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Two in One (1954)

by Myles na Gopaleen (by Flann O’Brian)

The story I have to tell is a strange one, perhaps unbelievable. I will try to set it down as
simply as I can. I do not expect to be disturbed in my literary labours, for I am writing this in
the condemned cell. Let us say my name is Murphy. The unusual occurrence which led me
here concerns my relations with another man whom we shall call Kelly. Both of us were
taxidermists.

I will not attempt a treatise on what a taxidermist is. The word is ugly and inadequate.
Certainly it does not convey to the layman that such an operator must combine the qualities
of zoologist, naturalist, chemist, sculptor, artist, and carpenter. Who would blame such a
person for showing some temperament now and again, as I did? It is necessary, however, to
say a brief word about this science. First, there is no such thing in modern practice as
“stuffing” an animal. There is a record of stuffed gorillas having been in Carthage in the 5th
century, and it is a fact that an Austrian prince, Siegmund Herberstein, had stuffed bison in
the great hall of his castle in the 16th century—it was then the practice to draw the entrails
of animals and to substitute spices and various preservative substances. There is a variety of
methods in use to-day but, except in particular cases—snakes, for example, where
preserving the translucency of the skin is a problem calling for special measures—the basis
of all modern methods is simply this: you skin the animal very carefully according to a
certain pattern, and you encase the skinless body in plaster of Paris. You bisect the plaster
when cast providing yourself with two complementary moulds from which you can make a
casting of the animal’s body—there are several substances, all very light, from which such
castings can be made. The next step, calling for infinite skill and patience, is to mount the
skin on the casting of the body. That is all I need explain here, I think. Kelly carried on a
taxidermy business and I was his assistant. He was the boss—a swinish, overbearing mean
boss, a bully, a sadist. He hated me, but enjoyed his hatred too much to sack me. He knew I
had a real interest in the work, and a desire to broaden my experience. For that reason, he
threw me all the common-place jobs that came in. If some old lady sent her favourite terrier
to be done, that was me; foxes and cats and Shetland ponies and white rabbits—they were
all strictly my department. I could do a perfect job on such animals in my sleep, and got to
hate them. But if a crocodile came in, or a Great Borneo spider, or (as once happened) a
giraffe—Kelly kept them all for himself. In the meantime, he would treat my own painstaking
work with sourness and sneers and complaints.

One day the atmosphere in the workshop had been even fouler than usual, with Kelly in a
filthier temper than usual. I had spent the forenoon finishing a cat, and at about lunch-time
put it on the shelf where he left completed orders.

I could nearly hear him glaring at it. Where was the tail? I told him there was no tail, that it
was a Manx cat. How did I know it was a Manx cat, how did I know it was not an ordinary
cat which had lost its tail in a motor accident or something? I got so mad that I permitted
myself a disquisition on cats in general, mentioning the distinctions as between Felis manul,
Felis silvestris, and Felis lybica, and on the unique structure of the Manx cat. His reply to
that? He called me a slob. That was the sort of life I was having.

On this occasion something within me snapped. I was sure I could hear the snap. I had
moved up to where he was to answer his last insult. The loathsome creature had his back to
me, bending down to put on his bicycle clips. Just to my hand on the bench was one of the
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long, flat, steel instruments we use for certain operations with plaster. I picked it up and hit
him a blow with it on the back of the head. He gave a cry and slumped forward. I hit him
again. I rained blow after blow on him. Then I threw the tool away. I was upset. I went out
into the yard and looked around. I remembered he had a weak heart. Was he dead? I
remember adjusting the position of a barrel we had in the yard to catch rainwater, the only
sort of water suitable for some of the mixtures we used. I found I was in a cold sweat but
strangely calm. I went back into the workshop.

Kelly was just as I had left him. I could find no pulse. I rolled him over on his back and
examined his eyes, for I have seen more lifeless eyes in my day than most people. Yes,
there was no doubt: Kelly was dead. I had killed him. I was a murderer. I put on my coat
and hat and left the place. I walked the streets for a while, trying to avoid panic, trying to
think rationally. Inevitably, I was soon in a public house. I drank a lot of whiskey and finally
went home to my digs. The next morning, I was very sick indeed from this terrible mixture
of drink and worry. Was the Kelly affair merely a fancy, a drunken fancy? No, there was no
consolation in that sort of hope. He was dead all right.

It was as I lay in bed there, shaking, thinking, and smoking, that the mad idea came into my
head. No doubt this sounds incredible, grotesque, even disgusting, but I decided I would
treat Kelly the same as any other dead creature that found its way to the workshop. Once
one enters a climate of horror, distinction of degree as between one infamy and another
seems slight, sometimes undetectable. That evening I went to the workshop and made my
preparations. I worked steadily all next day. I will not appall the reader with gruesome
detail. I need only say that I applied the general technique and flaying pattern appropriate to
apes. The job took me four days at the end of which I had a perfect skin, face and all. I
made the usual castings before committing the remains of, so to speak, the remains, to the
furnace. My plan was to have Kelly on view asleep on a chair, for the benefit of anybody who
might call. Reflection convinced me that this would be far too dangerous. I had to think
again.

A further idea began to form. It was so macabre that it shocked even myself. For days I had
been treating the inside of the skin with the usual preservatives—cellulose acetate and the
like—thinking all the time. The new illumination came upon me like a thunderbolt. I would
don his skin and, when the need arose, BECOME Kelly! His clothes fitted me. So would his
skin. Why not?

Another day’s agonised work went on various alterations and adjustments but that night I
was able to look into a glass and see Kelly looking back at me, perfect in every detail except
for the teeth and eyes, which had to be my own but which I knew other people would never
notice.

Naturally I wore Kelly’s clothes, and had no trouble in imitating his unpleasant voice and
mannerisms. On the second day, having “dressed,” so to speak, I went for a walk, receiving
salutes from newsboys and other people who had known Kelly. And on the day after, I was
foolhardy enough to visit Kelly’s lodgings. Where on earth had I been, his landlady wanted to
know. (She had noticed nothing.) What, I asked—had that fool Murphy not told her that I
had to go to the country for a few days? No? I had told the good-for nothing to convey the
message.

I slept that night in Kelly’s bed. I was a little worried about what the other landlady would
think of my own absence. I decided not to remove Kelly’s skin the first night I spent in his
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bed but to try to get the rest of my plan of campaign perfected and into sharper focus. I
eventually decided that Kelly should announce to various people that he was going to a very
good job in Canada, and that he had sold his business to his assistant Murphy. I would then
burn the skin, I would own a business and—what is more stupid than vanity! —I could
secretly flatter myself that I had committed the perfect crime.

Need I say that I had overlooked something?

The mummifying preparation with which I had dressed the inside of the skin was, of course,
quite stable for the ordinary purposes of taxidermy. It had not occurred to me that a night in
a warm bed would make it behave differently. The horrible truth dawned on me the next day
when I reached the workshop and tried to take the skin off. It wouldn’t come off! It had
literally fused with my own! And in the days that followed, this process kept rapidly
advancing. Kelly’s skin got to live again, to breathe, to perspire.

Then followed more days of terrible tension. My own landlady called one day, inquiring about
me of “Kelly.” I told her I had been on the point of calling on her to find out where I was.
She was disturbed about my disappearance—it was so unlike me—and said she thought she
should inform the police. I thought it wise not to try to dissuade her. My disappearance
would eventually come to be accepted, I thought. My Kelliness, so to speak, was permanent.
It was horrible, but it was a choice of that or the scaffold.

I kept drinking a lot. One night, after many drinks, I went to the club for agame of snooker.
This club was in fact one of the causes of Kelly’s bitterness towards me. I had joined it
without having been aware that Kelly was a member. His resentment was boundless. He
thought I was watching him, and taking note of the attentions he paid the lady members.

On this occasion I nearly made a catastrophic mistake. It is a simple fact that I am a very
good snooker player, easily the best in that club. As I was standing watching another game
in progress awaiting my turn for the table, I suddenly realised that Kelly did not play snooker
at all! For some moments, a cold sweat stood out on Kelly’s brow at the narrowness of this
escape. I went to the bar. There, a garrulous lady (who thinks her unsolicited conversation is
a fair exchange for a drink) began talking to me. She remarked the long absence of my nice
Mr. Murphy. She said he was missed a lot in the snooker room. I was hot and embarrassed
and soon went home. To Kelly’s place, of course.

Not embarrassment, but a real sense of danger, was to be my next portion in this adventure.
One afternoon, two very casual strangers strolled into the workshop, saying they would like
a little chat with me. Cigarettes were produced. Yes indeed, they were plain-clothes men
making a few routine inquiries. This man Murphy had been reported missing by several
people. Any idea where he was? None at all. When had I last seen him? Did he seem upset
or disturbed? No, but he was an impetuous type. I had recently reprimanded him for bad
work. On similar other occasions he had threatened to leave and seek work in England. Had
I been away for a few days myself? Yes, down in Cork for a few days. On business. Yes . . .
yes . . . some people thinking of starting a natural museum down there, technical school
people— that sort of thing.

The casual manner of these men worried me, but I was sure they did not suspect the truth
and that they were genuinely interested in tracing Murphy. Still, I knew I was in danger,
without knowing the exact nature of the threat I had to counter. Whiskey cheered me
somewhat.
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Then it happened. The two detectives came back accompanied by two other men in uniform.
They showed me a search warrant. It was purely a formality; it had to be done in the case of
all missing persons. They had already searched Murphy’s digs and had found nothing of
interest. They were very sorry for upsetting the place during my working hours.

A few days later the casual gentlemen called and put me under arrest for the wilful murder
of Murphy, of myself. They proved the charge in due course with all sorts of painfully
amassed evidence, including the remains of human bones in the furnace. I was sentenced to
be hanged. Even if I could now prove that Murphy still lived by shedding the accursed skin,
what help would that be? Where, they would ask, is Kelly?

This is my strange and tragic story. And I end it with the thought that if Kelly and I must
each be either murderer or murdered, it is perhaps better to accept my present fate as
philosophically as I can and be cherished in the public mind as the victim of this murderous
monster, Kelly. He was a murderer, anyway.
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ACTIVITIES BEFORE READING THE TEACHER’S NOTES

1 Ask students if they like stories (in books or films) which frighten them. Why/Why not? Ask
them what the most frightening or mysterious story they know is. Can the class agree on
one story?

2 Ask students to look up taxidermist, horror, pseudonym and imagination in their

dictionaries. Ask students to talk about the following:

- Is it necessary for a writer to have a good imagination to be able to write real horror
stories or to have a difficult life?

- Do the readers of horror stories like the stories more if they too have a difficult life?

- Can horror stories be dangerous for some people?

3 Give the students brief information about “The Invisible Author” Flann O’Brien.

Flann O’Brien, pseudonym of Brian Ó Nuallain, (born Oct. 5, 1911, Strabane, County Tyrone,
Ire.—died April 1, 1966, Dublin), Irish novelist, dramatist, and, as Myles nag Copaleen, a
columnist for the Irish Times newspaper for 26 years. Under the pen name Myles nag
Copaleen, O’Brien wrote a satirical column for the Irish Times that drew worldwide acclaim
for its incisive humour and use of parody. His journalism was republished in several
collections, most notably The Best of Myles (1968).

4- Ask the students to look at the name of the story “Two in One” and ask them what the
word make them think of?

5- Put students into pairs or do as a class activity. Ask them to discuss:

‘Two in One” starts the story I have to tell is a strange one, perhaps unbelievable. I will try
to set it down as simply as I can. Does it make the story seem more or less easy to believe?

After Reading

1- Writing Practice.

Think /Search a job that is rare and write a short story. (300 words.)
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Before Reading Student’s Note

1- Do you know modern day authors who are journalists as well?

2- What kind of stories do you like to read?

3- Where was Flann O’Brian born?

4- What is his pen name?

After Reading

1- All of these sentences are in the story. Put them in the same order as they are in the
story.

a) This is my strange and tragic story. _________

b) Then I threw the tool away. I was upset. I went out into the yard and looked around.
I remembered he had a weak heart. Was he dead? ______________
c) There is a variety of methods in use to-day but, except in particular cases—snakes,
for example, where preserving the translucency of the skin is a problem calling for
special measures—the basis of all modern methods is simply this: you skin the animal
very carefully according to a certain pattern, and you encase the skinless body in
plaster of Paris. ___________
d) He knew I had a real interest in the work, and a desire to broaden my experience.
For that reason, he threw me all the common-place jobs that came in. ___________
e) Still, I knew I was in danger, without knowing the exact nature of the threat I had to
counter. Whiskey cheered me somewhat. ____________
f) The unusual occurrence which led me here concerns my relations with another man
whom we shall call Kelly. Both of us were taxidermists. ____________
g) How did I know it was a Manx cat, how did I know it was not an ordinary cat which
had lost its tail in a motor accident or something? ____________
h) The word is ugly and inadequate. Certainly it does not convey to the layman that
such an operator must combine the qualities of zoologist, naturalist, chemist,
sculptor, artist, and carpenter. _____________
i) The mummifying preparation with which I had dressed the inside of the skin was, of
course, quite stable for the ordinary purposes of taxidermy. __________
j) I decided I would treat Kelly the same as any other dead creature that found its way
to the workshop. _____________
k) I would don his skin and, when the need arose, become Kelly! His clothes fitted me.
So would his skin. Why not? ________
l) As I was standing watching another game in progress awaiting my turn for the table,
I suddenly realised that Kelly did not play snooker at all! _________
m) And on the day after, I was foolhardy enough to visit Kelly’s lodgings. Where on earth
had I been, his landlady wanted to know. ___________
n) She was disturbed about my disappearance—it was so unlike me—and said she
thought she should inform the police. ___________
o) A few days later the casual gentlemen called and put me under arrest for the wilful
murder of Murphy, of myself. ____________