Candlemoth

by R.J. Ellory

  Clarence Timmons noticed I was looking at it.

  'Kick bar,' he said. 'If a prisoner grabs an officer and pulls him back against the cell bars, the officer can still activate the alarm by kicking the bar anywhere along its length. Just a safety precaution, Daniel…'

  Clarence Timmons smiled. 'Let's do the cuffs eh, son?'

  I shuffled towards him and he undid the cuffs, assisted me to remove the belt, and then knelt down to unlock the ankle shackles.

  Taking the things out with him, he paused there in the cell doorway and looked at me.

  'Maybe you should rest now,' he said. 'You'll find the bed here is a little less hard than the ones upstairs.'

  He smiled again, smiled like he was welcoming me to Summer Camp, and then he slammed shut the cell door.

  Sounded like a gunshot.

  Sounded that final.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  I don't really know how long I have been here but I already feel like someone is stealing time from me.

  Frank Tilley had told me someone would come at noon to check my temperature, whatever else they do, and they came.

  Ten minutes later Frank Tilley told me his shift had ended and Clarence Timmons was now coming down.

  Clarence Timmons came down, no more than twenty minutes after the medic had left, and he told me it was a little after five.

  Someone stole that many hours from me.

  I know they did.

  I think I might have heard them.

  They came with soft-soled shoes, and they walked as if on eggshells, and they took some time, a couple of handfuls maybe, and then they left the way they'd come.

  I called after them but they didn't hear me.

  There are moments of startling lucidity.

  I can close my eyes, and all I have to do is think of someone's name…

  Caroline

  Linny

  Marty

  Eve

  … and their faces come to me as clear as daylight.

  There are so many…

  Sheryl Rose

  Benny

  Doctor Backermann

  Emily Devereau

  … and none of them know where I am.

  I would like for them to know.

  And then sometimes I feel that such a thing as this no- one should ever know.

  Should be just between myself and God.

  And Nathan Verney.

  'Daniel?'

  I look up.

  Clarence Timmons stands there. In his hand he holds a brown paper bag, and at the bottom of it there are tiny dark spots, like there's something inside that's wet and showing through.

  'My wife made this… a sweet apple fritter… you want it?'

  Frank Tilley talks to me sometimes, and the feeling I get is that he is one sad and lonely man.

  Yesterday, I think it was yesterday, he told me that he'd been to a baseball game in Charleston. He didn't say Hey Daniel, me and my buddy Chester went to a game last Saturday or I took my wife to a game in Charleston last weekend. He said I went, which made me think he'd gone alone.

  Who goes to a baseball game alone?

  Apparently Frank Tilley does.

  Maybe he goes other places, places where people know who he is, and they talk about him when he's not in earshot, like Hey, that's Frank Tilley… he looks after the guys down in Sumter when they're ready to fry them… hell, man, imagine what that kind of a job would do to you… sure as shit happy that I ain't Frank Tilley.

  Right now I would be happy to be Frank Tilley, even if I did go to ball games alone.

  There's nothing down here.

  I asked Frank if there was any way we could have a transistor radio, and though he smiled and looked like he understood, he told me that if he brought a radio down he would get his ass kicked from here to the Georgia state line and back.

  Sorry kid, he said. No radio.

  The third time I saw Clarence Timmons I asked him what day it was.

  'Oh, you just reminded me,' he said. 'Warden's gonna come down at some point to speak with you. Can't tell you which day.'

  And then he turned and walked back to his desk, and I was thinking about Warden Hadfield, and the moment was gone.

  I never did find out what day it was.

  Like I said before, sometimes there are moments of such intense lucidity.

  I think about some of the events that I described to Father John Rousseau, and as I recall them they come back. Sometimes I close my eyes, and for a tiny moment I believe I can almost hear someone's voice.

  Eve telling me about something or other, Nathan laughing as he shares a joke… such things as this.

  Maybe the closer you get to your own death, the nearer you are to the dead.

  They are somewhere, are they not?

  Perhaps they are somewhere waiting for you, and as they wait they talk, and if you listen, listen real good, you can catch some vague echo of their voices.

  I am not losing my mind.

  Sometimes I think perhaps my mind is aware of what is about to happen, and in its unwillingness to share with me this moment of dying it is leaving early.

  Like my memories are the things my mind is packing for its journey, and as it takes them out, as it folds them, I catch glimpses of those things before they are stowed forever.

  Shit, maybe I am losing my mind.

  At some point, two days, three even, Clarence came and told me that for his second shift that day he would not be there.

  His wife, she had suffered a fall, nothing too serious it seemed, but he would have to drive her to the hospital for an X-ray.

  I nodded.

  'Daniel?'

  I looked up through the bars from where I sat on the edge of my bed.

  'Mister West will be coming down, just for those four hours, but I want you to say nothing to upset or aggrieve him, you understand me?'

  At that my pulse slowed down, my heart too, and a feeling of intense claustrophobia pushed at the edges of my consciousness. I closed my eyes and rested my face in my hands.

  'Daniel?'

  I could hear Mr. Timmons but didn't want to respond.

  'Daniel… I know you can hear me. You listen to me, son, you listen good. Mister West ain't gonna do anything. He says something to you, you use your own judgement whether you should respond or not. He ain't gonna come in there, but he may bait you, son, he may try and get you riled, but you just pay no mind… he's only gonna be here a coupla hours and then he'll be gone, okay?'

  I didn't reply.

  'I know you heard me, Daniel, so I ain't gonna repeat myself… but you mind what I say about this.'

  I lay down.

  I tugged the thin pillow out from under my head and covered my face.

  Had I possessed the energy I would have cried.

  I knew when he'd arrived.

  I sensed the lights dim.

  There was a feeling that came with him, a perception of something dark and angular, awkward facets that did not fit together without grinding and grating.

  I held my breath.

  'Mister Ford,' he said, his voice almost a whisper. 'How you doin' in there, son?'

  I said nothing.

  I was sitting on the edge of my bed, and my head was down, my eyes closed.

  I heard the outer door close to and slam shut. That sound echoed forever.

  'Seems to me you'd be a little lonesome there, Mister Ford… eager for a little company, a little conversation, yes?'

  Again I did not reply.

  'Hey! Fucker! You fucking well look at me when I'm talking to you. You look at me right now or I'm coming in there and giving you the beating of your fucking life!'

  I raised my head and opened my eyes.

  Mr. West glared at me through the bars.

  His face was beet red, his eyes wide, manic, like someone possessed, and when he saw I was looking at him he smiled, and stood upright.

  'That's better,' he said, and his voice was once a
gain a whisper.

  'Now,' he said, 'let's talk about what's gonna be happening to you, my friend. That okay with you? You don't mind having a little chat about the next coupla days, right?'

  Mr. West nodded.

  'Good, fine, we'll do that.

  'So come about five on Sunday they're gonna come down here and shave your head again. Reason they do that is contact. Gotta have proper contact you see, and also if they don't shave your head then likely as not your hair will set on fire and it makes the place stink like hell. They're gonna ask you if you'll be wanting a sedative before they move you to the Procedure Room.'

  Mr. West laughed.

  'Don't matter what you say, boy, 'cause they don't give you a sedative, just some fucking glucose or saline or something. What the fuck would they wanna make you feel less pain for, eh? You're a killer, a fucking murderer, eye for an eye an' all that, right? So why would they be interested in saving you some pain? Shee-it, boy, it's gonna hurt. Heard that it's minutes of agony, the most agonizing pain you could ever imagine… and sometimes just one jolt ain't enough. Sometimes they gotta bang that sucker through you three or four times to get your heart to stop. Old guys, sure, no problem, could kill 'em plugging 'em into the wall socket… but a young healthy guy like you, strong heart, strong as a horse, hell wouldn't surprise me if they had to keep you running on that fucker for twenty or thirty minutes.'

  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.

  * * *

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  'You wanna pray with me, son?'

  I turned at the sound of Clarence Timmons' voice.