the mush of damp leaves; the quiet swim across the river; the silent opening of his door; the upward thrust of the knife; the vicious turn in the wound; the animal sound of tearing tissues; the curving stream of golden blood. Only the homeward swim is different. In my dream the river is no longer a cleansing stream, luminous under the sickle moon, but a cloying, impenetrable, slow-moving bog of viscous blood through which I struggle in impotent panic towards a steadily receding shore.
I know about the significance of the dream. Iâve read all about the psychology of guilt. Since I lost Elsie Iâve done all my living through books. But it doesnât help. And I no longer know who I am. I know who I used to be, our local assistant librarian, gentle, scholarly, timid, Elsieâs husband. But then I killed Collingford. The man I was couldnât have done that. He wasnât that kind of person. So who am I? It isnât really surprising, I suppose, that the library committee suggested so tactfully that I ought to look for a less exacting job. A less exacting job than the post of assistant librarian? But you canât blame them. No one can be efficient and keep his mind on the job when he doesnât know who he is.
Sometimes, when Iâm in a public house â and I seem to spend most of my time there nowadays since Iâve been out of work â Iâll look over someoneâs shoulder at a newspaper photograph of Elsie and say:
âThatâs the beautiful Ilsa Mancelli. I was her first husband.â
Iâve got used to the way people sidle away from me, the ubiquitous pub bore, their eyes averted, their voices suddenly hearty. But sometimes, perhaps because theyâve been lucky with the horses and feel a spasm of pity for a poor deluded sod, they push a few coins over the counter to the barman before making their way to the door, and buy me a drink.
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