Ball of Confusion

by Ian Black

  George shrugs, “You wanting revenge seems black and white to me… So where does this grey area come in?”

  Hazma nods, “The cause of my need for revenge is clear, yes… The grey area is how religion is interpreted by people, to justify the action… One passage of text can be read and understood in many different ways… and because of this uncertainty, religions grey area is a place of confusion; a melting pot of angst which people stir continually, making that craving for revenge fester… until it is quenched!”

  “Oh!” George is mesmerised, “So who will you kill, to revenge your family? I know they bombed your country, and then your people did 9/11 to them… but how do you know who to kill, to get your revenge? Because, just killing normal good people isn’t right is it? And it sounds like both sides are doing that.”

  Hazma explains further, “This is another example of grey area, George… Each man must use his religion to live his life in a way he believes to be right… Allah guides us to defend ourselves against oppression. The Americans and British are our oppressors. They killed my parents… innocent people, along with thousands of others.”

  George labours his point, “But if you kill some of their innocent people, because they killed your innocent people… does that make it right?” He pauses, “Will you be happy then?” Hazma seems a little taken aback by the question. He’s never been asked to justify the killing of innocents quite so simplistically before.

  George detects his cellmate’s hesitation to answer, and continues, “That just doesn’t make sense, because all both sides are doing… is attacking each other back! None of that makes sense to me. Mind you, I struggle to understand a lot of things… Ever since I was young I’ve been told to live my life as a good person… So I did. I did what I was told and ended up here! In jail! You’re the same. You fought for your beliefs, and now you’re the bad man!”

  “We are extremists, George…” he replies. “Not many will kill for their beliefs.”

  George shrugs, “Sounds like more grey area to me.”

  •

  Chapter: 17

  The Cost of Honesty

  Next morning, the relaxing sounds of birds chirruping and leaves rustling prompt George to stop raking soil and look up, and focus on clear blue sky visible through leaves and branches thatched naturally above him, from the only tree in the prison garden. His eyes become blurred slightly as bright sunlight filters through the foliage. He soaks pleasurably in magnificent warming rays and his nostrils flare as he breathes in clean free air breezing across the formidable old perimeter wall surrounding the jail.

  Mother Nature reminds George of the uncomplicated freedom he enjoyed living alone in the woods, until a falling leaf touches his cheek, and brings him back down to earth as it floats gently to land on the soil of the vegetable allotment directly beneath his feet.

  His daydreaming is also broken by a voice, from behind.

  “Visitor here for you, George,” announces a prison guard.

  George looks amazed by this startling news (his first ever visitor). So the guard repeats, “Yes… that’s what I said, you’ve got a visitor.”

  “Who is it?” he enquires. “I don’t know anyone!”

  The guard refers to a note in his hand, “Millennium Jones.”

  “Who?”

  He confirms, “Millennium Jones, it says here… a friend.”

  George shrugs, nods his head in acknowledgement, places the rake on the floor, and follows the guard into the old red-bricked prison block.

  •

  George walks in silence, several paces behind the guard through a myriad of corridors and locked doors that eventually lead to the prison visitors’ rooms. The guard selects another key from his heavily laden chain, inserts it and turns. Clicking echoes as the door unlocks. George then follows him into a large room filled by a dozen sets of tables and chairs, all occupied by one prisoner and at least one or more seated visitors sat opposite; except for one table that the guard points to, ushering George in the direction of a corner table, where an attractive well-dressed black woman sits patiently awaiting his arrival.

  The guard confirms, “That’s her, there, in the corner.”

  George seeks confirmation of her name, “Mirrium Johns?”

  “Millennium Jones.”

  “Millemmenem?” Slowly and clearly the guard repeats, “Millennium Jones… You’ve got fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh!” exclaims George.

  George steps tentatively towards her. She stands, confidently offers her hand and introduces herself, “Hello, George. I’m Millennium Jones.”

  George still hasn’t grasped it, “Millem…”

  She’s just watched him struggling with her name, and helps him out, “Millie… Call me Millie.”

  They begin shaking hands, but George gets carried away again, pumping her forearm up and down with vigour, and they continue to shake while taking their seats facing each other across the table, until eventually Millie politely tugs her hand away.

  George blatantly stares at her face, in wonderment. Apart from his mother he’s never known female company, especially close up, and absorbs himself totally in her beauty, which overwhelms him: midnight-black straightened pony-tailed hair that shimmers… silky smooth skin… perfect lips, teeth and make-up; her bumps are all in the right places; he gets lost inside her eyes – large cognac coloured crystal marbles, set in snow (now derestricted of spectacles by laser surgery).

  He’s hypnotised by Millie, who feels awkward and attempts to break his stare, commenting, “You don’t know who I am, do you?” He shakes his head like a lost little boy. She continues, “I’ve come here today… to say thank you.”

  “Oh…” he’s confused. “Why?”

  “You remember the car crash… when you pulled the man from the flames?”

  “Yes.” George recalls the incident.

  She smiles, “Well, that man was my boyfriend.”

  “James?”

  Millie is surprised, “You remember his name?”

  Further recollection floods into his mind, “I remember James, the driver, and I remember you now… your voice. You were the lady on the phone, panicking!”

  “I was!” she exclaims, “I’m impressed with your memory.”

  “I’ve got a good memory,” he confirms. “I never went to school you see… I never learned any school stuff… so my brain’s pretty empty really… except for memories.”

  Millie warms to George’s nature immediately. She has read the psychological reports, profiles, and warnings of his potentially dangerous nature, but can only see before her a friendly uncomplicated man who seems refreshingly open and honest. She’s wondering how someone so openly nice, and so physically small, could murder as he did… he seems incapable.

  Millie continues, “Your bravery saved James’s life.” He looks a little bashful at her praise, as she continues, “He’s recovered really well… Still hobbling around a bit, but he’s okay.”

  She quickly realises, though George is friendly, he seems a little nervous and unsure what to say, so she drives the conversation. “I’m here to say thank you… and also, to say, sorry.”

  He looks confused, “Sorry… why?”

  “I’m sorry, George, because saving James’s life, ultimately… cost you your freedom.” His face looks bewildered, she explains, “After the crash, the police found your storybook, pieced things together and convicted you on your confessions.”

  “But I did kill them,” he admits.

  “I know you did, but ultimately your conviction was only secured initially because of the crash, and then you told the truth… It’s the cost of honesty,” she replies. “I know you’re honest, I’ve discovered a lot about you.”

  He looks keen to hear more.

  She explains, “After you saved James’s life, I felt I owed it, to you, to find out about you.”

  George nods and listens. People aren’t normally this nice to him.

  She continues, “I’m
a journalist, so it was easy for me to research your case, and quite honestly I became intrigued… intrigued to understand how you could callously kill two people that you knew, and then risk your life to save a total stranger like James?” She smiles, “Double murderers don’t normally double-up as Superman!”

  George shrugs, replying matter-of-factly, “It just happened!”

  Millie adores his candidness, “I love your honesty, George, so I must be honest with you… I am interested in you, not just because you saved my boyfriend’s life… but also because, like I said, it’s my job… I work on television, as a foreign correspondent. I investigate stories of interest that happen in the UK, and broadcast them via our world service to our English-speaking viewers across the globe.”

  “Oh!”

  “Your story is very interesting, George,” she insists. “I’ve researched your back-story… your life.”

  He considers her words, then asks, “Why?”

  “I’ve trawled through your psychological reports and case history, from the detention centre and court case… I know about your past.” She reaches across the table, clasps his hand in hers and states sincerely, “I know about your mother… and what happened… You’ve been let down, George, by society… you never had a chance. I can’t believe this happened to you in the twenty-first century. Not in the Western world… I want to tell your story, George.”

  He’s always surprised how interested people are in his past. How they want to find out more about his upbringing, his mother, Maurice, DC and his continual references to Saint George and the dragon. He doesn’t understand why it is so interesting, because he’s never known any different. After deliberation, he replies, “I know someone far more interesting than me.”

  Millie’s taken aback by his statement, “Really… who?”

  “Haz,” he replies. “My cellmate… He makes bombs. He’s from Iraq… He’s got some brilliant stories.”

  Millie looks a little shocked; she came in expecting to interview one newsworthy person, and may have stumbled across another. “Haz?” she asks “Who’s Haz?”

  “Hazma… Serharrn, or something like that!”

  “He makes bombs?” she asks.

  “Yeah,” he replies emphatically. “He’s a terrorist! But he’s not bad-bad, he’s just the same as me… He only kills people because they killed his family first… We’re the same!”

  Millie nods silently for a moment, as her brain ticks over, then requests, “Would you mind if I came back another day… and spoke to both you and Hazma?”

  George gives a shrug, nods, and replies, “I suppose so, yeah.”

  “Great!” Millie stands. “I’ll come back and see you both soon.” She prepares to offer her hand to shake; but turns it into a little wave instead, “Bye, George.”

  As she hooks her bag strap onto her shoulder, George enquires, “Millie… you know when I pulled James from the car?”

  She raises an eyebrow, “Yes.”

  “The music…” he enquires, “do you know what the music was? That James was playing in the car?”

  •

  Chapter: 18

  A Great Story

  Millie walks purposefully through the very high-ceilinged open plan CNN London office, nodding and smiling greetings as she glides past staff working busily at workstations. Printers whir and telephones ring; all contributing to the continuous background chatter of an industrious office. At the end of the long room she steps onto an open flight of steel steps, then on reaching the top knocks on a glass office door sign-written in bold black letters: CNN EUROPEAN EDITOR – LAURENCE JAMES.

  The editor motions through the glass; she enters to a warm welcome, “What’s new, pussycat?”

  Millie takes a seat opposite him announcing excitedly, “I’ve got a great story, Larry.”

  Sixty-year-old New Yorker Larry James has a short stubby stocky stature, imbalanced by a bulbous belly that looks like he’s wearing a wok beneath his shirt. He has a naturally aggressive face, like a boxer, with swollen hamster cheeks, and strands of swept-back hair wisped across a blood-red racing-back forehead. He carries a large reputation for delivering consistently high standards of clear, concise news media, which rewards his employers with high television ratings and lucrative advertising revenue. Larry is far from shy and boasts regularly of his extremely successful track record in international news.

  This proud Irish-American reclines confidently in his large leather swivel chair, with his brogue-shoed feet crossed at the ankles upon his expansive leather-topped desk, browsing his attention across a wall-mounted bank of twelve television screens. Each screen is tuned to a different news channel from a selection of countries around the world. The main screen in the middle broadcasts his own beloved CNN, with the volume playing low.

  His hands are clasped with fingers interlocked behind his head, nicely reclined in the chair, until he lifts his arms high into the air, arches his back and pushes his belly out to stretch his deskbound body, which unbalances the chair on its castors; it topples backwards… He has to sit up abruptly to correct the balance, looking flustered in the process.

  Millie finds this amusing, but doesn’t show it, knowing Larry hates being laughed at, and averts her gaze politely while he regains composure. Once recomposed, he replies, “So… a great story?”

  Enthusiastically she begins, “Remember I told you about my boyfriend’s car crash, and the tramp that saved him, who was convicted on two counts of murder?”

  He remembers, and gestures with his hand, “And you felt bad that he was jailed because of the crash blah, blah, blah… Yeah, I remember. So what’s new?”

  She explains, “I just visited him… His life is fascinating, Larry.”

  “Fascinating?”

  “I’ve never met anyone like him… Life has been so cruel to him, yet he remains so well balanced, and innocent.”

  “Ha! Innocent?” mocks Larry. “He killed two guys!”

  “Innocent nature… and honest, he’s incredibly honest! After what life’s thrown at him he should be as bitter as hell, but he’s not. He’s as calm as…”

  “A cucumber?” suggests Larry.

  “That’s cool,” she corrects him.

  “I know I am,” he laughs.

  “Don’t start talking in riddles, Larry, I’m serious about this.” She explains further, “At first I honestly thought I’d find just another convicted man who would claim wrong place wrong time, like a thousand cons before him, but now I’ve researched his past and actually met him, I’m beginning to understand what drives him… He’s practically uneducated, severely lacking in social skills, yet somehow his drug-addict prostitute mother instilled incredibly strong morals into him… Her caring influence made him what he is today.”

  “A killer, you mean!” he states coldly.

  His comment annoys her, “Give me a break. You’re not seeing the story are you?”

  “Maybe you’re not selling it to me!” he retorts harshly.

  Desperately wanting to convince Larry, and impress him, she adds a second hook to her pitch, “It gets better… Listen… He has a cellmate… an Iraqi terrorist… a bomb-maker!”

  Now Larry raises an eyebrow, and takes noticeable interest.

  “I thought that’d get your attention… You know me, Larry, for years I’ve been desperate to understand the mentality of the oppressor… and their never-ending morbid quests for revenge. I want to know how someone can harm another, go home, place his head on the pillow and sleep like a baby.”

  “Men like that don’t talk about it, Mill!”

  “Exactly! But I may have found two here, two men who openly kill for justice, and feel comfortable about it.”

  “Justice as they see it!” he corrects her. “Vigilantes are nothing new. Are viewers really gonna be interested in a couple of vigilante cons?”

  “Hell yeah, when they know the back story: The Tramp and the Terrorist. Isn’t that already interesting enough for you? Men who kill for j
ustice… And it’s not just some embellished bullshit… it actually happened. How interesting do you want it?” She continues passionately, “Larry… you know this is my bag. I’m not interested in explaining the minds of psychopathic killers, that’s all been done before. Psychopaths aren’t logical… Reprisal killers are!”

  She appears to be losing Larry, as he glances at the televisions.

  Millie shakes her head in annoyance. “Larry, you’re not getting it are you? This is serious shit! I’ve told you before, about when I was sixteen, and I watched those planes hit the towers for the zillionth time.” She screws up her face. “I need to know how a person can do that. I reckon I’ll get answers from these two. I want to understand their logic. I need to ask the loaded questions, Larry. It’s my job… and if that’s not interesting or good enough for you then honestly… I don’t know what you want from me!”

  He sits silently watching the screens, pondering over her pitch. Then after a few moments, he rolls his eyeballs to meet hers, and replies, “So what do you need from me?”

  She fires back her demands, “A one-hour special, one cameraman and permission from the prison governor to film both prisoners.”

  “Mills… remember, I only do good news,” (meaning good quality informative news).

  “Trust me, Larry…” she assures him, “you’ll only get serious shit from me.”

  Larry returns his feet to the desk, replying, “Leave the governor to me,” then clasps both hands behind his head, and leans back on his chair… which topples backwards again.

  •

  Chapter: 19

  Dragons Don’t Exist

  Several days later, both cellmates sit at the table in their cell playing draughts. Hazma’s trying to teach him how to play, with great difficulty, and now once again George attempts to make an illegal move.

  “You can’t do that!” sighs Hazma, moving George’s piece back.