Dialogues of the Dead

SERGIUS: Oh no. Much clearer than that. The letters read I RYE OK. Surely even Mid-Yorkshire’s Thickest would have got that? Perhaps not. I mean, none of them spotted that the illuminated P at the beginning of the first Dialogue represented a tree and there were apples among the pile of letters lying alongside the roots. Pomona, the goddess of fruit trees, remember? From the start she was telling you who she was. Later you even gave a little lecture to that young constable on why man in combinations like chairman need not be gender specific, and neither of you transferred it to wordman. But why should we be surprised? Even when the police more or less caught her in the act of slaying you, Mr. Dee, she still got away with it. Of course, love is blind, and when that poor young constable rushed in, what he saw was you assaulting his beloved. Happily for Rye, when he fell backwards in pulling you off her, he hit his head so hard, he was rendered almost senseless, a condition she maintained by breaking a bottle over his skull and blinding him with wine. It was easy then for her to make sure his hand found the knife which he proceeded to stick into you with such great enthusiasm. Not that it was necessary. You were going to die from Rye’s first blow to the stomach anyway.

DICK: But why? Why did she do it? We were going to make love. She felt the same way as I did, I’m sure.

SERGIUS: You’re right. She liked you; and she felt extremely randy; and being a modern young woman, saw no reason not to enjoy herself. But naturally on seeing the approach of the young man she really loved, she changed her mind. She’s not that modern! Then she saw you naked, and that was it. But I’m afraid it wasn’t your rampant loblance that so compelled her gaze, Mr. Dee, it was the rather large reddy-grey birthmark running across your belly. If ever a man was haswed, it was you. This was a sign from Serge, she thought. Time stopped for her. Which meant, of course, that very soon time had to stop for you also. Don’t take it personally. Do take it as a comfort, if you will, that your death affected her more than anyone else’s. And, of course, it had the bonus of giving the constabulary the best kind of ready-made culprit, a dead one who spared them the inconvenience and expense of a trial.

DICK: Oh God. You mean that’s what I’m going to be remembered for? Being a serial killer?