by George Right
"What for?" he sneered. "To avoid the electric chair?"
"If you wish, yes," I replied with some note of irritation. That's bad, nonprofessional, I should watch myself better...
"And if I do not wish?"
"You mean you want to be executed?"
"I do."
"So, you regret your actions? Does your conscience bother you?"
"I did what I had a duty to do. And if I regret anything, it's that I didn't have time to do more."
Well, it looks like psychiatrists really missed the obvious. The duty, the mission, "voices in my head ordered me..." There are countless instances in criminal cases where a murderer feigned madness to escape punishment. But here, seemingly, the madman feigns (and successfully!) mental health in order to be executed. I haven't heard about such precedents before. How did he manage to deceive doctors, I wonder? Probably because forensic psychiatrists got too accustomed to dealing with the opposite situation...
And if all this is true, it not only gives me a chance to win a hopeless case, but also converts me from a person obliged to protect a bloody bastard into the savior of a sick man who, of course, cannot be blamed for becoming ill.
"Could you please explain what your duty consisted of, Mr. Jackson? And who imposed it on you?"
But he preferred to close up again, like a mollusk on a seabed to which a hand was stretched.
"What are all these conversations for? I've told you already, I don't need your help. If the law requires you to fulfill any formalities for my protection, do it, but without me."
"Yes, of course," I pretended that I turned off my laptop and was going to leave."That only reduces my workload and I'll do as you say if you insist. Just, you know, I had a thought–not as a lawyer but as a human being–that you will be executed... quite a nasty procedure, by the way. It is officially considered that death by an electric chair is immediate, but it is not always so. It sometimes happens that they have to turn the current on a second and even a third time... skin bursts and smokes, eyes literally jump out of the sockets, severe spasms break bones..."
"I know all this. If you want to frighten me..."
"No, no. I only want you to realize clearly what awaits you. But OK, maybe all this doesn't disturb you. However... you still know something very important, don't you? And your secret will die with you. Isn't that deplorable?"
"Tell me also that if I explain everything to you, you will fulfill my duty," he sneered.
"Certainly not. I won't tell you that."
"And you are right, as I wouldn't believe you. However... the secret... everyone should indeed know this secret. But it's useless even to try to explain. Nobody will believe me. Not even because they can't, but because they won't want to believe."
"Well... but can't you try? At least tell me only. Perhaps, I won't believe, either, but in any case, what do you lose?"
He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Kept silent. Then suddenly he resolved to speak.
"Do you believe in ghosts?" he asked, looking somewhere aside.
Certainly not. I am not a superstitious idiot. But aloud I, of course, said differently:
"Well... as there is a lot of unknown in the world, I don't exclude the possibility of their existence. And you? Do you believe in them?"
"No," he dumbfounded me. And then added: "It is possible to believe only in what you do not know. And I saw them and communicated with them. Moreover–I was one of them."
Yes, yes. My diagnosis is proving to be true.
"You, in general, got everything right," he continued. "Everything really did begin with that accident. And I was indeed brought back from the next world. Only not by doctors."
"By whom then? Angels?" I probably managed to dispel any sign of irony from my intonation."Or maybe demons?"
"No, not at all. By people. Dead people."
"Zombies, you mean?"
He looked at me as at a fool, and then sighed and asked:
"What do you know about ghosts?"
"Well... it is considered that ghosts are souls of people who died a cruel death. And as a result, they got stuck between the two worlds, ours and... next one. Thirst for revenge, the need to fulfill an unfinished duty and so on can hold them here..."
"Well, well. And in your opinion, are ghosts unhappy?"
"It seems, yes. They are troubled by this unfinished business. Therefore they wander and groan at nights..." I couldn't restrain myself and said the last phrase with a theatrical howl. Jackson frowned in annoyance and asked the next question:
"And what is, as it is considered, the main desire of any ghost?"
"To go to eternal rest," I answered immediately.
"Indeed, I heard that since my childhood, too," he nodded. "And haven't you ever reflected, why?"
"Why what?"
"Why should ghosts so aspire to this rest? What's so bad in having an active afterlife? Why are all people so sure that ghosts want to replace it with... with what? With the final death, the non-existence–which the same people fear so much during their lifetime?"
"Probably, not after all," I assumed; it never came to my mind before to think about such things. "As far as I understand, the rest is a transition to a better world..."
"Who told you that it is better?"
"Well," I shrugged my shoulders, "it's just an expression..."
"And you didn't reflect where it came from?"
"Probably from people's hope for a better life at least after death. Though from the Christian point of view... and not only Christian... in the afterlife there can be either paradise or hell. But, probably, existence in a ghost form is some kind of purgatory... that is, when a soul stuck between worlds gets the opportunity to move on, it means that its sins are forgiven, and it is awaited in paradise..."
"Yes, paradise. Eternal pleasure, huh? Well, in some sense it really is... but it depends on for whom. In your opinion, what does the soul do in paradise?"
"Well, I don't know," I shrugged. "All these descriptions from the Middle Ages... such as walking in a garden and playing harps... always seemed to me too naive and primitive. In my opinion, such 'pleasure' will make you howl from boredom in just a week–let alone all eternity... Modern theologians, as far as I know, put it more vaguely, like paradise is the place where the soul reunites with its Creator... In any case, I am not an expert in this matter. I am, in fact, an agnostic."
"Agnostic", nodded Jackson. "A very apt word. It means–one who does not know. And those whom you call 'experts' should be called the same. Though they imagine that they know something, naive idiots..."
"And you?" I asked directly. "Do you know?"
"I know. I was there."
"In paradise? Ah, yes, the clinical death... Well, not only you..."
"Yes, certainly. Even books are written about it. Flight through a tunnel and so on... But don't forget, I was there for eleven minutes. I moved further down the tunnel than others, further than those who could return, certainly. And I saw what is there."
"And what is that?" I became interested.
I saw, how Jackson's face–which, according to the press, remained passionless when he told the court about his brutal murders and listened to his own death sentence–suddenly was distorted and turned pale, even gray, in just an instant. I have read about such things in fiction books and I always thought it was just a literary cliche, but now I saw it happen in reality. And it was not simply such a horror which can't be feigned, which can be produced only by reminiscence of real events (and what might those events be if only a single memory of them turns the face into a terrible mask of a corpse?!)–no, this grimace demonstrated also an insuperable disgust risen as a lump in the throat.
"There is He", dully said Jackson.
"Who? God?" I didn't understand. However, the look of my vis-a-vis suggested an opposite assumption: "the Devil?"
"Call Him what you want," Jackson returned to his former grumbling tone. "He deceived you into the belief that there are two beings.
All dualistic religions keep repeating that, enticing new unfortunate idiots. But actually, He is one. Creator. Founder. He, or more likely It... The soul should return to its creator, huh? But why in the world do all of you think that it happens for your pleasure?!" now Jackson almost shouted. "That It is interested in anyone's pleasure, except Its own? And the main thing–everything is on the surface! Sometimes his servitors speak out clearly–however, even they are blind and don't understand WHAT they serve... they don't understand that there will be no reward and no exception for them either... Flock, oh yes. The favorite Christian image, what could be clearer. And if only anyone reflected–WHAT are sheep to the shepherd, or to be exact–to the owner of the flock? WHAT role does he prepare for them?"
"Are you saying..."
"We are Its food. For this purpose It created us, and it is the only meaning of our life. And sinners, saints, believers, non-believers–all these have no value. These are senseless labels with which we amuse ourselves in our pen. Really, who is interested in the beliefs of livestock?"
"Well, it's, of course, a curious hypothesis..." I allowed.
"It's not a hypothesis, you idiot!" Jackson bellowed, and his chains tinkled. "I saw it with my own eyes! Or what I had instead of eyes... there. The tunnel really exists and I flew through it almost up to the end. But do you know what it is actually?"
"What?"
"It's... it's a throat."
For some time he sat silently, looking at the smooth surface of the table in front of him. Then he continued:
"Actually, our fate is even more awful than a sheep's. For He devours alive not our bodies, but our souls. More precisely, even that's not so. A soul is immortal. This was not a lie. And He–It–feeds not on souls, but on their suffering. That horror and despair which souls produce in the process of digestion... eternal digestion," Jackson made a pause again. "I saw it. There, where the throat leads... in the stomach. There is... as if braided brown space, all consisting of a torn, dirty, shaggy web. And in this web people hang... millions, billions of people. Can you imagine old, exhausted corpses of flies–the victims of an ordinary spider? It looks similar from afar, but up close it's much worse. They hang there... semi-digested, dried, with tatters of flesh hanging down from their bones, many of them already have no extremities, or just gnawed stumps sticking out... Certainly, that's not real, corporeal bones and flesh–our consciousness simply perceives the mutilated soul this way. But, eventually, if we feel it to be so, what's the difference to us what their true nature is? And they shout. All of them eternally shout..."
"So 'semi-digested' or 'eternally'? If 'semi-', there should come also the moment when completely..."
"It is not necessarily true at all. Do you know what an asymptote is?"
"Seems to me, something mathematical..."
"Yes. The state to which it is possible to infinitely approach, but never to reach. The same is here. A certain core of a soul always remains. That core that is capable of feeling horror and pain..."
"And how did you manage to get out of there?"
"I, naturally, turned back when I saw all this. As well as billions before me. But usually the people who have fallen that deep can't return. Even if doctors manage to reanimate the body, the soul remains there. And on a hospital bed the next comatose 'vegetable' appears... But I was very lucky. There were those nearby who helped me."
"Who? You said something about ghosts."
"You see, it's also true that those who die a cruel death get stuck between the worlds. They don't fall into the throat. I don't know why and neither do they. Perhaps, from His point of view they are something like unripe or, on the contrary, spoiled fruit... Or the suffering which they endured when dying reduces their, so to say, productivity after death–then they are an analog of a squeezed orange... But, for some reason, suicide doesn't prevent souls from falling down Its throat. Here the legends are wrong–very few people are actually capable of committing suicide in a painful enough way... Most ghosts of course, prefer to keep close to our world, though in it they are almost powerless. They are shades and nothing more, almost incapable of interacting with living beings or with any material objects. The vast majority of ghost stories stating the opposite are myths. But ghosts still have the possibility of observing, traveling, and communicating with each other. That's not too bad, especially considering the alternative... But there are also those who venture into the throat. Not because of curiosity–there is nothing curious there. They simply try to rescue souls falling there. Most often, their relatives and beloved ones, but sometimes also strangers as well. Ghosts try to push souls back to the world of the living–which is of course possible only when the body still can be reanimated–or to turn into a ghost, which is possible even less often if the death was usual. Besides, it is dangerous. If the ghost gets in too deep, it is sucked into the bowels like all other souls... It cannot spit or vomit."
"Why don't those who return after a clinical death report the same experience as you?"
"I've said already–they come back from halfway, having seen nothing. The majority–due to the efforts of doctors only. But even those who were pushed out... there is no time for explanations there. If you begin to explain the person who is being sucked into a whirlpool what awaits him at the bottom–you both will be drawn in. My case is special... I was pulled out from there, from where usually nobody is. On the one hand, I happened to be stronger than others. Strength of mind, in literal sense... not that I have especially strong will and so forth, but simply as, you know, there are people resistant to poisons or to radiation... one on a billion... it's not a personal merit, just so I happened to be born. On the other hand, those who saved me took a terrible risk themselves... having taken my oath that if I return to the living world, I will fulfill their commissions. So it lasted longer than usual, and there was enough time for conversation."
Suddenly he literally shot a glance into my eyes.
"I know what you think. That all this are simply hallucinations produced by lack of oxygen in a dying brain. Exactly how scientists explain all stories told by people after clinical death, huh? But here is proof for you. Do you know who Daniel Dorn is?"
"I know who Diana Dorn is," said I, remembering again who was in front of me. "Your first victim. But there is no Daniel in the case materials..."
"Because he perished five years earlier," Jackson interrupted. "He is her father. He was one of those who pushed me out. And he... didn't get out himself. It's like in physics–force of action is equal to the force of counteraction... pushing someone upward, you fall deeper yourself."
"Well, in principle, you could learn this name without any..."
"Yes, of course," Jackson grinned."The name. The address. The arrangement of rooms. And in particular–the security system code. In a city where I never was before, where I had no acquaintances and whereto I had to travel through half of America. Couldn't indeed the cranky blood-thirsty maniac find a closer victim? And aren't the surnames of Kraut and Poplavsky also familiar to you? After all, the police still could not answer the question how I've got into their houses so easily."
"You mean that you killed your victims...at the desire of their relatives?"
"Not all of them. Only the first three cases–yes, I paid my debt. And then I understood that I should continue. I realized that to try to explain anything was useless, I would have only gotten into a sanitarium. And also I understood how religions would react to my revelations. The idiots thinking that it is possible to make an agreement with Him... There is nobody to agree with there. And not at all because He is infinitely cleverer than we are. On the contrary, I doubt that He–It–has any intelligence in general. Perhaps It had long ago when It created the world... but even that is unlikely. And now It is simply a glutton..." he paused again. "So I realized that I can not save everyone or even a large number. But I tried to rescue at least some good people whom I met. And the only rescue from the fate all of us face is..."
"Painful death."
"Yes. Well, or shameful one; it works, too. But I couldn't give it to them–it requires the hatred and contempt of a large number of people..."
Oh yes. As, for example, in case of execution of a bloody maniac.
"Didn't you think about mass acts of terrorism?" I asked aloud.
"Certainly I did," he nodded. "But during powerful explosions, the majority perish instantly, so it won't work. However, death from poisoning with certain gases can be painful enough... but I could neither buy nor make them. I am not a chemist."
"I see," I said.
"You don't believe me," he sighed.
"In any case, what you told me sounds rather..."
"It is not necessary to choose politically correct formulations. Let's use elementary logic. If my story is a lie, then I deserve execution as a monstrous serial killer. And if it is the truth–you understand why I want such a death. So simply don't interfere, OK? Do the formalities that the law requires of you, but nothing more. Eventually, it's just simpler for you, in all senses, isn't it?"
"It is."
"So, do we agree?" he stared into my eyes with hope.
"Don't worry, Mr. Jackson."
When "the New Ripper case" was heard for the first time, the court hall had overflowed; moreover, even outside in front of the building, a fair crowd gathered, shaking placards like "Fry the bastard!" over their heads. The second process attracted much less interest. Very few people doubted that it was a mere formality and with his guilt so incontestable, the sentence would be confirmed. Even most of the relatives of victims–excepting those who were called as witnesses for the prosecution–preferred not to come, probably having found it too hard to relive painful memories. Though I do not doubt that they were going to attend the execution.
The prosecution portion of the hearing rolled as on rails to its obvious ending. Evidence, protocols, testimony... "Does the defense have questions for the witness?" "No, Your Honor." "Produce the next witness..." What questions could there be to the undoubtedly proven facts? The artist carelessly struck a pencil on paper, drafting portraits of the participants of the hearing. Once I caught his derisive, but sympathetic glance as if to say, "Bad luck, guy. Though the case is headline-making, you definitely won't become famous for it..."
