The Demon (37 page)

 
She became increasingly concerned and worried. She did not want to act like an interfering or nagging wife, but she did ask him one evening if he was all right, and he answered with a sharp yes and immediately changed the subject.

 
Eventually she came to realize that she was preoccupied with what was troubling him, and was becoming so tense that she would have to bring the subject up again. She waited until the children were asleep, then asked him if he was feeling all right.

Fine.

 
She hesitated for a moment, afraid to continue, but more fearful of remaining silent. Are you sure, sweetheart? I mean is there something wrong that you are keeping to yourself so I wont worrry?

Theres nothing wrong. Why you being so insistent?

Im sorry, honey, I didnt realize. But I am worried.

Why?

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Well, you seem so nervous ... as if something is troubling you.

Nothing you need worry about.

 
Linda hesitated for another second, then precipitated herself into continuing. Do you think maybe you should give Dr. Martin a call?

What for? looking and sounding surprised.

I dont know, dear, his name just sort of came to mind.

 
Look, theres nothing that I need to tell him, and theres certainly nothing he can tell me. Now, if you dont mind I would like to get off the subject of my health.

 
Linda tried to think of something light and frivolous to say, but nothing would come to mind. After a moment or two she got up and took a bath and tried to relieve her anxiety with bath oils and hot water.

 
The wheels of the train continued to chant to Harry, It is done, it is done . .. with a blotter, with a blotter, but as the months droned on, the refrain lost its impact on Harry. The feelings of relief and excitement slowly drained with time and left him with the old edginess and anxiety, which were becoming more and more intense. And they must be becoming obvious—Linda was asking him if he was all right. He didnt want to chase her away, but he could not stand being questioned. For a while he could remember the intensity of the feelings after the subway incident and the memory absorbed all the tension and anxiety, but gradually it reached the point where it not only did not do that, but also added the heat of guilt. He would start remembering the mention on the newscast of the mans family—it is done, it is done . . . with a blotter, with a blotter—and cringe and flush and feel extremely conspicuous. For the longest time remembering shoving the body in front of him charged him with the excitement necessary to relieve him of those gnawing feelings, but then the thud and screams started becoming louder and louder and

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soon the body was reaching out and grabbing Harry and pulling him with it.

 
And then a new plague was visited upon him, or rather wormed its way up from the depths to his consciousness. A faint whisper that became a roaring certainty. He could feel it throbbing through him and for the briefest of moments he tried to fight and deny it, but then he simply surrendered to the undeniable fact that he was going to do it again. It was inevitable. With the acceptance of this came another realization: there would be no satisfaction in doing it the same way again.

 
Harry encountered great difficulty in thinking about how it should be done the next time. After thinking about it for a moment or two he started to get nauseous and even trembled slightly. Then he became aware of the reason why it would not work doing it the same way again. Not enough personal involvement. There had to be more personal contact. Yes, that was the solution. He had to be personally involved. More completely involved.

 
Once again the excitement of anticipation pushed aside the tension and anxiety and he felt free. But there was an inner knowledge that he could not think about it too long, that if he did, those old feelings would be back to plague him.

 
This last thought was frightening because there was one more inescapable fact that he was forced to accept: each time those old feelings came back now they were much worse than they had been the time before. He knew, too, that he had to try to keep them buried, at any cost, because if he did not, they would destroy him. Beyond any doubt they had to be controlled.

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2O

                      
 
When all the other matters had been clarified, he knew almost instantly where and how the next one would happen. He watched people crowd into the elevator and he knew it would happen in a crowd. He did not even think of a subway. He had not been in the subway since that day.

 
But there were many places that were almost as crowded. Places in the open. The stadium after a game. Many places. But there was only one place that was truly in the heart of everything. One place that was crowded almost twenty-four hours a day. One place that was known all over the world. The perfect place. Times Square.

And it would be with a

knife. Very long and very sharp. He had to penetrate the thick layers of winter clothing before penetrating the body. It should be neat and clean. With the abundance of winter

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clothing there should be no evidence of bleeding. A chefs knife of some sort. He would carry it in a thin paper bag. Yes, that would be perfect. Conceal the knife. And be inconspicuous. Never be noticed. Should probably be someone tall and big. Can hide behind him. Never be noticed. I dont know? Maybe thats no good. Perhaps the knife should go up high. Bump into someone walking toward me. Try for the heart. Can—No. Thats no good. I would be seen. Even someone short would mean I would have to raise my hand. No. That wont work. No room to really move in the crowd. Must be a simple thrust. Someone too short and the knife might get tangled with the ribs. Must be careful. Must penetrate immediately. No room for maneuvering or time for probing. A thrust. Quick. All the way in. Yeah, deep. Deep. Try and hit bottom. Feel it against the sides. Warm and soft. Twitching. Moist. Then wet. It will have to be from behind. Someone big. A twelve-inch blade should do. Deep enough for anyone. Under the ribs. And up. Lean on it with my weight. Feel his body tighten. And moan. Breathless. Panting and moan. Yes. From behind. A quick thrust. Deep. Can hear it go in. All the way in. ...

 
He continued to think and plan, the lump in his chest getting larger and larger until he could hardly breathe. He could feel his face flush and his legs and stomach tighten and knot, and he knew that his legs would not support him if he tried to stand. He had to stop indulging in the thrill of the plan and start to put it into execution.

 
He spent some time in a cutlery store carefully inspecting its assortment of knives. When he decided on the one he wanted, he had them put it in a plain brown paper bag.

 
He walked unhurriedly through the crowds in Times Square until he saw the man he wanted. He was big and broad and was wearing the clothes of a hard hat of some kind. His jacket came down to his waist and did not look too thick. He walked close behind him. He was about a head taller than Harry. He walked aggressively. Harry looked at the bottom of his jacket. He could see the broad, thick belt the man was

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wearing. He would have to be careful not to hit the belt. Right above it. Excitement pounded through Harry and almost blinded him. He could hardly move. He wanted to wait for the right time, but he knew he could not wait much longer. The people continually bumped past him, and every now and then some one would get between him and the hard hat and he would have to quicken his pace and weave in and around people in order to get back in the right position. He could feel his arms and hands trembling as he rushed to get closer. He had to keep swallowing hard. The intensity was rapidly reaching the point where he knew he would slowly fold in a bundle on the street. They crossed the street and he had to run quickly around a car that was slowly moving through the crowd; he bumped into the car, and the driver jammed on his brakes and yelled at him, but he continued after the hard hat, limping for a few moments. Then there was a sudden surge of people and they were pressed tightly together and Harry grabbed the handle of the knife with both hands and jabbed it in the guys side, just under the ribs, at an upward angle, leaning against it with all his weight and hearing it crunch in. He seemed to be leaning against him forever. He could feel the people around him, he could feel the body stiffen and jerk up and back and could hear the deep-throated moan and could even feel the heat from the body and could feel his hands cramping around the handle of the knife and could feel the edge of the jacket rubbing against his knuckles and smell the cement and sand on the jacket, and he knew he was all the way in, all the way in, and the body was starting to lean heavily against him and he knew that he had to let go of the handle and move away but somehow he could not seem to do it and it seemed like he was there for hours but he still clung to the handle feeling the hard hats pulse throbbing through to his hands and the man leaned more and more heavily against him and he finally slid his hands off the handle and stepped aside as he saw the hard hats hands twisting and grabbing at air and heard the moaning roll through his head and down into his gut and he bumped into someone rushing by

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and spun aside and continued along Broadway concentrating as hard as possible on maintaining a normal pace in the evening rush of people hustling through Times Square on their way home and he was aware of a bit of commotion behind him as he heard the dull sound of something hitting the sidewalk and a few, Hey, look out— Whats a matta, ya drunk or somethin?, and he continued through the crowd feeling the blood pulse behind his eyes and fighting to keep his knees from buckling and feeling on the very brink of exploding. . . .

His

heart was still pounding as he rode home. The wheels were clacking loudly, done again, done again, and he was answering going home, going home, and when he got home, he went right into the shower and stayed under the water until it was no longer hot enough, just letting it bounce and roll off him and trying to ignore that little irritation in the back of his head but unable to because he knew it was true, that he would have to do it again, and he could feel the beginning of a plague in the pit of his gut and he knew it was only a matter of time, a short time, before the demon would be eating him again and he would have to find some way to relieve himself of the twisting tension and gnawing anxiety.

 
The battle within himself for control of himself started much sooner than he had anticipated. After the subway incident it had been many, many months before he had started squirming again, and it had been about a year before he had had to do it again. This time it was only a matter of weeks.

 
He no longer had control over when he thought about what he had done. Most of the time he could suppress it with his work, but at other times it was suddenly in front of him, and now he was constantly turning the hard hat around to get a look at his face or, worse, there were times at night when from the blackness of his sleep a face drifted before him or simply suddenly occurred and just hung there with a mouth open in a silent groan, the features constantly melting into each other and changing while remaining the same. He would struggle to scream it away, but felt himself pinned to the bed

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in a painful and grotesque silence until he finally yelled himself awake and sat on the edge of the bed, nodding and grunting away Lindas questions and attempts to comfort him.

 
In spite of himself and his constant battle, he found himself thinking of the next time and tried to shove the idea out of his mind and to pull a shade down from some place in his head to cover it, but then his mind would thrust him in the midst of the crowd watching the St. Patricks Day parade down Fifth Avenue and he would feel the muscles in his toes tighten and curl and he could hear his teeth grind and feel the sharp ache in his jaws as he fought against the image but it continually came back to haunt him and he dropped the paper bag in his hand and tried to shove his way through the crowd but the damn bag was always back in his hand and the handle seemed to have been molded especially for his fingers, it seemed to be imbedded in them as if it were growing out of them, and no matter how hard he tried he could not rid himself of the dreaded knife and he put his hands behind his back and pushed through the crowd, but he could still feel the knife, and he attacked the work on his desk until the image of the parade and the bag became obscured in the dark corners of his mind and sometimes nonexistent . . .

and then he

would sit on the train at night and feel and hear the drumming of the train: it is done, it is done . . . with a blotter, with a blotter ... done again, done again .. . going home, going home . . . done again, done again, done again, and again, and again, and again . . .

            
and he knew that the face would come in the middle of the night and hang in front of him and constantly melt into itself while remaining unchanged with that horrible mouth hanging open in an agonizing and silent scream and gradually he became more and more afraid of falling asleep, thinking that staying awake was the only way to fight it, and he stayed awake later and later reading a book or pretending he had important work that had to be done, or just lay in bed with his eyes forced open waiting to just pass out and hoping

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that would keep him from seeing the face, but he still saw it not every night, but often enough to be afraid of sleep, afraid not only because of the agony in the face, and the silence of the open mouth, but because he knew that one night the mouth would speak, to him, and he did not want to hear what it had to say, and so with the passing of each day, and night— and again, and again, yet again, yet again, yet again—he felt more and more haunted, and looked more and more haunted and started looking constantly at the calendar, counting down the days until St. Patricks Day, when those goddamn assholes had to put on their green ties and dumb fucking hats and eat that watered-down corned beef and cabbage slop and get drunk and piss green, and as the days and weeks passed he started looking like a man ravaged by a rare and insidious disease as he fought to stay awake and pull a curtain down over the dark corners of his mind again, and again ... yet again....