Offbeat: Uncollected Stories

by Richard Matheson

“In the Rocky Mountains?”

  “No one ever heard of it,” said the prisoner. “It was never publicized. It was built in 1943 for experiments on nuclear fission.”

  “But Oak Ridge . . .”

  “That was another one. It was strictly a limited venture. Mostly guesswork. Only a few people outside of the plant knew anything about it.”

  “But . . .”

  “Listen. We were working with U-238.”

  The priest started to speak.

  “That’s an isotope of uranium. Constitutes the bulk of it; more than 99 percent. But there was no way to make it undergo fission. We were trying to make it do that. Do you understand . . .”

  The priest’s face reflected his confusion.

  “Never mind,” said the prisoner hurriedly. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there was an explosion.”

  “An . . .”

  “An explosion, an explosion.”

  “Oh. But . . .” faltered the priest.

  “This was in 1944,” said the prisoner. “That’s . . . ten years ago. Now I wake up and I’m here in . . . where are we?”

  “State Penitentiary,” prompted the priest without thinking­.

  “Colorado?”

  The priest shook his head.

  “This is New York,” he said.

  The prisoner’s left hand rose to his forehead. He ran nervous fingers through his hair.

  “Two thousand miles,” he muttered. “Ten years.”

  “My son . . .”

  He looked at the priest.

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  The priest smiled sadly. The prisoner gestured helplessly with his hands.

  “What can I do to prove it? I know it sounds fantastic. Blown through time and space.”

  He knitted his brow.

  “Maybe I didn’t get blown through time and space. Maybe I was blown out of my mind. Maybe I became someone else. Maybe . . .”

  “Listen to me, Riley.”

  The prisoner’s face contorted angrily.

  “I told you. I’m not Riley.”

  The priest lowered his head.

  “Must you do this thing?” he asked. “Must you try so hard to escape justice?”

  “Justice?” cried the prisoner. “For God’s sake is this justice? I’m no criminal. I’m not even the man you say I am.”

  “Maybe we’d better pray together,” said the priest.

  The prisoner looked around desperately. He leaned forward and grasped the priest’s shoulders.

  “Don’t . . .” started Father Shane.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” said the prisoner impatiently. “Just tell me about this Riley. Who is he? All right, all right,” he went on as the priest gave him an imploring look. “Who am I supposed to be? What’s my background?”

  “My son, why must you . . .”

  “Will you tell me. For God’s sake I’m to be exec— . . . that’s it isn’t it? Isn’t it?”

  The priest nodded involuntarily.

  “In less than two hours. Won’t you do what I ask?”

  The priest sighed.

  “What’s my education?” asked the prisoner.

  “I don’t know,” said Father Shane. “I don’t know your education, your background, your family, or . . .”

  “But it’s not likely that John Riley would know nuclear physics is it?” inquired the prisoner anxiously. “Not likely is it?”

  The priest shrugged slightly.

  “I suppose not,” he said.

  “What did he . . . what did I do?”

  The priest closed his eyes.

  “Please,” he said.

  “What did I do?”

  The priest clenched his teeth.

  “You stole,” he said. “You murdered.”

  The prisoner looked at him in astonishment. His throat contracted. Without realizing it, he clasped his hands together until the blood drained from them.

  “Well,” he mumbled, “if I . . . if he did these things, it’s not likely he’s an educated nuclear physicist is it?”

  “Riley, I . . .”

  “Is it!”

  “No. No, I suppose not. What’s the purpose of asking?”

  “I told you. I can give you facts about nuclear physics. I can tell you things that you admit this Riley could never tell you.”

  The priest took a troubled breath.

  “Look,” the prisoner hurriedly explained. “Our trouble stemmed from the disparity between theory and fact. In theory the U-238 would capture a neutron and form a new isotope U-239 since the neutron would merely add to the mass of . . .”

  “My son, this is useless.”

  “Useless!” cried the prisoner. “Why? Why? You tell me Riley couldn’t know these things. Well, I know them. Can’t you see that it means I’m not Riley. And if I became Riley, it was because of loss of memory. It was due to an explosion ten years ago that I had no control over.”

  Father Shane looked grim. He shook his head.

  “That’s right isn’t it?” pleaded the prisoner.

  “You may have read these things somewhere,” said the priest. “You may have just remembered them in this time of stress. Believe me I’m not accusing you of . . .”

  “I’ve told the truth!”

  “You must struggle against this unmanly cowardice,” said Father Shane. “Do you think I can’t understand your fear of death? It is universal. It is . . .”

  “Oh God, is it possible,” moaned the prisoner. “Is it possible?”

  The priest lowered his head.

  “They can’t execute me!” the prisoner said, clutching at the priest’s dark coat. “I tell you I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”

  The priest said nothing. He made no resistance. His body jerked in the prisoner’s grip. He prayed.

  The prisoner let go and fell back against the wall with a thud.

  “My God,” he muttered. “Oh, my God, is there no one?”

  The priest looked up at him.

  “There is God,” he said. “Let Him take you to His bosom. Pray for forgiveness.”

  The prisoner stared blankly at him.

  “You don’t understand,” he said in a flat voice. “You just don’t understand. I’m going to be executed.”

  His lips began to tremble.

  “You don’t believe me,” he said. “You think I’m lying. Everyone thinks I’m lying.”

  Suddenly he looked up.

  “Mary!” he cried. “My wife. What about my wife?”

  “You have no wife, Riley.”

  “No wife? Are you telling me I have no wife?”

  “There’s no point in continuing this, my son.”

  The prisoner reached up despairing hands and drove them against his temples.

  “My God, isn’t there anyone to listen?”

  “Yes,” murmured the priest.

  Footsteps again. There was loud grumbling from the other prisoners.

  Charlie appeared.

  “You better go, Father,” he said. “It’s no use. He don’t want your help.”

  “I hate to leave the poor soul in this condition.”

  The prisoner jumped up and ran to the barred door. Charlie stepped back.

  “Watch out,” he threatened.

  “Listen, will you call my wife?” begged the prisoner. “Will you? Our home is in Missouri, in St. Louis. The number is . . .”

  “Knock it off.”

  “You don’t understand. My wife can explain everything. She can tell you who I really am.”

  Charlie grinned.

  “By God, this is the best I ever seen,” he said appreciatively.

  “Will you call her?” said the prisoner.

  “Go on. Get back in your cell.”

  The prisoner backed away. Charlie signaled and the door slid open. Father Shane went out, head lowered.

  “I’ll come back,” he said.

  “Won’t you call my wife?” begged the prisoner.

  The p
riest hesitated. Then, with a sigh, he stopped and took out a pad and pencil.

  “What’s the number?” he asked wearily.

  The prisoner scuttled to the door.

  “Don’t waste your good time, Father,” Charlie said.

  The prisoner hurriedly told Father Shane the number.

  “Are you sure you have it right?” he asked the priest. “Are you positive?” He repeated the number. The priest nodded.

  “Tell her I . . . tell her I’m all right. Tell her I’m well and I’ll be home as soon as . . . hurry! There isn’t time. Get word to the governor or somebody.”

  The priest put his hand on the man’s shaking shoulder.

  “If there’s no answer when I call,” he said. “If no one is there, then will you stop this talk?”

  “There will be. She’ll be there. I know she’ll be there.”

  “If she isn’t.”

  “She will be.”

  The priest drew back his hand and walked down the corridor slowly, nodding at the other prisoners as he passed them. The prisoner watched him as long as he could.

  Then he turned back. Charlie was grinning at him.

  “You’re the best one yet, all right,” said Charlie.

  The prisoner looked at him.

  “Once there was a guy,” recalled Charlie. “Said he ate a bomb. Said he’d blow the place sky high if we electrocuted him.”

  He chuckled at the recollection.

  “We X-rayed him. He didn’t swallow nothing. Except electricity later.”

  The prisoner turned away and went back to his bunk. He sank down on it.

  “There was another one,” said Charlie, raising his voice so the others could hear him. “Said he was Christ. Said he couldn’t be killed. Said he’d get up in three days and come walkin’, through the wall.”

  He rubbed his nose with a bunched fist.

  “Ain’t heard from him since,” he snickered. “But I always keep an eye on the wall just in case.”

  His chest throbbed with rumbling laughter.

  “Now there was another one,” he started. The prisoner looked at him with hate burning in his eyes. Charlie shrugged his shoulders and started back up the corridor. Then he turned and went back.

  “We’ll be giving you a haircut soon,” he called in. “Any special way you’d like it?”

  “Go away.”

  “Sideburns, maybe?” Charlie said, his fat face wrinkling in amusement. The prisoner turned his head and looked at the window.

  “How about bangs?” asked Charlie. He laughed and turned back down the wall.

  “Hey Mac, how about we give big boy some bangs?”

  The prisoner bent over and pressed shaking palms over his eyes.

  The door was opening.

  The prisoner shuddered and his head snapped up from the bunk. He stared dumbly at Mac and Charlie and the third man. The third man was carrying something in his hand.

  “What do you want?” he asked thickly.

  Charlie snickered.

  “Man, this is rich,” he said. “What do we want?”

  His face shifted into a cruel leer. “We come to give you a haircut, big boy.”

  “Where’s the priest?”

  “Out priesting,” said Charlie.

  “Shut up,” Mac said irritably.

  “I hope you’re going to take this easy son,” said the third man.

  The skin tightened on the prisoner’s skull. He backed against the wall. “Wait a minute,” he said fearfully. “You have the wrong man.”

  Charlie sputtered with laughter and reached down to grab him. The prisoner pulled back.

  “No!” he cried. “Where’s the priest?”

  “Come on,” snapped Charlie angrily.

  The prisoner’s eyes flew from Mac to the third man.

  “You don’t understand,” he said hysterically. “The priest is calling my wife in St. Louis. She’ll tell you all who I am. I’m not Riley. I’m Phillip Johnson.”

  “Come on, Riley,” said Mac.

  “Johnson, Johnson!”

  “Johnson, Johnson come and get your hair cut Johnson, Johnson,” chanted Charlie, grabbing the prisoner’s arm.

  “Let go of me!”

  Charlie jerked him to his feet and twisted his arm around. His face was taut with vicious anger.

  “Grab him,” he snapped to Mac. Mac took hold of the prisoner’s other arm.

  “For God’s sake, what do I have to do!” screamed the prisoner, writhing in their grip. “I’m not Johnson. I mean I’m not Riley.”

  “We heard you the first time,” panted Charlie. “Come on. Shave him!”

  They slammed the prisoner down on the bunk and twisted his arms behind him. He screamed until Charlie back-handed him across the mouth.

  “Shut up!”

  The prisoner sat trembling while his hair fluttered to the floor in dark heaps. Tufts of hair stuck to his eyebrows. A trickle of blood ran from the edge of his mouth. His eyes were stricken with horror.

  When the third man had finished on the prisoner’s head, he bent down and slashed open his pants.

  “Mmmm,” he grunted. “Burned legs.”

  The prisoner jerked down his head and looked. His mouth formed soundless words. Then he cried out.

  “Flash burns! Can you see them? They’re from an atomic explosion. Now will you believe me?”

  Charlie grinned. They let go of the prisoner and he fell down on the bunk. He pushed up quickly and clutched at Mac’s arm.

  “You’re intelligent,” he said. “Look at my legs. Can’t you see that they’re flash burns?”

  Mac picked the prisoner’s fingers off his arm.

  “Take it easy,” he said.

  The prisoner moved toward the third man.

  “You saw them,” he pleaded. “Don’t you know a flash burn? Look. L-look. Take my word for it. It’s a flash burn. No other kind of heat could make such scars. Look at it!”

  “Sure, sure, sure,” said Charlie moving into the corridor. “We’ll take your word for it. We’ll get your clothes and you can go right home to your wife in Saint Louie.”

  “I’m telling you they’re flash burns!”

  The three men were out of the cell. They slid the door shut. The prisoner reached through the bars and tried to stop them. Charlie punched his arm and shoved him back. The prisoner sprawled onto the bunk.

  “For God’s sake,” he sobbed, his face twisted with childish frenzy. “What’s the matter with you? Why don’t you listen to me?”

  He heard the men talking as they went down the corridor. He wept in the silence of his cell.

  After a while the priest came back. The prisoner looked up and saw him standing at the door. He stood up and ran to the door. He clutched at the priest’s arm.

  “You reached her? You reached her?”

  The priest didn’t say anything.

  “You did, didn’t you?”

  “There was no one there by that name.”

  “What?”

  “There was no wife of Phillip Johnson there. Now will you listen to me?”

  “Then she moved. Of course! She left the city after I . . . after the explosion. You have to find her.”

  “There’s no such person.”

  The prisoner stared at him in disbelief.

  “But I told you . . .”

  “I’m speaking truth. You’re making it all up in a vain hope to cheat . . .”

  “I’m not making it up! For God’s sake listen to me. Can’t you . . . wait, wait.”

  He held his right leg up.

  “Look,” he said eagerly, “These are flash burns. From an atomic explosion. Don’t you see what that means?”

  “Listen to me, my son.”

  “Don’t you understand?”

  “Will you listen to me?”

  “Yes but . . .”

  “Even if what you say is true . . .”

  “It is true.”

  “Even if it is. You still committed the crimes
you’re here to pay for.”

  “But it wasn’t me!”

  “Can you prove it?” asked the priest.

  “I . . . I . . .” faltered the prisoner. “These legs . . .”

  “They’re no proof.”

  “My wife . . .”

  “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know. But you can find her. She’ll tell you. She can save me.”

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing that can be done.”

  “But there has to be! Can’t you look for my wife. Can’t you get a stay of execution while you look for her? Look, I have friends, a lot of them. I’ll give you all their addresses. I’ll give you names of people who work for the government who . . .”

  “What would I say, Riley?” interrupted the priest sharply.

  “Johnson!”

  “Whatever you wish to be called. What would I say to these people? I’m calling about a man who was in an explosion ten years ago? But he didn’t die? He was blown into . . .”

  He stopped.

  “Can’t you see?” he entreated. “You must face this. You’re only making it more difficult for yourself.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shall I come in and pray for you?”

  The prisoner stared at him. Then the tautness sapped from his face and stance. He slumped visibly. He turned and staggered back to his bunk and fell down on it. He leaned against the wall and clutched his shirtfront with dead curled fingers.

  “No hope,” he said. “There’s no hope. No one will believe me. No one.”

  He was lying down on his bunk when the other two guards came. He was staring, glassy-eyed, at the wall. The priest was sitting on the stool and praying.

  The prisoner didn’t speak as they led him down the corridor. Only once he raised his head and looked around as though all the world was a strange incomprehensible cruelty.

  Then he lowered his head and shuffled mutely between the guards. The priest followed, hands folded, head lowered, his lips moving in silent prayer.

  Later, when Mac and Charlie were playing cards the lights went out. They sat there waiting. They heard the other prisoners in death row stirring restlessly.

  Then the lights went on.

  “You deal,” said Charlie.

  Always Before Your Voice

  Mr. Smalley moved to Vera Beach on Wednesday, March seventeenth. The morning of that day Miss Land was distributing the 11:30 delivery when he came in. She heard the doorbell tinkle and the squeak of the floorboards as he crossed over to the stamp and postal order window. She finished slipping the Brook County Newsletter into the boxes and turned.