They were drinking coffee and chatting. Occasionally one of them would do a piece of the puzzle. I left my jigsaw in its bag and put it down at the side so that Janine wouldn't see it, having first briefly contemplated starting the jigsaw at my own table, a rebel, insurgency jigsaw table, in direct opposition to the establishment. I would sit in my own breakaway corner, traducing the competition, and their out-dated 17 th century artworks.
My nerve failed me. I tried not to stare at the people at the table. Determined to wait them out – which I thought oughtn't to be too hard as they had obviously arrived before me – I wondered how obvious and perhaps sad it would look if I moved table once they'd left.
Perhaps sad? I can only shake my head in embarrassment when I think of my few obsessive days.
I drank three cups of coffee, when I had felt like none. They left. I thought I'd wait a couple of minutes, so as not to be too blatant. A woman came in on her own and immediately sat at the table. She glanced at the jigsaw once, then took out a magazine and paid the picture no more attention.
When I went back to the café the next day, another couple were sitting there. Some time, at some point, my obsession faded. I arrived at the café a couple of weeks later, the table was free, the jigsaw had been replaced by another. I sat by the window, my back to the puzzle, and watched the rain sweep across the river, the steam from the coffee rising into the cool café air.
The day came when I no longer went to the Stand Alone.
*
T he door to the room opened. I lifted my head from the table where it had been resting on the backs of my hands. I was tired, hadn't slept, but was feeling slightly better than I had done, however much earlier it was when they'd been interviewing me.
The sound of the door was enough to spark a little more life into me. The door opening could be bad, but then so was sitting in that room in complete silence. I still dreamed of being released, of them realising that I had nothing to do with their plane going down, and that I would be allowed to go home. None of that was going to happen without the door first opening.
The man looked curiously and nervously at me. He was in his early sixties. His hair was thin, his face was thin, his eyes were shallow and weak. Anxiety sat upon him like a fresh fall of snow.
We looked at each other for a few moments, neither of us entirely sure what the other was doing there. Suddenly I realised that he must have been from one of the other cells. It was obvious, but had taken me a while to get there. He was from one of the other cells and was doing what I had wondered about doing as I'd stood out in the corridor.
He was inspecting the other rooms to see what was going on. To see if there were others like him. To see if there might be a way out.
Even if he was from the room next to mine, why had they let him get this far?
He shook his head, although it seemed to be in reply to some internal conversation rather than aimed at me, and then he started to pull the door closed.
'Wait!' I managed to say. He was already out of sight as he hesitated, and then the door closed.
I sat staring at it, wondering if I ought to go out after him. I knew right there, however, that the reason I wasn't moving, the reason I didn't want to have anything to do with him, was that he was weaker than I was. However lost and alone and desperate I might have been, he was worse, and I didn't want to be responsible for him.
There was a gunshot, and then the man with the thin face cried out. A horrible wail. I stayed where I was, listening, not wanting to move. The initial howl was replaced by the most pathetic moaning, the most desperate sound you could imagine. Crying out, pleading for help.
To whom was he pleading? The guard who had shot him?
Finally I lifted myself out of the seat. I glanced over at the mirror, wondering if there was anyone in there, and then tentatively opened the door. Out
My nerve failed me. I tried not to stare at the people at the table. Determined to wait them out – which I thought oughtn't to be too hard as they had obviously arrived before me – I wondered how obvious and perhaps sad it would look if I moved table once they'd left.
Perhaps sad? I can only shake my head in embarrassment when I think of my few obsessive days.
I drank three cups of coffee, when I had felt like none. They left. I thought I'd wait a couple of minutes, so as not to be too blatant. A woman came in on her own and immediately sat at the table. She glanced at the jigsaw once, then took out a magazine and paid the picture no more attention.
When I went back to the café the next day, another couple were sitting there. Some time, at some point, my obsession faded. I arrived at the café a couple of weeks later, the table was free, the jigsaw had been replaced by another. I sat by the window, my back to the puzzle, and watched the rain sweep across the river, the steam from the coffee rising into the cool café air.
The day came when I no longer went to the Stand Alone.
*
T he door to the room opened. I lifted my head from the table where it had been resting on the backs of my hands. I was tired, hadn't slept, but was feeling slightly better than I had done, however much earlier it was when they'd been interviewing me.
The sound of the door was enough to spark a little more life into me. The door opening could be bad, but then so was sitting in that room in complete silence. I still dreamed of being released, of them realising that I had nothing to do with their plane going down, and that I would be allowed to go home. None of that was going to happen without the door first opening.
The man looked curiously and nervously at me. He was in his early sixties. His hair was thin, his face was thin, his eyes were shallow and weak. Anxiety sat upon him like a fresh fall of snow.
We looked at each other for a few moments, neither of us entirely sure what the other was doing there. Suddenly I realised that he must have been from one of the other cells. It was obvious, but had taken me a while to get there. He was from one of the other cells and was doing what I had wondered about doing as I'd stood out in the corridor.
He was inspecting the other rooms to see what was going on. To see if there were others like him. To see if there might be a way out.
Even if he was from the room next to mine, why had they let him get this far?
He shook his head, although it seemed to be in reply to some internal conversation rather than aimed at me, and then he started to pull the door closed.
'Wait!' I managed to say. He was already out of sight as he hesitated, and then the door closed.
I sat staring at it, wondering if I ought to go out after him. I knew right there, however, that the reason I wasn't moving, the reason I didn't want to have anything to do with him, was that he was weaker than I was. However lost and alone and desperate I might have been, he was worse, and I didn't want to be responsible for him.
There was a gunshot, and then the man with the thin face cried out. A horrible wail. I stayed where I was, listening, not wanting to move. The initial howl was replaced by the most pathetic moaning, the most desperate sound you could imagine. Crying out, pleading for help.
To whom was he pleading? The guard who had shot him?
Finally I lifted myself out of the seat. I glanced over at the mirror, wondering if there was anyone in there, and then tentatively opened the door. Out
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