here the cry was much, much louder.
He was curled up on the floor, clutching his right kneecap, pressing hard against it. It couldn't have been doing him any good in trying to relieve the pain. The guard had shot him from close range in the knee. The bone and flesh had exploded.
There was a tremendous splatter of blood and body matter across the floor and the walls for a single gunshot.
I looked at my guard and then along the corridor in either direction at the other guards. They were all standing in the same position, gun in hand, hands held together at the groin. I wondered who'd shot him. I wondered which direction that haunted man had come from.
He looked at me, his face contorted, his eyes imploring. He couldn't speak. I think he tried to, but the voice was just a horrendous wail, a desperate, tortured grimace in scream form. I wanted nothing to do with him, but I couldn't stop myself. Some innate compassion took hold of me and I stepped forward.
'Leave him or join him,' said the voice behind me.
I turned quickly. My guard was staring straight ahead at the door to my cell, as he had been doing every time I'd looked at his face.
Leave him or join him . That's what he'd said. If it was him. The sound certainly hadn't come from further along the corridor.
My back was now turned to the abject bloody misery on the floor. The thing, that barely seemed to be a man anymore, wailed more loudly. I did not look back. Brin would not thank me if I chose the wailing man over coming home safely. I returned to my cell and closed the door.
I moved over to the far corner of the room and sat down, huddled up, arms wrapped around my knees.
*
S everal hours later I found myself desperate for the toilet. Unsure of the procedure when I wasn't actually offered the choice, I approached the mirror and said that I needed to use the bathroom. Shortly afterwards the door opened and the female agent beckoned for me to come. I walked out and followed her along the corridor.
The scene where the haunted man had fallen was completely clean. There was no sign of him, or of his bloody and splattered kneecap.
10
––––––––
H appy place. Happy place. Happy place. Huddled up into as much of a foetal position as I could get, my legs squeezed tightly together, I tried desperately to think of our happy place, the place that Baggins had suggested, the place where we took our summer holidays. Sitting on Nairn beach, a calm sea, a nice drink, a warm summer's day.
The plane juddered continuously, battered by the storm. I kept thinking, how big is this storm? Hadn't they seen it coming? Why couldn't they fly around or over it? Isn't that what planes are supposed to do with storms?
And every time I thought that, I had to haul my head back to the happy place. I had to focus on the sea. Focus on the smells and the sounds and the tastes. The sound of the gentle waves washing up on the sand. The cold drinks. The smell of summer. The cry of the gulls. The mournful cry.
Why are they mourning? Because the plane is going to crash!
I thought of the Air France flight from Brazil, over the Atlantic, the pilot making the bold move to fly through the storm. Everyone dead in under ten minutes. How long had it been? How long had we been flying through the storm?
Stop! Happy place. Happy place. Happy place. The smell of the sea. Breathe it in, imagine it, feel it, sense it. Be there. Listen to the waves. LISTEN TO THEM!
We were descending, sharply, desperately. You could feel it. I dared not look out the window, although there would have been nothing to see anyway. Nothing but clouds and rain and lightning. We'd been descending for a while, I just hadn't wanted to think about it, to acknowledge it.
Were they going to try to land in this? Could they possibly touch down safely, buffeted as they were by this storm? Perhaps the descent was uncontrolled. A freefall to certain death.
I gripped my head. The plane rocked and shuddered and jerked and tugged
He was curled up on the floor, clutching his right kneecap, pressing hard against it. It couldn't have been doing him any good in trying to relieve the pain. The guard had shot him from close range in the knee. The bone and flesh had exploded.
There was a tremendous splatter of blood and body matter across the floor and the walls for a single gunshot.
I looked at my guard and then along the corridor in either direction at the other guards. They were all standing in the same position, gun in hand, hands held together at the groin. I wondered who'd shot him. I wondered which direction that haunted man had come from.
He looked at me, his face contorted, his eyes imploring. He couldn't speak. I think he tried to, but the voice was just a horrendous wail, a desperate, tortured grimace in scream form. I wanted nothing to do with him, but I couldn't stop myself. Some innate compassion took hold of me and I stepped forward.
'Leave him or join him,' said the voice behind me.
I turned quickly. My guard was staring straight ahead at the door to my cell, as he had been doing every time I'd looked at his face.
Leave him or join him . That's what he'd said. If it was him. The sound certainly hadn't come from further along the corridor.
My back was now turned to the abject bloody misery on the floor. The thing, that barely seemed to be a man anymore, wailed more loudly. I did not look back. Brin would not thank me if I chose the wailing man over coming home safely. I returned to my cell and closed the door.
I moved over to the far corner of the room and sat down, huddled up, arms wrapped around my knees.
*
S everal hours later I found myself desperate for the toilet. Unsure of the procedure when I wasn't actually offered the choice, I approached the mirror and said that I needed to use the bathroom. Shortly afterwards the door opened and the female agent beckoned for me to come. I walked out and followed her along the corridor.
The scene where the haunted man had fallen was completely clean. There was no sign of him, or of his bloody and splattered kneecap.
10
––––––––
H appy place. Happy place. Happy place. Huddled up into as much of a foetal position as I could get, my legs squeezed tightly together, I tried desperately to think of our happy place, the place that Baggins had suggested, the place where we took our summer holidays. Sitting on Nairn beach, a calm sea, a nice drink, a warm summer's day.
The plane juddered continuously, battered by the storm. I kept thinking, how big is this storm? Hadn't they seen it coming? Why couldn't they fly around or over it? Isn't that what planes are supposed to do with storms?
And every time I thought that, I had to haul my head back to the happy place. I had to focus on the sea. Focus on the smells and the sounds and the tastes. The sound of the gentle waves washing up on the sand. The cold drinks. The smell of summer. The cry of the gulls. The mournful cry.
Why are they mourning? Because the plane is going to crash!
I thought of the Air France flight from Brazil, over the Atlantic, the pilot making the bold move to fly through the storm. Everyone dead in under ten minutes. How long had it been? How long had we been flying through the storm?
Stop! Happy place. Happy place. Happy place. The smell of the sea. Breathe it in, imagine it, feel it, sense it. Be there. Listen to the waves. LISTEN TO THEM!
We were descending, sharply, desperately. You could feel it. I dared not look out the window, although there would have been nothing to see anyway. Nothing but clouds and rain and lightning. We'd been descending for a while, I just hadn't wanted to think about it, to acknowledge it.
Were they going to try to land in this? Could they possibly touch down safely, buffeted as they were by this storm? Perhaps the descent was uncontrolled. A freefall to certain death.
I gripped my head. The plane rocked and shuddered and jerked and tugged
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