Ingenious pain by Andrew Miller (books for men to read .txt) 📕

dresser, informing him that he shall not be receiving any new patients that day.

The city is mostly empty as he rides through. A pair of dazed young men returning from a night of gaming and drinking. In Queen Square, a herdsman leads his flock of goats. A milkmaid sits on her upturned pail and plaits her hair. An ordinary morning, a hint of autumn in the air.

James has been out twice before, both times in London, both times with fellow students over quarrels he has forgotten. On the first occasion the pistols were faulty, tampered with perhaps by one of the seconds. The next occasion, James's ball lodged in his opponent's shoulder. There were a dozen other students

with them in the garden and no shortage of volunteers to cut the ball out. Afterwards there was a brief hullaballoo, then the matter was dropped. Two young men of no importance quarrelling in the garden of a tavern was of little concern to anyone.

On Lansdown Hill he has a sudden glimpse back over the city, the houses huddled around the abbey, their chimneys drifting smoke, the river tranquilly signalling with its light. For the briefest moment it occurs to him that he might lose it all, that he will kill Munro and have to run - to France perhaps, or Holland. He mentally shrugs. He is not interested in shooting Munro, bears him no animosity. Certainly he is not fighting for Agnes. Munro is welcome to her. When he kills Munro it will be for Munro's folly, his audacity in issuing a challenge. What did he think he was doing? That absurd scene in his study! James should have given him a sound kicking then and there and had done with it. So much tedious form in these affairs.

Osbourne steps into the road ahead, raises his cane. When James comes up, Osbourne says: "You are alone?'

'I am as you see me, sir. Where is the party?'

This way.'

He leads James through a break in the trees and through an old stone gateway, a broken crest on one of the pillars.

James says: What is this place?'

Osbourne says: 'It was a garden once.'

Munro and another man are waiting at the far end beside a tulip tree. Osbourne walks down to them, then returns with Munro. James dismounts. Munro says: 'Good morning, James.'

He has the same steady manner, the same despairing calm.

Osbourne says: 'I beseech you both to give up this most unchristian business. Even at this late hour you may reach some . . . accommodation. How do you say?'

'If Mr Munro will withdraw his challenge,' says James, 'I am content not to shoot him.'

Munro says: 1 cannot withdraw, sir. The offence is too strong.' James shrugs. *I hope for your sake, sir, your hand is steadier with a pistol than it is with a knife.'

Osbourne signals to the other man who comes forward with a box. Osbourne opens the box and loads the pistols. He holds them both out to James. James takes the one from his left hand; a good-quality flintlock: blued octagonal barrel, gold touch-hole, checkered grip. A sliding safety catch on the lockplate. In the off position.

Munro takes the other gun; they turn, walk a dozen paces. Munro calls: 'One moment.'

He hands his pistol to Osbourne and then strips off his coat and waistcoat. James says: 'You need not worry about cloth in the wound, sir. I shall be aiming at your head.'

No reply. Munro takes the pistol. Osbourne walks away. The morning is very quiet.

Osbourne says: 'Are you prepared? . . . Fire at will.'

Munro's shot follows almost immediately. A flash, a puff of smoke, a report that must have echoed for miles.

James raises his pistol. He feels extraordinarily good this morning. Braced. Capable of anything. He does not think 'I shall kill Munro', or 'I shall not kill him'. He raises his pistol to the target and discharges. Munro spins round on his toes and plunges into the grass. Osbourne runs over to him. James calls: 'Is he dead?'

Osbourne says: 'I do not think so.'

James goes towards them, curious to see what manner of wound he has made. He looks down. Osbourne is cradling Munro's head on his knees and wiping the blood from his face with a handkerchief that is already crimson. Munro has his eyes closed but is visibly breathing. The middle of his face is a mess. Bone and torn flesh.

James says: 'We shall need to procure him a new nose. Take him to the house. I shall attend to him there.'

'Attend to him?'

*Ay, sir. You have not forgot my profession?' He drops the pistol on to the grass beside Mr Osbourne, bids them good morning, and leads his horse out from the garden.

When Agnes Munro sees them carry her husband into the house, she asks: 'Is James hurt?'

Osbourne shakes his head, and as they manoeuvre the stricken man up the stairs, mutters: 'It's you they should have shot.'

The wound prospers. James dresses it daily, peering into the cavity of Munro's head and making a number of sketches he later has engraved. Neither man speaks. Munro speaks to no one for fourteen days, and when he does, his voice is as mangled as his face. Curiously, the only person who is able to understand him is James Dyer. Munro's friends look on, perplexed, frustrated. There is no remorse in James's manner, no resentment in Munro's. Between them is an odd complicity, peculiar perhaps to lovers, or to those who have offered each other death. Agnes is excluded. She wanders the house in a raggedy dress, complaining to herself and living on cup after cup of expensively sugared chocolate.

The nose is fashioned by a watchmaker in Pierrepont Street, working from James's designs. It is light, made of polished ivory and attached to a pair of Munro's spectacles. There are several fittings before James is satisfied. Munro sits up in bed and examines himself in the looking-glass. When he hands the glass back there are tears in his