Tide of Stone

by Kaaron Warren

I swept

  the floor. I’d get used to it, but it still made me retch.

  “We—make—you—sick,—do—we?” This was Number Twenty-two. He’d kept people in his ten-bedroomed rooming house. Chained them, let them starve, photographed it. “Show—us—your—camera.—It’s—a—beauty.”

  Some awful part of me wanted to see his photos. He was the weakest of the lot. He slumped, barely able to lift his head. More dark depression than anything else.

  He started crying. I opened the fold-out stool I’d discovered in the store room and sat next to him.

  “What’s up?” I said, not really caring, but not wanting things to spiral out of control, either. Others had started up.

  “I—like—your—hair,” he said.

  I laughed. Sure, it was blonde, but I looked more like a poodle than a model. I thought, anyway. It surprised me when people thought I was sexy.

  “Thanks,” I said. “Is that why you’re crying?”

  “I—just—can’t—stop,” he said. “You—got—painkillers?”

  We didn’t give them painkillers.

  “Don’t—you—feel—something?—Anything—for—me?”

  I shook my head.

  “You—bastards—never—do.—They—say—we’re—the—evil—ones.—But—you—bastards—feel—nothing.”

  “None of us? You reckon we’re all the same?”

  “Most.—Most.”

  So there. Was that it? I was chosen more because I was capable of non-feeling than for anything else? Renata always pushed me to show compassion; I could never see the point.

  To shut up his crying, I took Grayson out of the box, squeezed this one in. I took a photo.

  As I carried him back downstairs, Grayson clung to me.

  “I—was—dreaming,” he said, “and—dreaming—and—dreaming—and—dreaming—of—you.”

  I put him back in place without responding, then went upstairs to see if Number Twenty-two had any belongings. I wanted to see those photos.

  He had one small box. Inside, an old photo, possibly of his mother. Someone had superimposed a knife over it. There was a tin wedding ring and a piece of leather and nothing more.

  

  I checked the sawdust supplies and collected driftwood to make more.

  They said I moved too slow at Tech, but why is their pace the right one? So what if I didn’t get work done in their time frame?

  I checked the time ball mechanism. It was a beautiful thing, oiled, perfect. I could watch it shift for hours.

  I grabbed my camera and went to the prisoners. I wasn’t tired of it yet, although they didn’t like the flash in their eyes and asked me what I was doing.

  “I’m immortalizing you!” I said, but they didn’t think it was funny. They didn’t think much was funny, unless it was the suffering of another. They were too angry, or perhaps too tired, to laugh most of the time.

  I went through the routine of sweeping between them, and they complained about the dust rising. They sneezed if they could.

  “Stay—a—while,” Grayson said. “Don’t—go. Stay—a—while. I was lonely in that box, dreaming of you.”

  “It’s time for my next job. Busy, busy,” I said. Stick to the routine, do not vary it. If you have the routine, you have control.

  Keeper 1877 established the routine we still mostly followed, all of us realizing the importance of routine to sanity. Though it was 1873 who’d set up the systems themselves. The idea that we could remain in control was his.

  1877 said: It’s habit. Unthinking habit that gets us through each dull day. If we have to think too much about each dreary choice, we would not survive.

  Reading the reports helped mitigate the monotony of the routine, although I didn’t mind the dreariness of it too much (7:15 turn on generator two. 7:18, turn on kettle) because it freed my mind up to think elsewhere. The tasks didn’t feel Sisyphean, because there was a point to them, even if that point was, at times, simply maintaining the status quo.

  The Ball dropped.

  The Ball dropped.

  I swept up the old sawdust and made new from driftwood that caught in the rocks, using the large grinder in the corner under the stairs. I hadn’t noticed it on arrival. Someone had written over the grinder: Fee Fie Fo Fum.

  I had books of photography and every issue of Time-Life on my iPad. I found books, diaries, notebooks, belonging to the prisoners or left behind by the keepers, and they were them both dull and dusty and full of juicy gossip. Some a summary of conditions, others a graphic description of sexual fantasies. I never knew which until I looked inside.

  I woke up early every day, snapped the sunrise.

  At 7:45, on alternate days, I was to check on prisoners. Allow food as required. I disliked the feeding while at the same time being fascinated by it.

  What they loved was tallow candles. Even the newer prisoners.

  “Give—us—one—to—suck,—love.”

  “Go—on.—It’s—time.—Give—us—a—treat.”

  There was a store of them in the lower room. They smelled faintly rancid and made me think of the time I’d helped clear out an old lady’s fridge and found ancient roast lamb, sitting in a solidified pool of fat. Not exactly a rotten smell, but almost.

  I handed out the candles.

  “You’re—a—kind—lady.—Just—like—your—granny.”

  “We—knew—she—was—a—good—one.—We—could—smell—it.”

  They all sniffed the air like dogs.

  “She—wore—a—long—scarf,—remember?—So—long—we—grabbed—hold—of—it.—Could—have—choked—her—like—Isadora—Duncan.—Bet—she’s—still—got—it—to—remember—us—by.—Bet—it’s—a—family—heirloom.”

  “Wisht—she’d—left—it—here—for—us.—Felt—nice.”

  I’d found a box of wine, still good, and sat there sipping it. I must be used to the smell of them.

  “I—remember—that—scarf,” the abortion doctor said. He did it for profit, but he did it for pleasure, too. He told women their fetuses weren’t viable. He said, they won’t have a life and neither will you. But most of them, those babies, there was nothing wrong with them. “Could—have—used—it—as—a—bandage.”

  “I—remember—the—smell—of—it,” the one I call 1938 said.

  “Oranges,—and—gentle—sweat.—A—man’s—cologne.—Sunlight—as—well.”

  I reckoned they’d be able to figure out what that sensitivity to smell meant, now. They’d give 1938 a syndrome to manage. No doctor had ever been out there, though. Never would, most likely.

  I had the scarf on my bed. I wouldn’t be letting them near it.

  I was glad to have the scarf. I wouldn’t wear it in front of the prisoners. It was my private thing.

  One of the punishing things was that they remembered everything clearly. There was none of the kindness of forgetting, of pain easing. The happy things they remembered too, but this brought a sense of great loss. They knew all they’d missed out on. They remembered birthdays, heroes’ returns from war, sex they’d never have again, meals when their tongue could still taste, and the freedom of walking.

  I hated them for this remembering, though, thinking of my grandmother and how her mind was going. It pissed me off that they had such clear minds and she didn’t. And they didn’t preserve history in any meaningful way, whereas she could share so much. I was angry with myself for not ever taking the time to listen to her. I bet she’s been locked up by now. I should have made Dad promise not to put her in a home while I was away. I knew enough about those places to know how much she’d hate it. Dad would have done it in a heartbeat, but I always stopped him. He said the doctors said she was a menace.

  A menace. So she gets lost and shouts at people. Big deal.

  “I—remember—another—scarf,—made—of—twisted—leather.—Stretched—so—gentle—around—the—throat—that—they—didn’t—even—know—they—were—dying.” That was the priest
.

  “Go—on!—Details!” one of them said. This evil old man, the Grandfather, I’ll call him, is Renata’s family. The one whose imprisonment had formed her existence. So much of her life, her family’s lives, were tied up in his rights.

  And he was as bad as the rest of them here.

  He egged the others on to boast, to tell of the terrible things.

  He didn’t deserve the belief his family had in him.

  I’ll never tell him she’s a friend of mine. He doesn’t need to know that. I had the wooden puzzle she’d asked me to give him in my room; I didn’t want to hand it over.

  I recorded some of his words, and I’d tell Renata about his file, how awful he was. I also scavenged about in the pile of belongings, looking for evidence that might set Renata free from caring.

  I found a book with the grandfather’s name on the front page. This was Renata’s ancestry.

  “Aged 11,” it said in fading ink, and his name.

  “Look at this!” I waved it at him, giving in to curiosity when I shouldn’t have. The book was over a hundred years old. Dusty. Discolored. He remembered everything about it.

  “That—was—before.—When—I—could—have—had—a—good—life,—a—different—life.—At—eleven,—I—was—an—innocent.—I—could—have—been—a—policeman.—A—priest.—I—could—have—been—loved.—A—good—father.—Instead,—my—grandfather—taught—me—the—same—shit—I—taught—my—kids.—Best—get—it—from—home,—right?—He—gave—me—this—book.—I—wore—my—old—shorts—my—mother—hadn’t—darned—yet—and—a—scratchy—brown—jumper—knitted—by—my—grandmother—for—my—grandfather.—She—hated—him.—I—think—she—stitched—burrs—into—that—jumper—because—it—scratched—like—a—vest—of—thistles.”

  “You remember so clearly.”

  “We—remember—everything.—But—the—last—ten—minutes—are—a—blur.—I—remember—what—I—had—for—breakfast—on—my—twelfth—birthday,—but—not—what—you—wore—yesterday.”

  This wasn’t abnormal. People on death row often have no short-term memory, either. They don’t want to lay down new memories when they know they’ll die soon. They don’t want fresh memories, so they don’t make any. And the tedium of prison, the pounding sameness of it, doesn’t help.

  Although the prisoners remembered very well what was said to them. They knew every piece of gossip, all the information.

  As to what happened two days earlier? Nothing. Because nothing ever did.

  I understood this. Could barely remember myself what I’d had for breakfast, or if I’d slept well.

  I dusted and cleaned all the exhibits. All the past projects of the keepers, like the cards all laid out by 1992. I sang as I worked; good to act cheery.

  I shifted them all slightly, as per instructions. Most of them felt so loose and weak they were like dolls, but Grayson was more agile than the others. Younger by decades than most of them, his skin still had a kind of pliancy.

  “I was only three years younger than you when they did this to me. Still a kid! Still at high school and they never understood me. I wanted to be an architect,” he said, his eyes shifting slowly. I thought he was talking more quickly, but maybe I was just used it it. That was a bit scary. “But they wouldn’t let me. They said I couldn’t. You can’t even imagine the things they said to me. I wanted to make affordable houses for poor people. Because I was one of the lucky ones. Don’t you think that would be worthwhile? Don’t you reckon it’s a waste, me being here?”

  “I’ve read your file.”

  “Don’t read it! Pack of lies!”

  “But you confessed!”

  They all laughed at that, especially the priest.

  “Confession is nothing but camouflage. Distraction. Confess one day, there’s a different truth the next.”

  Burnett had often called for a priest, wanting to confess. “What did you confess?” I asked him once.

  “Don’t remember. It’s a habit from a young child. All those small things you think are important as a young person. A sharp word to my mother. Lack of loyalty to my father. Those things.”

  I watched his eyelids slide closed and wondered if he was telling me the truth.

  The Ball dropped.

  The Ball dropped.

  The Ball dropped.

  I’m beginning to think I should have chronicled sunset, not sunrise in my photographs. I hate getting up so early. Although, it makes me get out of bed each day, which is a good thing. You need something to make you get out of bed or you’d start to mimic the prisoners and just…lie there.

  It really is tempting.

  There is an incredible glow as the sun rises though. Watching the sea appear, the rocks, the islands, sometimes with kids camping out, and the town. So much less isolating than sunset, when it all disappears into darkness and the sense of isolation is intense. A few lights in town, flickering like min-min lights in the outback.

  I made the mistake of mentioning this and the prisoners tried to convince me the lights get closer every night. “Just like the min-min lights do,” the washing machine salesman told me.

  “No one’s ever proved they exist,” I said.

  “Who needs proof?” he said. “You’ve got sightings going back a hundred years, love. They’re coming for you.”

  “Make sure you close the windows and doors. Tape the cracks. Or one night they will seep into the Time Ball Tower.” The Washing Machine salesman considered himself a moral philosopher. That was his excuse for all he’d done.

  “And what?” I said. “Lights? What can lights do?”

  “Possess you. Each one the ghost of an angry man. Look.”

  And he pointed to the scientist, whose face was set in a permanent scowl.

  “He was possessed at seven years old, never a moment of love since.”

  I didn’t believe them, but the lights did fascinate me.

  “If you ever feel as if someone is watching you, they are. While you sleep, and whatever else it is you do. We know it all. He comes and tells us. His ghost waits at the door, but he can’t leave the confines.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s the ghost of the first man out here. He hasn’t mellowed, but perhaps he’s weakened, which makes him even angrier.”

  I shook my head at them. “No such thing as ghosts,” I said.

  Grayson called out, “Your hair is so shiny, just like you.”

  “Don’t listen,” Wee Willie Winkie whispered. “He hates you, I heard him say it. He said he’ll kill you then row home and fuck your mother. He was laughing; he nearly choked at the idea.”

  I looked at the arm of Wee Willie Winkie and it was flattened, the texture like rubber, the bone flaccid inside as if it had turned to a thick jelly. I’d read his file; a foul list of vicious crimes. He was a sadist, no doubt, and I bet he hated it turned on him.

  “You don’t know, you trust too much. Your best friend? A friend like that is poison and she’ll damage you for life, probably already has. What’s she doing back there? What’s she saying? You should shut her up the minute you get home. We’ll help you if you help us.”

  “What is it you want? Ask me directly and you might get it. I hate being manipulated.”

  “Freedom.”

  “Death.”

  “Forgiveness.”

  Who said that? 1938, who’d let his children starve to death. The others think they have paid. Been forgiven.

  “But what if there is a hell and you’re not absolved?” I said. “Isn’t it better to pay now?”

  That set them wailing, or as close to wailing as they were capable. “We’ve paid a thousand times over, and again,” Wee Willie Winkie said.

  To quiet them, I told them whatever would throw them off guard. Sexy stories. They loved to hear these more than most.

  They were mesmerized by me, and that way I controlled them. They kept me talking and I didn’t mind. I knew what they were doing
, but I liked telling the stories. They listened when most people in my life didn’t really.

  “Did I ever tell you about the time I took the train across the Nullabor Plain?” I said.

  “No, you never did,” the Executioner said, but I wasn’t sure if he meant I hadn’t told them, or if he didn’t believe I’d travelled close to two thousand kilometres, from one side of the country to the other.

  “Go on,” Grayson said.

  “I was only eighteen at the time,” (none of them questioned the timeframe, which is good), “and quite the innocent kid. Growing up in Tempuston you have your fumbles with the boys your age, the groping in the dark, the feels and kisses and all that.”

  All what, they said, come on, give us the details.

  “I’m not telling that story now. If you’re good I will.”

  They sat up straighter, if that was possible, and the grandfather managed to lift his finger to what was left of his lips: Silence!

  “There were families on board, and businessmen, and a school group, kids about eight I suppose.” I regretted that addition; half of these evil shits would want that story instead.

  “It was hot,” I said quickly, distracting them. “So I was wearing a loose, thin white dress. I wore white underwear so it didn’t show as much but I’m sure there was nothing left to the imagination.”

  I let them think for a bit.

  “The teacher was so handsome. He was only about twenty-two, dark haired, clear brown eyes, the strongest jaw I’ve ever seen on a man. I like a good strong jaw.”

  Half of these prisoners had no jaw left at all.

  “He and the other teachers would put the kids to bed by around nine, but then have to patrol half the night, making sure they stayed in their cabins. Eight-year-old kids are pretty naughty. I slept like a log on the first night, enjoying that rhythmic rocking of the train. I enjoyed it differently on the second night.”

  Grayson’s breath seemed faster, and the Executioner had his eyes squeezed shut. I hoped some of them might start crying and I could steal their tears.