“I only have one question,” said a man with a gentle voice and unremarkable features. His overall blandness made him supremely forgettable. Even Doll Eyes had forgotten he was there at all. His respect for the man immediately skyrocketed. This was probably the most dangerous person in the room.
“Please ask your question.”
“Have you found an able executioner?”
“The closer we get to a decision, the more heated the debate becomes. Sometimes, it has nearly come to blows. This should not be a surprise. The wrong decision will kill someone. The ‘wronger’ choice will kill everyone.”
* * *
The Nudity Of An Unserviced Solitude
Doll Eyes stood at his office window and looked down to the street below. A traffic jam had amassed just outside his building. Fleets of expensive vehicles had converged to pick up his former guests. The side walk was crowded with burly bodyguards who had more muscles in their gums than most people had in their biceps. It took more than fifteen minutes for the fracas to subside. As the chauffeurs sped off to deliver their masters to their fortress-like hotels, Doll Eyes spotted a familiar figure sitting patiently on a bench across the street. It was the kind-looking man with the soothing voice. He was alone. No bodyguards. No chauffeurs. Just a regular citizen surrounded by the nudity of an unserviced solitude: an affliction that was more common to the proletariat.
Doll Eyes watched the man for several minutes until he saw two people walking towards him. It was a middle aged woman and a girl of about fifteen. The man looked up and smiled as the two females approached. He kissed the older woman on the mouth and gave the girl a hug. After hailing several taxis which did not stop, he finally flagged one down. Upon bundling the woman and girl inside, he got in and shut the door. As the taxi was driving away, Doll Eyes thought he saw the man looking up at him from the backseat. The glare on the window made it difficult to tell for sure.
Doll Eyes lingered at the window after the taxi had left. He was haunted by a troubling question that had not been addressed when he was nominated to host the meeting. “Who is that man?” he wondered to himself.
* * *
THE SECOND INGREDIENT: THE CARPENTER
“Do you have any idea what it feels like to share a husband with a machine that’s stacked with enough weapons to make an arms dealer blush?”
The Affair
The man was restless. His wife was asleep beside him. Yes, she was beautiful. Yes, she had given him six wonderful children. Of course, she was the love of his life. And yet he could not take his mind off someone else.
After tossing and turning for an hour, the man made up his mind. He gently crept out of bed and put on his furry slippers. They looked like a pair of rabbits.
The bedroom was dark so it took him a while to find his keys. He had already thought of an excuse just in case his wife awoke as he was leaving.
The man congratulated himself as he walked towards the bedroom door. Earlier that day, he had oiled the hinges so they would not creak when he snuck out. But there was one problem. The cat. Her name was Doris.
The man did not like cats. Getting Doris had been his wife’s idea. So was keeping her. The creature was different from others of its kind: she warmed up to most people. Doris had a dog’s personality. She was simple, energetic, and uncomplicated. She was also eager to go for walks. The man knew that as soon as he opened the door, Doris would follow him outside. Upon considering his dilemma, the answer came in the form of a tiny purple bottle he had hidden behind the bathroom tiles.
As he crept down the stairs, the man remembered that three of them creaked like floorboards auditioning for a horror movie. Unlike the door, they lay beneath the carpet and could not be greased. There was only one way to avoid them. Treading very carefully.
When he placed his foot on the bottom stair, a loud creak cut through the air. Damn! He always misplaced that one in his head. As he waited to see whether his wife would wake up, the man rehearsed his excuse. When she did not stir, he slowly lifted his foot off the step. The beam complained even louder than it had when he had trodden on it. A long pause was met by the silence of his wife’s unbroken slumber. Thank goodness Daphne was a heavy sleeper.
When he stepped into the kitchen, Doris was waiting for him. Those big brown eyes.
The man retrieved his purple bottle from the bathroom and returned to the kitchen. Doris followed him both ways. She was looking up at her master with mounting curiosity. The man smiled at the cat before shaking a few pebbles of cat food into her favourite bowl. Then he added a few drops from the purple bottle and stood back to watch.
Doris turned her head sideways and sniffed the bowl. She was suspicious. But like most cats, she discovered the special hunger that is inspired by the mere presence of food. Doris started eating.
It took less than five minutes for the substance to take effect. The cat staggered to the left and then to the right. Finally, she tumbled over and fell asleep. There would be no late-night walk for Doris. The man’s mission could only accommodate two living creatures: him and his lover. The drive was only fifteen minutes long. He could return home quickly if the need arose.
It was almost three in the morning when he pulled into her driveway. The building was dark. He eased out of his car and crept to the back door. He hoped the neighbours would not spot him entering the place.
The area around the back entrance lay beneath the shade of a large oak tree. The moon’s lazy glow stood no chance of dispersing the shadows guarding the entrance. The man fumbled with his keys in the darkness until the right one slid into the lock. Slowly, he turned it until he heard a sharp click. The sound shot a jolt of anticipation through every hair at the back of his neck. The man stood still for a few seconds to compose himself. He was trembling like a skeleton confronted by a hungry dog. Remembering that his time was limited, the sense of urgency forced him to regain his composure.
The door was heavy, but it opened easily and quietly. The man shut it behind him and felt his way towards the light switch. The windows were defended by heavy blackout curtains he had bought from The Black Hole Drapery. The fabric was so thick that none of the neighbours would ever know if he were hiding the sun in the building. Naturally, the light from the bulb had no chance of breaking through.
As he walked to the room where his lover was waiting, the man struggled to overcome a sudden surge of guilt. It did not take much time for him to succeed. It had been too long since they had been together. He could feel the texture of her skin. It drifted towards him like gaseous velvet weaving through the wispy debris of the darkness. That solid torso. Her cold seduction.
When he opened the door to the adjacent room, the man found his lover lying where he had left her. Under the covers. She looked stunning, even in the light that was leaking into the room from the chamber behind him. But like any loan, the borrowed light charged a rate of interest that made the debt too costly. If he relied on it, he would have to engage his lover with the door wide open. If he closed the door, he would have to turn on the overhead light in the inner room. The bland fluorescent bulb would kill the mood.
After mulling his dilemma, he came up with a brilliant solution. He retrieved a box of matches from a nearby drawer and walked over to a small gas lamp on the bench. The glow was enough to illuminate her contours. However, it was not bright enough to disperse the shadows that nuanced her diabolical curves.
The man stood and watched as the flickering light gave his lover’s figure the illusion of movement. He had once seen a similar effect on a corpse. But that had been caused by wriggling maggots, not artistic lighting.
The stage was set. The man feasted on the sight before him until his hands were ready. He placed the lamp on the bench and walked towards her. He grabbed the blanket and yanked it off like a suffocating man invading a vault full of oxygen. She looked even better without the covers.
Was that even possible?
It was time to get busy. The man strode over to his tool box an
d reached for a flat metallic object. With a reverent tear fleeing from the corner of his right eye, he grabbed his lover’s arm and began filing away. As always, she hardly paid any attention to him. She remained calm and aloof.
The tease.
The man worked with skill and speed. He allowed his hand to be guided by the natural landscape of her body. Every true artisan knows it would be improper to use one’s own judgment to shape such a work. This man was a true artisan. Probably the best, in his client’s opinion. Certainly the best in his own.
After three hours he stopped briefly to check his phone. His wife had not called. Good. She was still sleeping. He had to keep working. He was so close.
Finally, it was time for the finishing touches. This required three things: waterproofing spray, varnish, and a blow torch. At this point he did not care if his wife woke up to an empty bed. He had reached the point where the fear of any immediate costs had been overcome by the prospect of shaping history. One day, Daphne would understand.
The man finished working at seven in the morning. After packing his tools, he made a discreet exit and drove home. Daphne would be awake when he got there. She was a “morning person”. She would know that he had left in the middle of the night. Worse, she would walk into the kitchen to find her cat in a coma. Daphne would not be happy about either situation. In fact, she would be deeply hurt. The man felt horrible, but he did not regret his decision. There was no point crying over spilt cat food, especially when it was drugged. In fact, it had to be celebrated when it was eaten by the unusually curious Doris.
The sun had risen by the time he pulled up to his house. Daphne was waiting in the kitchen. Doris was sprawled in a scruffy heap across her lap. She looked dead. Fortunately, Daphne’s sombre face was marked by betrayal, not bereavement. Doris was fine. But his relationship with his wife was not.
The man knew he had no excuse. The honest explanation for his behaviour had flopped many times before. Daphne had not understood it on any of those occasions. She would not understand it now. In fact, her reaction worsened each time he used it. No, the truth was out of the question. This was one of those times in a man’s life when only one option was appropriate: damage reduction.
“I love you so much, Daphne. I know that I am an awkward man with perverse inspirations. I know that this has injected tensions into our relationship. But even you cannot deny that I have loved you even more through it all? I know I have said this many times, but it does not have to be a competition between you and ...”
The man could not bring himself to say their names. There had been so many. Each one had hurt Daphne “immeasurably”. He had known his wife for more than eighteen years. They had been married for just as long. He trusted her more than anyone else in the world. They had procreated six times. She would die to save his life. If it were logically possible, he would die twice to save her. He could tell her almost anything. And yet, he felt embarrassed and misunderstood every time he tried to explain his passion.
Daphne did not respond. She simply stroked her sedated cat. Her eyes were glazed with resignation. Many years ago, they would have fought this battle with raised voices and acidic warnings. But today ...
“Tell me about this one,” said Daphne. Not even the most jaded psychiatrist could sound more aloof.
The man’s eyes lit up. He knew Daphne was hurting, but she wanted to indulge him. How could he resist sharing his lifelong obsession with his lifelong love?
“Well,” he said as he took a deep breath. “She is truly magnificent.”
The man meshed his fingers and crossed his feet like a priest preparing to enlighten a penitent. He was now in storytelling position.
“The idea came to me when I visited Mozambique during one of my trips to Zimbabwe. Mozambique had just emerged from decades of civil war. The bloodshed started in the seventies and lasted into the early nineties.
“After the war, the country was flooded with weapons. The government worked with international donors and charities to collect the surplus arms that could destabilize the postwar era. As an incentive, they paid anyone who handed in a weapon. The program was popular.
“Tons of arms were collected under the scheme. But what to do with them? Some people got creative. An initiative was launched to convert the weapons into useful everyday objects. One artisan used the barrels of AK-47s to make wheelchair frames. Another used the shards of detonated land mines to make a flower pot. One metal worker integrated a pair of grenade launchers into a piece of gym equipment. It was amazing how the country’s craftsmen transformed these implements of death into useful, living art. Metallic memorials to the final subjugation of violence.
“I wanted to be a part of this evolving humanity. After making some inquiries, I found a middleman in Maputo who acquired two tons of weapons on my behalf. I could have gotten these materials from many places around the world. However, I wanted mine to come from Mozambique. Sentimental reasons. It took some time to convince the British customs officials that the weapons were out of commission. Eventually, they allowed me to import them into the country.
“I am sure you noticed that my working habits have been more unpredictable of late. I have been quite distracted. My first shipment arrived last month. The second one came two weeks ago. The final batch arrived last Thursday. I have been working furiously to combine my ingredients into the most momentous piece of art I have ever created.
“Daphne, I wish you could see her. She is jaw dropping. I sandpapered the rust and redefined her stern edges. I melded these disparate pieces into a unified structure. She looks like she has always been a single entity. A complete woman.
“I finished oiling and applying the glaze on her this morning. Now, she is rustproof. Invincible. By the time I return to the workshop, Benhilda will have matured into adulthood. Yes. That’s her name ... Benhilda.”
The man tilted his head as the cat had done before he drugged it.
“I wish you would come with me,” he implored his wife.
Daphne examined her cat. Doris’ chest was heaving steadily. She was still alive.
“Percival, do you have a client who is willing to buy your ... Benhilda?” she asked.
“Well, no,” replied Percival. “This one is ... different.”
“How?”
“Well, Benhilda is more ornamental than functional.”
“So someone would only buy it for decoration and not for executing people?”
“Well, yes. But she works. However, she is made almost entirely of metal. Benhilda is heavier than regular gallows. Also, some of her materials have gone through rough times. She would require special packaging. This would triple the cost of shipping and handling. I would need to find a customer who appreciated her for more than her regular use.”
“A hobbyist? Someone more interested in death as art than death as policy?”
“Well, I am not sure I would ever sell Benhilda to a ‘hobbyist’. Any customer would have to express a deeper commitment to the art form. A hobbyist simply wouldn’t do. That would be like giving the kids a rare emerald to decorate their papier-mâché crowns. Cute but unacceptable.”
“How much money have you spent on making these gallows?”
“Well ... About fifty thousand pounds.”
Daphne froze. Her fingers clutched a clump of Doris’ fur. The animal’s right paw was raised by the retraction of her skin. She did not stir. Percival had delivered the worst of the news. He moved in to mitigate the damage. The strategy had worked well in the past. Deliver the punch and before the other party can fully process the blow, quickly tell them that the hospital is much nearer than they thought.
“On the plus side, I earned seventy thousand pounds for installing the boiler at the Bainsburg Foundry. A client also paid me thirty thousand pounds for one of my gallows from the ‘Cliffhanger’ series. It’s actually quite funny but I named it after the gerbil I had as a boy. His name was Cliff. Can you guess how he met his end?”
Daphne was n
ot laughing. Percival promised to punch himself later for the foolish distraction.
“My brother did it. Anyhow, the Cliffhanger comes with the option to buy a lifetime performance warranty. Actually, I often joke about how my clients enjoy many lifetimes within the same warranty.”
Percival waited expectantly. His clients always cracked up when he shared this witty observation. Daphne was unmoved. Percival retreated to the refuge of cold numbers. As the person responsible for the family finances, Daphne would find comfort in the profitability of his business.
“The client bought the warranty. Minus what I spent on Benhilda, this gives us a net gain of fifty-five thousand pounds. Further, these numbers do not include my regular contracts. I have seven kitchen renovation jobs right now. Oh, and don’t forget, I bought Benhilda’s raw materials through a charitable foundation. I can deduct those expenses from our taxable income.”
The last point had already slipped out before his tongue could retrieve it. Daphne was not impressed by Benhilda’s tax benefits. How could she be? His wife’s passion for taxation was religious. This was the only thing Percival could not love about Daphne. His own views on taxation were equally religious. Taxes were evil: a form of state-sponsored slavery that robbed productive citizens to feed lazy ones. In his humble opinion, taxes were more perverse than his obsession with ceremonial death.
This was not a popular view with Daphne, so Percival always kept it to himself. His wife did not even know that he was the founding treasurer of the UK Coalition Against State-Sponsored Fiscal Torture (CASS – FT). The organization sponsored the election campaigns of anti-taxation candidates running for the British Parliament. If Daphne learned of his involvement with CASS – FT, she would leave him for sure. He would never see his children again. Building gallows was one thing. Fighting for the end of the welfare state was quite another. Percival decided to steer away from that subject. It would only intensify Daphne’s hatred for her metallic rival. Instead, he tried another angle.
The Hangman's Replacement: Sprout of Disruption (BOOK 1) Page 19
