I
could see Caroline's face.
We
should… you know, we should… before I leave…
And
then her face was a pattern in the wing of a moth, and then there was a flame,
a brief rush of color.
…
and moths are attracted to light because they wish to be seen, to have their
own magical beauty recognized…
I
could hear my mother's voice calling me from the bottom of the stairwell.
Dan-ny!
Dan-ny! Daaaa-ny!
And
then there was a sensation like falling backwards, backwards in slow-motion…
I
felt a sharp pain in my side.
I
opened my eyes.
'Get
it together, shit-for-brains,' Mr. West hissed. 'You ain't passing out on me
now, you fuck!'
I
closed my eyes again, couldn't help it.
Felt
like something dark and cool was dragging me inside itself.
I saw
Eve Chantry.
…
so she went out on her own, took that little boat out across the water one
morning…
Another
pain in my side, sharper, harder, and then Mr. West brought his hand up and
slapped me hard across the face.
'What
the fu -'
His
hand gripped my throat. His face was in mine. Closer than I imagined it could
be.
'What
the fuck? Is that what you were gonna say? What the fuck? Is that all you have
to say for yourself in the last minutes of your worthless piece of shit life?
I'll tell you what the fuck, Ford. I'll tell you the truth, right here and now.
We're gonna be getting someplace real soon, and then they're gonna walk you
down a long corridor, and that corridor will go on forever, feels like it will
never end… and about halfway down you're gonna realize that there ain't no
going back… and that's when you start to lose the plot completely. Guys tell me
that you lose control of your muscles, can't walk properly, piss yourself -'
I am
not hearing him.
I
remember standing as a child with my fingers in my ears…
I
can't hear you! I can't hear you!
I
could feel his breath - cold and damp - against my face. I felt as if it was
freezing against my skin.
Images
flooded up towards me like a kaleidoscope.
Serpent
Mike… is the Vietcong like King Kong?
My
breath came short and fast as he gripped my throat… like he wanted his fingers
to meet through my jugular.
Nathan's
face?
Nathan
was saying something.
Guilty
is as guilty does… Dagnabbit Luke, fetch a rope…
'…
feel like your tongue is swelled in your mouth, swelled up and choking you… and
you wish to hell you would choke to death right there on your feet 'cause
anything has to be better than frying alive, boiling in your own blood and
bodily fluids, don'tcha think?'
I
closed my eyes.
Mr.
West slapped me again.
'Wake
the fuck up, you asshole! Wake the fuck up!'
I
tried to open my eyes. Couldn't.
I
imagined John Rousseau was sitting facing me.
I believe
there are still Cheyenne Dog Soldiers in the Oxbow … believe that Elvis is
alive and well… I believe that they never really went to the moon…
I
could feel Mr. West's fingers poking at my eyelids, forcing me to look right at
him… and I did… I opened my eyes and I looked right back at him. His eyes were
dark and black and soulless.
Like
the deer I saw at the bend in the road near Eve Chantry's house a million and a
half lifetimes before.
This
is the candlemoth.
Hell
of a thing, Mister Ford.
I
could hear Jack Chantry's voice as he staggered from the side of the lake, his
daughter's lifeless body in his arms…
…
sounded like his soul had been wrenched from his body…
Hell
of a thing, Mrs. Chantry.
I
could hear the blackness coming. Black and gray with scarlet waves in between,
and there was a sound like a rushing storm coming at me from left field…
And
then there was nothing.
I was
lifted from the car.
I
heard Clarence Timmons' voice. He was speaking to Mr. West.
'You
told him where we were coming and why?' Timmons asked him.
'Sure
I did,' West replied sharply. 'I told you once already.'
Clarence
Timmons came forward. His face was sympathetic and understanding. He reached
towards me and helped me to stand. He started walking me, slowly, carefully,
and before I knew it we were entering the mouth of some high-ceilinged
corridor.
I
didn't know where I was, and even as I turned to open my mouth, to ask
something, to ask
anything,
Mr. Timmons smiled and nodded and indicated
forward.
Why
did he smile?
Was
he pleased he would no longer have to speak with me?
Was
he upset because I didn't pray with him, that I had now demonstrated my lack of
faith, my ungodliness, and thus had given reason enough to die?
I
tried to open my mouth again, but my lips were stuck together.
I
stumbled forward, I lost my balance for a moment, but there were hands to catch
me, so many hands… as if no- one wanted me to lose it now, to lose it in the
most significant moment of my life.
The
moment of my death.
Even
as I staggered forward, breathless, disorientated, I could imagine them holding
me down, the cool hard surface of the chair, the electrodes they would stick to
my scalp, the smell of the cloth as they placed a black hood over my head…
So
your eyes don't explode all over your chest and upset folks too much…
And
then the waiting.
Seconds
becoming minutes.
Minutes
becoming hours.
Somewhere
the sound of a ticking clock.
No-one
daring to move for fear of breaking the breathless and horrifying tension.
And
feeling a cool bead of sweat escaping from my forehead, running down my nose.
The
sensation… possibly the last sensation I would ever feel…
Until
the pain came.
Like
lightning.
Like
fire ripping through my body.
Like
a knife so great it would pierce your skull and run right through your frame
until you were suspended upon it like a marionette.
And
wishing you would choke to death as everything inside you rushed upwards in
some vain attempt to escape the sheer tidal wave of agony…
And
screaming…
And
hearing nothing…
Because
the sound is inside your head.
Because
you died already, but no-one knows it, and they keep running that generator as
the lights dim… and outside the gate the protesters and life campaigners wait
and listen and realize that yet again there was no point in being there at all…
'Cause
Daniel Ford is dead.
Deader
'an Elvis.
I
gave up then.
In that
final moment as we reached the end of the corridor I gave up.
Consigned
myself to fate and destiny and the will of God.
We
came through the door at the end. We came through it as if surfacing from
water, breath gasping, a burning fist of terror inside me, and that fist
enclosing my heart and threatening to squeeze every last drop of blood between
its fingers…
My
legs didn't work. Nothing worked. Every muscle like Jell-O, my arms like
worn-out elastic, limp and lifeless.
I
closed my eyes. I didn't want to see the Procedure Room ahead of me, the steel
doors, the porthole windows, the chair where my last dying wish would fail to
rescue me. The patient and expressionless men whose God-given task it was to
burn me alive. And knowing that the letter of the law
must
have been
seen to be done for me to be here at all, they would rest easy in their
certainty that what the Bible said was in fact the word of God. An eye for an
eye…
A
smell filled my nostrils. It was unmistakable. I couldn't have described it,
but it was there - the realest thing of all. Like the dust that gathers on
books, like wooden floors and vaulted ceilings, and a thousand years of
precedents.
We
came through the door, and then there were two police officers, one on each
side of me, helping me as I stumbled along an aisle between two banks of
chairs…
Is
this where they will sit? Is this where Nathan's mother and father will sit to
watch the show?
I saw
my feet dragging along as if by themselves, each step a motion that required
the greatest effort. I watched my feet because I couldn't look up… couldn't
bear to see the end coming, knowing that now - now at last - there was nothing
that could be done…
And
with my bright orange overalls, my hands and feet shackled, my shaved head, I
felt like some demented clown.
I was
almost carried the last few yards, and then I was being directed to sit.
I
squeezed my eyes tight.
I
opened my mouth to scream, but only silence issued forth.
I waited
for the hands, the electrodes, the cotton sack they would place over my head…
The
sounds of breathing, my own and others', the smell of my sweat escaping before
it became steam…
The
sensation of time stretching out before me, every second becoming a minute,
every minute becoming an hour… my entire life now encapsulated within a single
explosive heartbeat that would signify the end of all that I had ever been, all
that I could have become…
Oh
God, oh God, oh God… not like this… not like this… any other way than this…
There
was a voice.
'Open
your eyes, Mister Ford.'
It
was a new voice, a voice I had not heard before. I didn't wish to comply. I
didn't want to see the faces of the men who would do this to me.
'Open
your eyes please, Mister Ford,' the voice repeated.
I
shook my head.
'Mister
Ford,' the voice demanded, curt and authoritarian.
My
eyes opened involuntarily. I cursed them. I wished I were blind.
The
light dazzled me. Stunned me. For a moment I could gain no bearings, and then
as colors and shapes swam into view I saw a wide table ahead of me, another
twenty feet ahead of me a witness box, to the right and adjacent an elevated
podium, a desk upon it, and upon the desk a decanter of water and an upended
glass.
The
police officers sat behind me.
I
tried to turn, almost fell as my ankle shackles twisted around my feet, and
then there were people coming, the sound of voices, a uniformed bailiff
appearing from a door behind the podium.
I
wondered if I was dreaming.
I
wondered if I was already dead, waiting for my final judgement.
The
bailiff shuffled some papers ahead of him and stood up.
'All
rise,' he commanded.
I
tried to stand up, I felt sick, dizzy, and then one of the police officers was
again behind me, assisting me to rise.