We’ll Always Have Paris. Ray Bradbury
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night, slob,’ said Mr Hill, looking at him calmly. His hands were busy, moving aside the buttons on his summer shirt. The flesh of his lean stomach was revealed. There was an old scar there. It looked as if a bullet had gone cleanly through.
‘You see,’ said Mr Hill, seeing the wide popping eyes of the plump man in the rocking chair, ‘I’ve made this bet before.’
The front door shut softly. Mr Hill was gone.
The light was burning in Mr Hill’s room at ten minutes after one. Sitting there in the dark, Mr Bentley at last, unable to find sleep, got up and moved softly into the hall and looked at Mr Hill. For the door was open and there was Mr Hill standing before a mirror, touching, tapping, pinching himself, now here, now there.
And he seemed to be thinking to himself, Look at me! Look, here, Bentley, and here!
Bentley looked.
There were three round scars on Hill’s chest and stomach. There was a long slash scar over his heart, and a little one on his neck. And on his back, as if a dragon had pulled its talons across in a furious raveling, a series of terrible furrows.
Mr Bentley stood with his tongue between his lips, his hands open.
‘Come in,’ said Mr Hill.
Bentley did not move.
‘You’re up late.’
‘Just looking at myself. Vanity, vanity.’
‘Those scars, all those scars.’
‘There are a few, aren’t there?’
‘So many. My God, I’ve never seen scars like that. How did you get them?’
Hill went on preening and feeling and caressing himself, stripped to the waist. ‘Well, now maybe you can guess.’ He winked and smiled friendlily.
‘How did you get them?!’
‘You’ll wake your wife.’
‘Tell me!’
‘Use your imagination, man.’
He exhaled and inhaled and exhaled again.
‘What can I do for you, Mr Bentley?’
‘I’ve come—’
‘Speak up.’
‘I want you to move out.’
‘Oh now, Bentley.’
‘We need this room.’
‘Really?’
‘My wife’s mother is coming to visit.’
‘That’s a lie.’
Bentley nodded. ‘Yes. I’m lying.’
‘Why don’t you say it? You want me to leave, period.’
‘Right.’
‘Because you’re afraid of me.’
‘No, I’m not afraid.’
‘Well, what if I told you I wouldn’t leave?’
‘No, you couldn’t do that.’
‘Well, I could, and I am.’
‘No, no.’
‘What are we having for breakfast, ham and eggs again?’ He craned his neck to examine that little scar there.
‘Please say you’ll go,’ asked Mr Bentley.
‘No,’ said Mr Hill.
‘Please.’
‘There’s no use begging. You make yourself look silly.’
‘Well, then, if you stay here, let’s call off the bet.’
‘Why call it off?’
‘Because.’
‘Afraid of yourself?’
‘No, I’m not!’
‘Shh.’ He pointed to the wall. ‘Your wife.’
‘Let’s call off the bet. Here. Here’s my money. You win!’ He groped frantically into his pocket and drew forth the two dimes. He threw them on the dresser, crashing. ‘Take them! You win! I could commit murder, I could, I admit it.’
Mr Hill waited a moment, and without looking at the coins, put his fingers down on the dresser, groped, found them, picked them up, clinked them, held them out. ‘Here.’
‘I don’t want them back!’ Bentley retreated to the doorway.
‘Take them.’
‘You win!’
‘A bet is a bet. This proves nothing.’
He turned and came to Bentley and dropped them in Bentley’s shirt pocket and patted them. Bentley took two steps back into the hall. ‘I do not make bets idly,’ Hill said.
Bentley stared at those terrible scars. ‘How many other people have you made this bet with!’ he cried. ‘How many?!’
Hill laughed. ‘Ham and eggs, eh?’
‘How many?! How many?!’
‘See you at breakfast,’ said Mr Hill.
He shut the door. Mr Bentley stood looking at it. He could see the scars through the door, as if by some translucency of the eye and mind. The razor scars. The knife scars. They hung in the paneling, like knots in old wood.
The light went out behind the door.
He stood over the body and he heard the house waking up, rushing, the feet down the stairs, the shouts, the half screams and stirrings. In a moment, people would be flooding around him. In a moment, there’d be a siren and a flashing red light, the car doors slamming, the snap of manacles to the fleshy wrists, the questions, the peering into his white, bewildered face. But now he only stood over the body, fumbling. The gun had fallen into the deep, good-smelling night grass. The air was still charged with electricity but the storm was passing, and he was beginning to notice things again. And there was his right hand, all by itself, fumbling about like a blind mole, digging, digging senselessly at his shirt pocket until it found what it wanted. And he felt his gross weight bend, stoop, almost fall, as he almost rushed down over the body. His blind hand went out and closed the up-staring eyes of Mr Hill, and on each wrinkled, cooling eyelid put a shiny new dime.
The door slammed behind him. Hattie screamed.
He turned to her with a sick smile. ‘I just lost a bet,’ he heard himself say.
The night was cold and there was a slight wind which had begun to rise around two in the morning.
The leaves in all the trees outside began to tremble.
By three o’clock the wind was constant and murmuring outside the window.
She was the first to open her eyes.
And then, for some imperceptible reason, he stirred in his half sleep.
‘You awake?’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘There was a sound, something called.’
He half raised his head.
A long way off there was a soft wailing.
‘Hear that?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘Something’s crying.’
‘Something?’ he said.
‘Someone,’