He
laughed again.
I
tried hard to feel nothing, tried to block out his voice, but however hard I
tried it seemed that the more I put my defenses up the weaker I became.
'They
tell you all this shit about how it's humane, that it's instant fucking death…
that's bullshit, son, just pure hundred percent bullshit. It's
designed
to fucking hurt, it's designed to make you feel like your brain is gonna
explode all over the place… that's the way it's meant to be. And there's people
gonna come down and they're gonna wanna watch you scream and wriggle and kick
your feet, and look see as your head rocks back and forth like it's on a
spring… and they'll love it, man, love every single second of it.'
I
sought escape in my mind's eye.
I
am standing on the edge of Lake Marion.
I
can smell the breeze.
I
hear my mother's voice.
She
is calling us for dinner.
Calling
both of us.
I turn
and see Nathan standing there to my right.
He
looks small.
He
is a child.
'There's
gonna be reporters, people from State Corrections, the nigger's folks -'
I
must have reacted.
'Oh
sure, they're gonna be there. You didn't know that? You didn't know that the
dumb nigger priest and his fat wife are gonna be there? No-one told you? Hell,
that's a fucking surprise isn't it? Shee-it, boy, they booked their tickets
months ago… wanted a front row seat… wanted to see you kick your last little
dance right up close.'
I
sit up.
I
lean towards the window.
I
see Caroline Lanafeuille walking down the path from my house towards the road.
She
turns as she reaches the end, she turns and looks up at me, and she smiles, and
she blows me a kiss, and she says I love you…
'Everybody
who's anybody's gonna be there, son… you're the main attraction, the real
deal…'
Somewhere
something moves.
Did I
imagine it?
'Sure
as hell, we ain't had us a fry-up here at Sumter for quite some time, and we
ain't gonna want anyone to be missing this are we?'
Florida.
The
sun is hot.
My
hands are covered in fish.
Nathan
is laughing at something.
I
am laughing too, but I don't know why… and it doesn't matter… nothing matters in
the world… everything's gonna be fine… yes, everything's gonna be just fine…
'You
listenin' to me, Ford?'
Mr.
West stepped forward and looked at me close through the bars.
I
felt something rising with me, something close and tight, something that told
me I really had nothing to lose…
'You
listen good now you fucked-up piece of shit. You hear what I'm saying now
'cause this is the end of your pathetic miserable life we're talking about
here.'
There
is a wave inside me, a wave of hate and anger and the intense desire to smash
something, to smash someone…
'Seems
to me maybe there isn't enough to talk about… thirty-six years old, right?
Thirty-six years wanderin' round accomplishing absolutely nothing. I'm right,
ain't I?'
The
wave builds, gonna break somewhere, gonna break against the shore and come
crashing across the beach, and I can hear it, hear it inside my head, hear the
sound of that wave filling my ears, filling my entire body…
'And
now you're gonna get yourself fried come Monday for the only worthwhile thing
you ever did… only thing you ever did that was worth a damned thing, eh Ford?
Killed yourself a stupid fucking nigger.'
I
went across the short space between myself and the bars faster than I could
ever have imagined possible.
But
Mr. West anticipated everything, knew how far to push, knew when I would snap,
saw me coming as if I was in slow motion.
Even
as I reached the bars his hand came through and grabbed the back of my head and
pulled my face against the bars with a sudden jerk.
His
other hand reached through and gripped my shirt around the waist. I was pinned
up against the cold metal. It felt like he was trying to pull me right through
the four- inch gaps.
I
could feel his breath against my face.
It
was cold.
There
was no warmth inside.
Just
the sound of his voice.
'You're
fucked, Ford. You're just fucked, and there sure as shit ain't anyone in the
world who gives a rat's ass about you and your pathetic little life. Your life is
worth nothing… less than nothing, and as far as I'm concerned they should just
take you out and drop you off of D-Block into the yard and save the expense of
the fucking electricity -'
I
could feel the pressure of his fist against the middle of my body.
'And
your life was
never
worth anything,' he hissed. 'You were just there,
could've been anyone… just anyone at all. You an' your dumb nigger friend
gettin' involved with people who shouldn't have taken a piss on you if you'd
been on fire.'
My
eyes were wide.
I
thought of Robert Schembri, what he'd said about West and Goldbourne.
West
read my thoughts.
'Easy
to put together, eh? You got fucked, fucked so bad it's gonna kill you.'
He smiled,
an expression of heartfelt personal pleasure.
The
hands suddenly released me and I fell back, my head missing the edge of the bed
by mere inches.
I
didn't see what happened for a few seconds.
There
was silence, seemingly endless, and in among the silence there were waves of
red and gray, something turquoise that seemed to burst silently out along the
horizon of my consciousness.
I
thought I heard footsteps. A door slammed. For a while there was nothing at
all.
And
then there was a voice.
Stay
there, son, I got someone coming down to help you.
I
did.
I
stayed right where I was.
A
little while later I felt someone helping me up, laying me down on the bed, and
for a time there was the murmur of voices somewhere beyond the edges of my
immediate perception.
I
couldn't hear what they said.
I
didn't care what they were saying.
I
closed my eyes.
'You
wanna pray with me, son?'
I
turned at the sound of Clarence Timmons' voice.
He is
seated there beyond the bars, has pulled a chair up close and is looking
through them at me as I lie there on the bed.
He is
smiling.
'I
heard you had some trouble with Mister West,' he said. 'I'm sorry, Daniel,
sorry I wasn't here. I had to take my wife… and if it's any consolation she's
gonna be fine.'
It
wasn't. No consolation at all.
I
moved my head and tried to smile anyway.
'I
know it's tough, Daniel -'
Fuck
you do.
'-
but I want you to know that there's folks who believe in the basic goodness of
people too, and that there's a better place in the end. So pray with me a
while, okay?'
I
didn't respond; I turned over and looked at the wall behind me. The side of my
face was bruised and swollen. My tongue felt too big for my mouth.
'Our
Father, who art in Heaven -'
Hell
is in my brain
.
'Thy
kingdom come -'
My
will is gone
.
'- on
earth as it is in Heaven. Give us this day -'
The
day we're dead.
'-
and forgive us our trespasses -'
As
you just leave those who trespass against us.
And
let them walk the face of the earth while you kill the innocent and the lonely
and the weak and the defenseless, you Almighty son-of-a-bitch…
'Shut
up! Shut the fuck up! Leave me alone for God's sake!'
I
started to cry.
Mr.
Timmons didn't say a thing.
He
rose from his chair, lifted it quietly, and returned to his desk at the end of
the corridor.
He
didn't pray with me again.
Food
came later.
The
food was better down here.
Why
was the food better down here?
Wanted
to remind you what you were going to be missing? Wanted to do everything they
could to ensure you held your strength up? Or was it that they felt sorry for
you?
Fuck
knows.
Fuck
knows and who gives a shit.
I ate
the stuff.
All
of it.
And
then I chain-smoked even though I knew Clarence Timmons didn't smoke and it
would bother him.
Fuck
him.
And
his prayers.
Fuck
everything.
I had
been asleep, for how long I didn't know, but when I woke Clarence Timmons was
gone and Frank Tilley was there.
I
wanted to ask him what day it was, even the time, but I didn't.
Because
I decided I didn't want to know. That way I could make believe I still had a
week, or six days, or five. I knew I didn't have that much. I didn't want to
know how much less.
I
thought of John Rousseau.
I
asked Frank where he was.
'Don't
know, son… don't know much about his comings and goings. Why?'
I told
Frank that Father John Rousseau and I had spent many hours together for some
weeks, that he said he would see me back on October 27th, that I missed talking
to him.
Frank
Tilley assumed an expression of philosophical resignation, and he said, 'Just
because he's a priest, Daniel, don't mean that he's necessarily any more
reliable than anyone else. Wouldn't get your hopes up too high, you know? If he
comes he comes, if he doesn't he doesn't.'
He
waited for me to respond.
I
didn't. I had already accepted the fact I would never see Rousseau again. If he
was a representative of God, then either God needed to be more selective about
his staff, or God was in on the joke and loving it.
I
forgot about it, tried to sleep, couldn't, and for some time I lay there
looking at the ceiling wondering if it would be tomorrow that I would die.
They
came a little later, two men in white tunic-tops. They brought an electric
razor, a towel, a plastic bowl half-filled with water. They rested the bowl on
the floor outside the cell, and the first one, the taller one, looked at me
through the bars.
'I
gotta shave your head,' he said. 'I know that it's fucked up, I know this is
possibly the worst that it's ever gonna get, but I still gotta come in there
and shave your head. You either co-operate and it's done in five minutes, or we
have to call Medical and they come down and stick a tranquilizer in your ass
and you go down like a lead weight… how's it gonna be?'