Death Kit

by Susan Sontag

  “I hear something.” Don’t whisper, darling. They have to talk above Diddy’s heart thundering in his chest. Both begin listening (now), while trying to walk as noiselessly as possible and not to slacken their pace. “Dalton, I’m afraid.” He clasps her hand more tightly. “Really. I want to go back.”

  Diddy not knowing which alarms him more. The indecipherable noise ahead, getting slightly louder (now) and more distinct. Or Hester’s anxiety; and its possible consequences. That she might compel him to turn back with her. Or that she might desert him, leaving him to continue without her.

  “Darling, don’t make me go back with you now. You know I can’t let you turn back alone, and I don’t want to go on by myself. Trust me. Stay with me.”

  Hester doesn’t reply. But doesn’t pause, either; keeps walking, not even slowing down. Oh, let her silence and the steadiness of her step signify that she’s willing to continue with him. But she could change at any moment. Fear may win. And once Hester decides to turn back, she will. Diddy won’t be able to dissuade her; or stop her, except by force. Knows she’s afraid. The difficulty is that he’s frightened, too.

  There’s no doubt that the tapping sound is getting louder. Whatever or whoever is making the sound must be only a short distance ahead. (Now) the tunnel no longer seems familiar, known, even knowable. Diddy doubts that he’s ever been here before. How could he have been? In this tunnel? All Diddy perceives are features common to every railroad tunnel: the long enclosed space, the damp cool air, the darkness, the bed of hard earth, the empty track along which they’re walking. And, as in every tunnel, all sounds are deadened; almost an echo effect.

  Only one idiosyncratic feature: the track is curving. As did the track last time. Yet, although no long jointed iron train languishes alongside to supply an index of the degree of curvature, Diddy is convinced that this track’s curve is more pronounced than the other one.

  (Now) Diddy sees light ahead. Not a direct source of light, but an aura seeping from beyond the curve of the track. To make sure, extinguishes his torch for a moment. “Light ahead,” he whispers to Hester. She doesn’t answer. Diddy switches his light on once more. Then turns it off for good, and hooks it on his belt.

  After walking another minute, the new light and the person who performs some task under its glare both spring into Diddy’s view. The light comes down from a huge fixture which hangs from the ceiling of the tunnel, made of irregular strips of black wrought iron and harboring at least a dozen naked bulbs. Under the light, a tall swarthy workman is engaged in some kind of repair of the track. At a distance, Diddy observes that the man has on work clothes that closely resemble Incardona’s. Boots, overalls, and undershirt. The main difference is in the accessories: unlike Incardona, this man wears a knee-length brown leather apron that covers the front of his shirt and ties around his neck.

  “I see someone just ahead,” mutters Diddy.

  “Have we found the trackman?”

  Hester’s question stalks Diddy, reaches him, leans on him like a huge flat stone. Startling, heavy, oppressive. Diddy appalled by the possibility of such a misconception. As if Hester thought the man they were approaching is the same one Diddy described yesterday, before they set out; when he’d presented her with the whole truth, including the newspaper report and his interview with Incardona’s widow. As if he still hadn’t been understood. Or more likely, still wasn’t believed.

  “Another man,” Diddy, not trusting himself to speak further.

  (Now) they’re almost upon him. In face and form, Diddy sees, this man does resemble Incardona. And, what’s more upsetting, he too is working at dismantling what appears to be a kind of barrier across the track. But this barrier is built of different material from the first. Rectangular gray-white blocks—whether of quarried stone or concrete, Diddy can’t tell yet. A good portion of the job already done.

  Holding Hester tightly around the waist, Diddy halts about ten feet from where the man is energetically at work with a chisel and hammer, chopping away at the cement filling between the blocks. Diddy’s head begins to thicken. Much as he longs to deny it, the resemblance between this man and Incardona is uncannily close. Both about the same age, build, height, and complexion; both have similar, rather ordinary gross features. Could they possibly be brothers? A slightly younger or older Incardona, who works for the railroad. Named Charlie. Being brothers is at least one step away from being the same. But no, that’s absurd. Look again. Diddy trying to hang on to the differences. Once again: there’s no lamp strapped to his brow; this man is wearing a leather apron. And it isn’t of a miner hacking at the under-earth that Diddy is reminded. This man suggests, partly by his appearance and partly by his style of work, a tanner. Or a smith at his forge. Or, somewhat remotely, a gravedigger.

  “What do you see?” Hester whispers.

  Diddy aghast at Hester’s having taken the liberty of speaking at this moment, even in a whisper. Intent on his work, the man apparently hasn’t heard them approaching. Why else would he not have looked in their direction or acknowledged them? But since Hester has ended the silence, the workman’s self-absorbed behavior takes on another, less innocent meaning. He must have heard Hester’s voice just then. Aware (now), if not before, of the man and woman standing close by. So if he still doesn’t speak or even look up, he’s deliberately ignoring them.

  Diddy panicking. Has had the mad idea that if they didn’t speak they wouldn’t be seen. Since Hester has spoken, they are discovered, exposed.

  But to what? To a situation that’s unpleasant, even dangerous? All depends on whom they’re dealing with.

  Is Diddy prepared to admit that the surly laborer near them is none other than Incardona? Yes, as much as anyone is ever prepared to admit something that doesn’t make sense. Something of which no account can ever be convincing, ever appease the obvious doubts. Diddy not only prepared. Has arrived at the rim of belief, actually. In fact, already there. In the crater. Settled, in residence, among impossibles. Doing the circuit which connects an album of sites wherein those impossibilities are housed.

  To put Diddy’s capacity for credence in a less extreme form: he believes two incompatible things. That Incardona died and that Incardona lives. Not all that different from, or significantly harder than, believing that he, Diddy, died; and also, that he lived.

  Here is Diddy’s view, in the least extreme form. It is the same man, he (now) both believes and cannot believe.

  With so many refinements of belief and assertion, it’s hard to give a simple, straight answer to Hester’s question. Better to watch and wait.

  Grunting with apparent satisfaction, the workman has stopped knocking and chipping at the cement. He squats beside a canvas pouch lying on the ground and extracts another tool, a huge hammer. Comes to a standing position, rises on the balls of his feet, raises the hammer straight above his head, brings it down; delivering a powerful blow to one of the blocks making up what’s (now) the top tier of the barrier. Recoiling at the brutal sound, Hester screams faintly. Diddy covered her mouth with his hand.

  Another block has yielded, and the man works it loose with the aid of the crowbar. Whistling tunelessly as he seizes the conquered chunk of matter, carries it over to the pile of already dislodged blocks heaped up inside a niche in the tunnel wall. On his way back to the barrier, he glances directly, very coolly at Diddy and Hester. Continues whistling, but says nothing.

  Diddy, ashamed of his cowardice, removes his hand from Hester’s mouth. “Forgive me, darling,” he whispers. “I’m trying to think for both of us. But if you give in to fear, I get confused. I can’t think at all.”

  The trackman at work again. Perhaps overheard what Diddy said, because when he looks up for a moment this time, he laughs. He smells like an animal, breathes like an animal.

  “Why is he laughing?” Hester has been leaning against Diddy’s left side, even after he’s taken his hand from her mouth. When she straightens up, finds that the heel of one shoe is jammed between a s
egment of the rail and a huge bolt; in working it free, almost loses her footing.

  Diddy grabs her. “Watch out!”

  “I’m all right.” She wants to stand by herself. “Dalton, why is he laughing?”

  “I don’t know,” says Diddy. “Or maybe I do. He’s playing bully. He’s trying to intimidate us.”

  “How far away is he?” Although whispered into Diddy’s ear, it’s possible that the workman overheard.

  “Just hold on to me,” Diddy whispers.

  “Just hold on to me!” says the workman in a harsh, husky voice.

  At last! Diddy relieved to be getting on with it. “So you’ve decided to start talking, have you?”

  “I don’t know if I’m talking to you, man,” says the workman. “But the lady, well,” he grins, “that’s something else. Yessiree, something else.”

  “Dalton!”

  “Dalton!” mimicks the trackman.

  Diddy enraged. The man being insolent again, more insolent than before. Crudely menacing. But this time, since Diddy’s not alone, everything’s different. Incardona doesn’t appear to be paying much attention to Diddy. Has dismissed him as an adversary of no account whatever; is hardly looking at him. This time he’s after Hester. Not contempt, like the other time, that Diddy sees (now) distorting the workman’s heavy features. It’s lust. Which, of course, Hester doesn’t and can’t see. Diddy must see for both of them. Protect her, even above himself, against the beasts that overrun this world. Diddy as St. George.

  He’s coming closer. With one arm, Diddy grips Hester tightly. Looking about for his weapon.

  Incardona has underestimated his adversary. This time it’s an experienced Diddy, his hands already baptized in blood, who stands. Tense with hatred, ready for combat. Diddy lets go of Hester.

  Incardona still coming on, so confident of his physical superiority to frail bedridden Diddy that he isn’t even holding an ax in his hands. But Diddy, straining with fury and loathing, is not going to play the gentleman. Even though this is something of a duel of honor. Having thrust the trembling Hester behind him, he picks up the crowbar again and stands ready. “Oh, want to play games, huh?” sneers the man, nodding in the direction of Diddy’s weapon.

  “Just come one step nearer,” Diddy shouts, “and you’ll see what game I’m playing.” Diddy feeling strong, invincible. Feels he is made of stone.

  “All’s fair in love and war!” Incardona sneers, and feints dodging to Diddy’s left, as Diddy brings his crowbar down in the empty air. The force of the unsuccessful blow makes Diddy almost lose his balance; he just avoids smashing himself in the shins with the crowbar. No, stop! Hester moans. Incardona has pawed at her breast, but then darts away, dancing about like a boxer. “Hester!” Diddy shouts. Doesn’t dare look at her again, because he’d have to take his eyes off Incardona. But he has to know. “Hester!” Meaning: Are you all right? Did he hurt you?

  “Dalton, don’t kill him!”

  But it wasn’t possible for Diddy to hear what Hester has just cried out, much less to understand it. Seems to be mixed up with many other muddleheaded exclamations and exhortations and assertions such as, “Wake up!” and “Hey!” and “Try the oxygen!”

  Outraged Diddy means to kill. There is no going back on that. You must kill what you hate absolutely; unless you’re willing to let it kill you.

  Although Incardona is weaponless, Diddy’s task isn’t easy. Diddy has figured out that he will never get at Incardona by running at him head on; even without a weapon, the large, powerfully muscled workman is too agile. Diddy will have to use guile. Still numb-fingered from his previous blow, he grasps the iron tool with both hands as firmly as he can. At the same moment, shouts: “Hester, lie down!” Incardona stops leaping about, looks away for a moment from Diddy to Hester. Which is when, exactly when, Diddy brings the crowbar down on the man’s head.

  With an ugly yell, Incardona throws his hands up to his head, sways, pivots, his knees bending; then collapses to the ground. Lying there, huddled. His shattered head pours forth blood, brains, bits of bone, and something that looks like dirty water. There’s no doubt this time. Diddy has killed him. No need for a train to finish the job. This was a frontal blow, as well as a more energetic and well-aimed one. Diddy looks down at the man crumpled on the tunnel bed, meaning to gloat. And even finding himself able to muster that brutal emotion, overriding his helpless twitchings of horror and disgust. Diddy triumphant.

  At last, Diddy thinks. He’s really dead (now). Because I was halfhearted the first time, I had to come back and do it again.

  He hears Hester behind him, whimpering; turns. She’s squatting on the ground, head lowered; stained with grease, mud, and blood spattered by Incardona’s gashed skull. Dropping the crowbar, Diddy kneels beside her and embraces her tightly. Has forgotten entirely what he took to be her outcry of panic, of fear for his safety: “Dalton, don’t kill him!” Can only assume that Hester realizes the duel is over. And that Diddy, unscathed, is the victor. Kissing her cheeks, her mouth, her neck, “Now you saw me,” he murmurs. “You saw me this time.”

  But Hester appears not to understand. Doesn’t share Diddy’s euphoria, his obstinate exultation. On the contrary. Hester seems (now) even more charged with obscure grief. She pulls away from Diddy’s embrace. Stands, rebuffing his attempts to aid her. Fiercely brushing at her clothes, stamping the mud from her shoes.

  Diddy, baffled, stands up, too. “What’s the matter, darling? Why are you angry? Everything’s all right now. You saw what happened.”

  “No, I didn’t see,” she says bitterly, “and you know that.” Pause. “But if this will satisfy you, I do believe you.”

  “There’s something more you’re thinking.” Diddy says agitatedly. “That you’re not telling me.”

  “It’s all over,” said Hester. “And it doesn’t matter, it couldn’t have been otherwise. You had to do what you had to do.”

  “I just don’t understand you,” shouts Diddy. “We’re not talking about the same thing.”

  “Yes, we are. I’ve said it already. I do believe you.”

  Diddy can’t understand why Hester’s become cold and severe. What reason she has for refusing him his long-deferred vindication. “That’s not enough,” he insists, sullenly. “You must see me.” What good is such a defective, distracted witness? None, none at all. Must I kill him again?

  “But I can’t,” she cries hysterically. “You know I can’t.”

  Diddy throbbing with anger at Hester. He has saved her life, he has saved his own. And, most important of all, he’s brought their truths together, yoked them; made them coincide, even though it had to be by force. And in response to this feat, what does Hester do? Hurls at him the arbitrary technicality of her blindness. Diddy will not have it. “I want to be seen!” he shouts.

  With that cry, something in Diddy yields. Maybe it’s his anger. He felt the taut struts of his body loosen, stiffened fibers begin to dissolve, tense nerves dilate. The air seems to lighten, become less putrid-smelling. And much warmer. Diddy afraid to look at Hester; glances again at the crumpled man, a little spill of watery muck still draining from inside his skull. Finds what he perceives neither terrifying nor sickening. Such reactions presuppose that Diddy understands what he sees, and what he’s done. And would then be able to marshal the old, tired reactions.

  But it’s different (now), everything is different. Waves of newness are flowing over the surface of this event.

  Yet, how can that be? When this isn’t the first but the second time?

  Diddy knows the answer. It lies not in an idea, but in a deed. He wants to make love to Hester. Here, at this moment. For that love-making is the supplementary act. To all his murders, the sequel. The two somehow go together. But not in the way he’d understood before. Before, he had thought of union with Hester as the pardon that followed his guilty deed; or even the reward. (Now) Diddy wonders if, perhaps, he doesn’t kill the trackman each time only in order to renew his ability t
o make love. The touch of violence being merely the necessary prelude which makes the other, the touch of love, possible. If this is true, love would be Diddy’s goal, not his anodyne. Violence, demoted, only clears the ground?… But why must Diddy proceed in so roundabout a way?

  After spreading his windbreaker and sweater on the strip of ground between the pair of tracks, a few feet from Incardona’s body, and unlacing and taking off his boots, he makes Hester lie down with him. Takes her in his arms—quite inert at first, not responding at all. But Diddy feels so elated, so confident in his desire, that he didn’t doubt he can arouse Hester and make her join him. Begins to caress her breasts; then puts one hand between her legs while, with the other, lifting up her dress to her waist. Diddy lost in the sweet, wet flesh. Yes, she is beginning to love him again, in spite of herself. After slipping down his trousers and shorts as far as his knees, Diddy moves his body on top of hers. She is beginning to move, too; though her head is turned curiously far to one side, so Diddy has trouble kissing her face. Their movements begin to braid together. Without ever breaking their rhythm, Diddy unfastens her brassière from behind and lifts her dress even higher; kicked his pants completely off, and puts himself deep inside her. It is only the beginning, and already Diddy’s pleasure is more acute and imperious than at any time they have made love, including the first. It must be true for Hester, too. For (now) she’s with him in everything, though still with her face, guarded by the sunglasses, turned sharply away. They come once, but it’s not enough. Each must offer every part of his body to the other—to genitals, mouth, hands, knees, hair, feet. Both crying, crooning, groaning, laughing, hissing, chanting obscenities—an arrangement of urgent sounds that Diddy has never heard from either of them. Diddy and Hester, like two wild creatures who have never coupled before. Trying to stay on top of Diddy’s sweater and windbreaker, but eventually rolling off, tearing any clothes they’ve still kept on, smearing themselves with filth, scraping their skin. All part of the same magma of sensation, in which pleasure and pain are one. They come together again. (Now) truly, Diddy feels forgiven. He is rising out of his lean weak body, like a sea creature out of its shell.