The Wounded and the Slain

by David Goodis

  “Yes. He drinks a lot and—”

  “He not drinking now,” Winnie said.

  Something has happened, Cora thought. But the thought didn’t show on her face. Nothing showed on her face. She spoke quietly. “Tell me where he is.”

  Winnie didn’t say anything.

  “Please tell me,” Cora said. “I’m his wife.”

  “His wife?” Winnie’s head was slanted. Her eyes were narrowed with doubt. “He not say to me he has wife.”

  “I’m saying it. Don’t you believe me?”

  “Not yet,” Winnie said. “Dere is contradiction here. He not seem like mon who has wife. He seem very lonely, like someone not wanted.”

  Cora winced slightly. For a moment her shoulders slumped. Then again she stood straight and rigid, and her voice was thin and tight as she said, “If you know where he is, you’ll tell me. You can’t keep me from—”

  “Yes, I can,” Winnie said. “I not let you interfere. Dis issue not include you, lady. It very important issue and I not allow you to spoil it.”

  “Spoil what? What are you talking about?”

  “He performing an errand,” Winnie said. “Dat why you find my house lit up. I have been sitting here waiting—hoping he come out of it alive.”

  Cora moved mechanically. She was clutching the wrists of the woman. “Then he needs me,” she said. “Wherever he is, he needs me.”

  “Let go, please. You hurt my wrists.”

  “He needs me!”

  “What tells you dat? How you know for sure?” “I just know it. I feel it.”

  It was quiet and their eyes were riveted together. The quiet was like a wire stretching and vibrating.

  Then it broke. Winnie said, “You care for de mon, you must go to de mon.” She looked down at the hands that held her wrists. The hands fell away. She walked to the door and opened it and said, “Morgan’s Alley. De house number is seventeen.”

  Cora nodded. She murmured aloud to herself, “Seventeen.”

  “Morgan’s Alley. Say it so you will remember.”

  “Seventeen Morgan’s Alley,” Cora said. She hurried through the doorway and across the rutted paving and climbed into the waiting taxi.

  Winnie stood in the doorway watching the taxi as it moved away and gained speed. The taillights became small and then smaller and finally vanished in the darkness. Winnie turned and went into the house. She seated herself in a splintered chair near the splintered, sagging bar. For several minutes she sat there looking at the floor. Then all at once she stiffened. She stood up and moved toward the door and opened it and walked out of the house.

  Chapter Eighteen

  At the intersection of Barry Street and Morgan’s Alley the taxi came to a stop and the driver said, “You get out here.”

  “How far do I walk?”

  “Not far.” He gestured with his thumb. “Down dat way.”

  “Why can’t you drive me there?” “De alley not wide enough.” “Sure it is. You can make it.”

  “Not wide enough,” the driver said “Besides, de path it bumpy. Too many holes. We maybe get stuck.” “The holes aren’t that deep.”

  “Lady, I take you dis far and no furder. You please get out here.”

  “What’s the matter?” Cora asked.

  He didn’t answer. He leaned across the seat and reached toward the rear door and opened it for her, motioning for her to get out.

  She didn’t move. She said, “What’s the matter with you? Are you afraid?”

  The driver sat there waiting for her to get out of the taxi.

  “I think you’re afraid,” she said. And then, as he turned and looked at her, “That’s silly, of course. There’s nothing to be afraid of.”

  “Den why your face so pale? Why your teeth make noise like little motorboat?”

  “Is that what it sounds like?” She heard it then. It seemed to come from very far away, yet she knew it came from her own mouth. I ought to stop that, she thought, and she said aloud, “I really ought to stop it.”

  The driver squirmed. His eyes were wide. Now he stared past her, at the darkness and stillness of the alley. His face showed that he was very anxious to get away from here.

  Cora climbed out of the taxi. She was opening her purse and saying, “What do I owe you?”

  “You pay me already,” the driver said. He was pulling at the handle of the rear door, slamming it shut. For an instant his eyes were hungry, aiming at the opened purse. But his brain was focused on the need to get away and get away fast. He shoved the gear shift, his foot hit the gas pedal, and the taxi shot across the intersection and went speeding away down Barry Street.

  Cora turned and faced the alley, which seemed more like a tunnel. Seventeen, she said to herself. Seventeen Morgan’s Alley. She started to walk, moving along a diagonal that took her toward a moonlit doorway that showed a chalked number. The number was carelessly scrawled and somewhat erased by time and weather and she couldn’t make it out. She came closer and saw it was 37. The adjoining doorway was not numbered. She was moving slowly through the alley, staying close to the doorways and looking for chalked numbers and seeing none and going back to find 37 again so she could start counting the houses.

  Not really houses, she thought. More on the order of enlarged rat traps. Falling apart. And the air, the smell. The smell is awful. How can they stand it? How can they live here? It’s ghastly, it’s really ghastly to know that people actually live here. Look at that cat. Oh no, don’t come near me, please go away. Oh, thank God it’s walking away. But look at it, just look at it. Maybe it’s half rat or half dog. But that’s impossible, of course. Or maybe not. Maybe anything is possible in this place. If only you could walk with your eyes closed so you wouldn’t see. Especially the dirt. All this dirt. It seems to come in a stream through the doorways and flow like syrupy scum into your pores, your eyes, and your mouth. I can’t take this. I feel like throwing up. There’s that cat again and it has something in its mouth. It’s a mouse. It’s a big mouse. No, it’s a rat, and look at all that blood. Oh, Mother, come and get me, take me away from here! But this door is 33 and this one here is 31 and this one must be 29 and—

  She came to a stop. Her hand came up to her mouth. She pressed her hand very hard against her stomach. Something tugged at her eyes and it seemed to her that her eyes were coming out of her face.

  Moving toward her very slowly from the doorway of 29, the big Australian seaman was squinting, his head tilted forward and slightly slanted as he tried to get her in focus. At first he’d thought the moonlight was playing tricks and changing the color of the skin of the woman he had been waiting for. Then, as he came closer, he thought, This one’s really white. And smaller than the other one. Much skinnier. Much prettier, too. Like a delicate flower, soft and milky-white, and under that dress she’s…

  Cora managed to close her eyes. She opened them and he was there. She closed them and opened them and he was there. She stood rigidly, staring at him, seeing the bloated face, the bloated belly, the heavy thighs that strained against the grimy white duck trousers. His huge hands were flat against his sides, the fingers spread wide, and she looked at the hairy hands and the black fingernails.

  Hainesworth grinned at her. His teeth showed yellow. His thick lips were wet and flapping slowly as he mumbled something she didn’t hear.

  It’s Luke, she thought. It’s Luke, the gardener. And somehow there was no such thing as time and it wasn’t Morgan’s Alley. It was the lawn outside the house and she was wearing a pale-green ribbon in her hair, and the pale-green dress freshly starched. It was during Easter vacation and she was nine years old.

  Again he said something that she couldn’t hear. He went on talking and she made some reply but she had no idea what it was.

  Hainesworth came closer. He was breathing heavily. He moved in quickly and reached for her and grabbed her, but she wriggled away. Then she turned and started to run and stumbled, going to her knees. Hainesworth came in again and took her
wrist and pulled her arm behind her back. With his other hand he covered her mouth. She twisted her head convulsively and his middle finger went between her teeth. Before he could pull it out she was biting, and he let out a groan and she bit harder. Her teeth cut through the thick flesh of his finger and she was tasting his blood.

  Spit it out, she thought. It’s nasty stuff, it’s dirty. Please spit it out. She opened her mouth to spit it out, gagging with her head lowered and trying to get it out, but still tasting the blood flavor, the dirt flavor.

  Hainesworth looked at his bleeding finger, seeing the teeth marks. But he wasn’t groaning now, and he didn’t feel the deep cuts. He said, “So you bite, do you? Well that’s the way I like it, my gal.”

  She was up on her feet, trying again to get away, but Hainesworth was faster and he wrapped his arms around her middle and squeezed. The breath rushed out of her mouth and she tried to inhale but it felt as though her lungs were crushed. She reached back, her fingers jabbing, her fingernails finding the flesh of his face. He squeezed harder, lifting her off the ground. He’s breaking me in half, she thought, and in a tiny channel of her mind she felt self-pity. But the other channels were all animal and the primary directive was to her arms and hands and fingernails. Her fingernails were hooks going in deep, coming out and going in again. The blood from his clawed face flowed over her fingers. She reached higher along his face, trying to find his eyes.

  Her thumbnail caught him just under the eye. He threw his head back as the blood spurted from the open pocket. He squeezed very hard and she made a gurgling noise. Her arms came down limp and her head drooped. Then her knees gave way as he released the grip around her middle.

  “Hey. You fainted?” he asked.

  She answered with a hissing sound.

  “That’s fine,” he said. “That’s just fine.”

  His big hand came down on her head. He had a handful of her hair and he pulled hard. Again she made the hissing sound, and as he lifted her by her hair she swung her leg, then both legs, one-two, one-two. Her sharp-pointed shoes banged against his shins. He came in very close and reached down and caught her behind her knees, then picked her up and held her horizontal, the way they hold the wriggling salmon. She went on kicking, trying to get him again with her fingernails and her teeth. Her fingernails found his neck and her teeth took the flesh of his lower jaw while he carried her across the alley and through the narrow space between the shacks.

  It was a very narrow space and he had difficulty getting through. He had to move sideways with the wriggling, kicking burden. His grin widened as the narrow space between the shacks was suddenly a larger space, and he said to her, “We’ve arrived.”

  He had her close to the wall in the back yard of 29. The soil was soft and lumpy. There were some tin cans and chunks of broken crockery and other rubbish scattered about, and in that immediate area he kicked the litter aside. When the space was reasonably cleared, he lifted her higher, then flung her to the ground.

  She came down hard on her side but didn’t feel the impact. In the instant that she hit the ground she was trying to get up. She couldn’t make it. The effort caused her to roll over, face down. Then something kept her there, and as she attempted to lift her head she felt the pressure that was just too heavy, too much. It was his heavy hands pushing down on her spine and her head, forcing her face into the dirt.

  The dirt was in her eyes and nose and mouth. She was trying to breathe and more dirt came in. She couldn’t spit it out; she was eating it. Some of it actually went down, and she thought, That does it. Now you’ll pass out. But she didn’t pass out. It had the opposite effect, as though she’d taken a stimulant. And as more dirt came into her mouth she thought, It’s something stronger than any pharmacy can offer. Because you’re tasting earth and there’s nothing so real as the earth, nothing truer. So it isn’t dirt, it’s a cleanser. Or you might call it an eraser. It rubs out all the blurred images of a mother and a governess and all the strict teachers in private school and dancing school. They’re making an exit now, they’re really making a rapid exit.

  Yes, they’re going away like a committee that’s been voted down after years and years of fouling up procedure. Because they blocked every move to clarify the issue. I mean the issue of growing up to be a woman instead of a meaningless ornament wearing a dress.

  Yes, because they drilled it into you that you were sugar and spice and everything nice, while on the other hand the masculine gender is rats and snails and puppy dogs’ tails, and so forth and so forth. And then when you’re nine years old, just getting old enough to wonder if they’re stretching the point, along comes the gardener.

  Along comes Luke with his dirty face and dirty hands to make that drilled-in theory a nailed-down, sealed-in fact. He took you in the bushes near the goldfish pond and lifted your dress and you said, “What are you doing?” and he said, “It won’t hurt,” and then you wondered what was happening while it happened. It really wasn’t much. You didn’t faint or go into convulsions, you didn’t even bleed. All he did was—

  You never told Mother or Hilda or anyone at all. The next day Luke went away and didn’t come back. But the eyes of Luke never went away. The filthy eyes of Luke were inside you, always looking at something very deep inside you and coming closer and closer. His burning filthy eyes became the eyes of anything masculine that looks at something female and comes closer.

  So that later in the years of the nights in the bed with James…But in the darkness of the room you couldn’t see his face, so it was never James, it was always the gardener.

  And there it is. Now you know. You were constantly pulling away from what you thought was something dirty, messy, horrible, when all the time it was clean and pure, because he’s your mate and he adores you. I think the proof of that is evident. Yes, I’m inclined to say it’s quite evident. It’s based on the fact that he’s stayed with you all these years. So from one point of view he’s the buffoon who puts up with the frigid wife, the weak-kneed, weak-brained clown who guzzles much too much alcohol and becomes a nonentity labeled “Incapable.” From a clearer point of view, he’s more of a man than most men. He’s on the Galahad side. Oh, yes, he’s right up there with all the Galahads who walk that lonely road of endless sacrifice. So now you know, girl. Now you know what needs to be done, what you want to do, what you’re aching to do from here on in. But is it too late for that?

  Just then the earth became a wall that slanted away from her face. The seaman was rolling her over so that she was flat on her back. He had one hand pushing down hard on her shoulder, his other hand lifting her skirt. She looked at his eyes and saw the eyes of the gardener coming closer, and she reached out to the side and groped through lumpy soil and weeds and pebbles. Her eyes were tightly shut and she went on groping then she felt the jagged hardness of something half buried in the ground. She could feel it was a large stone and she tugged at it, clawing and twisting and wrenching to pull it free. He was on her now and starting to do something, but she was very far away from that. The only feeling she had was of the large chunk of jagged stone coming into her hand. The weight of it was almost too much for her arm, yet somehow her arm moved quickly, the stone bashing against the side of his head, hitting him there again and again and then again.

  The seaman fell away from her. He was in a half-sitting position, resting back on his elbow. His mouth was wide open and it was as though he wanted to say something. He remained in that position while the blood came gushing from his mouth and nose, something yellow-gray seeping from his ears and something else that was wet-gray oozing from the side of his head. Then his elbows gave way, and he was reclining on his back, his mouth staying open and still trying to say something while he died.

  Cora lifted herself to her feet. For a few moment she stood looking at the corpse. As she turned away from it she was giggling.

  She didn’t know she was giggling. She didn’t know she was moving through the narrow space between the shacks and coming out on Morgan
’s Alley. She went on giggling as she walked very slowly along a zig-zag route that seemed to be taking her nowhere, but was actually taking her toward Number 17.

  Her eyes were focused on the doorways. But she couldn’t count the doorways because on each door there was a face and it was the face of the corpse with its head bashed and the wet-gray oozing out. She wished the face would go away, but it stayed, and she went on giggling.

  It was the only sound she heard. She didn’t hear the noise of the police car coming down the alley. The car was coming fast, coming from behind with its horn sustaining a high-pitched blast, telling her to get out of the way. She hopped aside automatically, instinctively. 1 She didn’t see the police car flashing past, didn’t see it coming to a sudden stop down there in the darkness not very far away. The only thing she saw was the face of the corpse, which caused her to giggle. But her legs were moving again and it was as though something were pushing her toward Number 17.

  The police car was parked beside Number 17. Some policemen emerged, and then a small man with yellow-gray skin and slanted eyes, followed by a black woman. One of the policemen opened the door of Number 17, then stood aside, and the small man with slanted eyes walked in. He was wearing a bathrobe and bedroom slippers. The others filed in behind him.

  As Cora approached the opened door a voice from somewhere told her that this was Number 17 and she entered giggling. A moment later she saw the face of the wounded man who was flat on his back on the floor. She walked toward the wounded man, whose face obliterated forever the face of the slain Luke. She stopped giggling. But then her legs gave way, and as she sagged toward the floor, they grabbed her.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Like oranges falling out of a tree, Bevan thought. What he saw were spheres of orange light that danced against a dark-gray curtain. He passed out again and when he came to he heard voices, but he had no idea what they were saying. Then again he drifted out of it and stayed out for what seemed hours, but it was only a matter of minutes. Now someone was helping him to sit up and someone else was trying to give him a drink of water. He blinked several times and saw the shiny white helmets and dark faces and white jackets of the policemen. One of them was using a pair of scissors to cut some adhesive tape. He saw a small dark-green metal box with a small square of white painted on the side, in the center of the white square a little cross painted red, signifying that this was a first-aid kit, and he thought, Someone’s been hurt.