Dorion Gray Chapter VII: The Hand of a Killer Read by Alexandre Zamor 'Uncover that picture, and you will see my soul.' It was the ninth of November, the evening before his thirty eighth birthday. Dorian Gray was walking home from Lord Henry's house when he saw Basil Hallward. He felt strangely afraid and tried to pretend that he had not seen him, but Basil hurried after him. 'Dorian!' he called. 'What extraordinary luck! I'm catching the midnight train to Paris and I wanted to see you before I left. I'll be away from England for six months.' He put his hand on Dorian's arm. 'Look, we're near your house. May I come in for a moment? I have something to say to you.' 'Of course. But won't you miss your train?' asked Dorian lazily, as he walked up the steps to his door. 'I have plenty of time. It's only eleven o'clock.' They went in and sat down by the fire. 'Now, my dear Dorian, I want to speak to you seriously,' Basil began. 'I must tell you that people in London are saying the most terrible things about you.' Dorian lit a cigarette and looked bored. 'I don't want to know anything about it. It doesn't interest me.' 'But it must interest you, Dorian,' said Basil. 'Every gentleman is interested in his good name. Of course, when I look at you, I know that these stories can't be true. A man's face shows if his life is good or bad. But why does Lord Berwick leave the room when you enter it? Why does Lord Staveley say that no honest woman is safe with you? That young soldier, who was your friend - why did he kill himself? There was Sir Henry Ashton, who had to leave England with a bad name. And what about Lord Kent's son ? What kind of life does he have now?' 'Stop, Basil. You don't know what you're talking about,' said Dorian coldly. 'Did I teach these people how to live their lives? And the people who tell these stories - are their lives any better than mine?' 'And there are other stories too,' continued Basil. 'Are they true? Can your life really be so bad, so evil? You were a fine young man once, but now, when I hear these stories, I wonder. Do I know you at all? What has happened to the real Dorian Gray? I think I would have to see your soul before I could answer those questions.' 'The real Dorian Gray?' asked Dorian quietly, his face white with fear. 'Yes,' said the artist sadly. 'But only God can see your soul.' A terrible laugh came from the younger man. 'Come, Basil,' he cried. 'Come with me! I will show you what only God can see. Why not? It's your own work. You've talked enough about evil. Now you must look at it.' He took Basil upstairs to the locked room. Inside, he turned to the artist, with smiling lips and cold, hard eyes. 'You're the one man in the world who should know my secret. Are you sure that you want to?' 'Yes.' 'Then uncover that picture, Basil, and you will see my soul.' A cry of horror came from the artist when he saw the terrible face in the portrait. How could that evil and unlovely face be Dorian Gray's? But yes, it was. He went nearer to the picture. It could not be the portrait that he had painted. But yes, there was his name written in the corner. He turned and looked at Dorian Gray with the eyes of a sick man. 'What does this mean?' he asked at last. 'When you finished the portrait,' replied Dorian, 'I made a wish.' 'I remember, yes,' said Basil. 'You wished that the picture could become old, and that you could stay young. But this...' He stared again at the picture. 'This is impossible. And you told me that you'd destroyed the picture.' 'I was wrong. It has destroyed me.' 'My God, Dorian!' cried the artist. 'If this is true . . . If this is the face of your soul, then you are more evil than the worst of the stories about you.' He sat down at the table and put his face in his hands. 'You must ask God for his help.' 'It's too late, Basil.' 'It's never too late, Dorian. Look at that terrible face. Look at it!' Dorian turned and stared at the face in the picture, and suddenly he hated Basil more than he had ever hated anyone in his life. Basil now knew his secret, and had seen the real Dorian Gray. Violent feelings burned inside Dorian. He picked up a knife from the table. Then the hate inside him exploded, and like a wild animal, he ran towards Basil, and dug the knife into the artist's neck, again and again and again. The murdered man's head fell forwards, and the blood ran slowly across the table, and down onto the floor. Dorian stood and listened. He could hear nothing - only the drip, drip of blood onto the floor. He went to the window and looked down into the street. He felt strangely calm. The friend who had painted his portrait had gone out of his life. That was all. He locked the door behind him and went quietly downstairs. His servants were all in bed. He sat down and began to think. No one had seen Basil in Dorian's house tonight. Paris. Yes! Basil had gone to Paris, of course, so it would be six months before people asked where he was. Six months! That was more than enough time. Dorian walked up and down the room. Then he took out a book from his desk and began to search for a name. Alan Campbell. Yes, that was the name that he wanted. The next morning Dorian wrote two letters. He put one of them into his pocket, and he gave the other to his servant. 'Take this to Mr Campbell's house at once, he said. While Dorian waited, he picked up a book and tried to read. But after a time the book fell from his hand. Perhaps Alan Campbell was out of England. Perhaps he would refuse to come. He was a very clever scientist, and five years ago he and Dorian had been good friends. But now Alan never smiled when he met Dorian. Each minute seemed an hour to Dorian, but at last the door opened. Dorian smiled. 'Alan!' he said. 'Thank you for coming.' 'I never wanted to enter your house again, but your letter said that it was a question of life and death,' said Alan Campbell. His voice was hard and cold. 'Yes, Alan, it is. Please sit down.' Across the table the two men's eyes met. Dorian was silent for a moment; then, very quietly, he said, 'Alan, in a locked room upstairs there is a dead body. I want you to destroy it. There must be nothing left. I know you can do this.' 'I don't want to know your terrible secrets. I refuse to help you,' Campbell replied. 'But you must, Alan. You're the only person who can help me.' Dorian smiled sadly. He took a piece of paper, wrote something on it, and pushed it across the table to Campbell. As Campbell read the piece of paper, his face went white. He looked at Dorian with hate and fear in his eyes. 'I'm so sorry for you, Alan,' said Dorian gently. 'I've already written a letter, and if you don't help me, I'll have to send it. But I think that you will help me.' Campbell put his face in his hands, and was silent for a long time. Dorian waited. 'I'll need some things from my house,' Campbell said at last. Dorian sent his servant to fetch the things that Campbell needed, and the two men waited silently. When the servant returned, Dorian took the scientist upstairs to the locked room. As they entered, Dorian remembered that the portrait was uncovered. He turned to cover it, then stopped and stared in horror. One of the hands in the picture was red with blood. For Dorian, this was more terrible than the dead body in the room. With shaking hands, he quickly covered the picture. 'Leave me now,' ordered Campbell. Five hours later Campbell came back downstairs. 'I've done what you asked me to do,' he said. 'And now goodbye. I never want to see you again.' When Campbell had left, Dorian went upstairs. There was a terrible smell in the room, but the dead body had gone.