From Domina Temporis: The Moriarty brothers

When we were boys, my brother and I played a game called two guns. We took four of Father's Colt revolvers—two guns each—from the safe in his office, and a handful of bullets (the lock wasn't difficult to pick). We marched out into the woods behind the house. The rules of the game were as follows:

(1) Take two guns.

(2) In secret, load your guns such that one gun has an empty first chamber.

(3) Exchange guns with your opponent.

(4) You may inspect your opponent's guns, but you may not open the gun to directly inspect the cylinder.

(5) Choose one of your opponent's guns.

(6) Both players aim their chosen guns at their own heads, and pull the trigger at the count of three.

If the gun in your hand doesn't go off, you win the game!

A bit crude, I know, but we were boys, and it was exciting enough. High stakes. We agreed to both write notes to be left in our rooms, in places where Mother and Father would find, just in case someone lost the game. I made up some stuff about being sad and lonely in my note. How nobody loved me. Admittedly, I was often alone growing up, but not lonely. If anything, I wanted to be more alone. I wanted to be rid of Cyril.

Cyril Moriarty, my elder brother by one hour, was a pain in my side. I wish I was one of those twins who absorbed their unborn sibling in the womb. Child prodigies, the tutors called us. My forte was mathematics. Measuring and counting. Spotting patterns, and organizing data. I had an excellent memory, even before I could walk or speak. I remember everything from those early days of gurgling on spit and crawling on the floor, head rolling around on weak neck muscles.

Cyril had a mind for psychology. He always knew when someone was lying, even me. I hated him for that (no one else ever noticed). He had a hypnotist's charisma, a sort of alien magnetism. When he spoke, people felt compelled to act out his requests. There was something about the cadence and volume of his voice, the amplitude and frequency of his sound waves, that altered the brain chemistry of his listener. Made me wonder if I agreed to play two guns by my own volition, or if I was under Cyril's influence.

We walked to a clearing in the forest, each of us equipped with two revolvers, like American cowboys. We set the bag of bullets on the stump between us. Cyril reached in first, and drew out one bullet. He held it up, examining it in the dampened rays of sunlight cast through the canopy above. He grinned as I too took a single bullet from the bag.

We turned our backs to each other and loaded our guns. I put my bullet in the first chamber of the gun in my [deleted] hand, then wiped both guns clean of fingerprints.

We placed our guns on the stump. Cyril had wiped away any fingerprints as well. I studied the guns, one in each hand. They both carried the faint scent of gunpowder, and the mold from Father's gun safe. I felt the guns for a difference in warmth, with the idea that the warmer gun was handled for longer, and thus more likely to hold the bullet. No luck. Cyril must have set the guns down on the cold ground before putting them on the stump. I weighed the guns in my hands, my body like a finely calibrated balance scale. This was my edge over Cyril: quantification. The gun in my right hand weighed six grams more than the gun in my left —the mass of one bullet.

Cheeky, cheeky, Cyril. For an instant, I was fooled. That could have been the death of me. The four identical guns weighed one-thousand grams each. The gun in my right hand weighed one-thousand-twelve grams, and the gun in my left weighed one-thousand-six grams. Cyril must have picked up three bullets instead of one. Sleight of hand was a talent of his. Perhaps he tucked two bullets into his sleeve when he reached into the bag, making a show of only picking one. Always the showman, the illusionist. He knew I would calculate the masses. If he took one bullet, then it would only make sense to pick the lighter gun. But Cyril, you loaded two bullets into the right gun, avoiding the first chamber (heavy). You loaded the third bullet into the first chamber of the left (light). That was the losing gun. What a nasty trick. I suppose he didn't think I knew the weights of Father's pistols.

I chose the heavier gun in my right hand, setting the other to the side.

I had a trick for him too. You might put me at a disadvantage in a game of two guns, owing to Cyril's uncanny ability to spot deception. What's stopping him from directly asking which gun I loaded? I had a solution to this problem, a special skill I'd developed. I never shared it with Cyril. From birth, my memory was eidetic—I didn't forget things like other people did—but over time, I taught myself how to forget. Just as I could instantly recall any moment in my past, any detail, I could also delete specific memories from my hippocampus. The human brain is a strange machine.

I deleted the memory of loading the revolver. Cyril's guess was as good as mine.

Cyril grinned at me. What a stupid grin. He took his time examining the guns, then pointed one at my nose. His wrist was loose, green eyes placid. "Did you load your bullet into this gun?"

I was compelled to answer. His voice made me feel sick. "No."

"Don't lie to me, James," said Cyril. "I can always tell when you're lying."

In truth, I didn't know which gun I had loaded. Fifty-fifty. He took up the other gun with confidence, and I raised my revolver of choice. He set the barrel of the gun against his ear. I followed suit.

"Having fun?" said Cyril.

"Time of my life," I said. "And yourself?"

"Beats piano practice," said Cyril. "Any last words?"

"One, two, three."

Click—BANG!

A murder of crows flew overhead, dislodged by the crack of gunfire, cawing. We were too far from home for anyone to hear. The revolver in my hand clicked harmlessly. Cyril wasn't so fortunate. He was twitching on the ground. Thankfully, the spray of blood missed me. I left the four guns and the bullets out there in the woods with Cyril, enjoying the scenic walk back through the forest. Finally, my mind was at peace.