by Kevin Brooks
lISTEN – mY WORD:
hE WHO KILLS aNOTHER SHALL BE fREe
‘I think it’s meant to be some kind of covenant,’ Russell said.
‘What government?’ said Fred, picking meat from his teeth.
‘No,’ Russell said. ‘Not government. Covenant. It’s a kind of contract. An agreement.’ He coughed weakly. ‘He’s saying that if one of us kills one of the others, He’ll free the killer. He’ll let them go. A life for a life. That’s His word.’
No one said anything for a while. It was hard to know what to say. What with the other note, the food, and the strangeness of the message, we were all pretty mixed up. I looked at Russell. He had the note in his hand and was reading it very carefully. The paper was trembling in his hand. His face was puffy and pale. He put his hand to his mouth and coughed again.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘A covenant. I think that’s it.’
‘I don’t get it,’ I told him.
‘It’s simple,’ Russell explained. ‘If you kill one of us – me, for example – He’ll let you go.’
‘Yeah, I understand that. I just don’t understand why.’
‘Why what?’
‘Why bother?’
‘With what?’
‘Why bother saying it?’
‘Why not?’
‘Because it’s pointless. It’s just stupid. He’s not stupid. He might be stark raving mad, but He’s not stupid.’
‘Stark staring,’ said Russell.
‘What?’
His eye quivered. ‘It’s stark staring mad. Not stark raving.’
‘Whatever. He’s not stupid, is He?’
‘No.’
‘He can’t seriously believe we’re going to start killing each other.’
‘No?’
‘No.’
Russell crossed his arms and shrugged. ‘Well, I don’t think … I don’t …’ His voice trailed off and he started blinking. ‘I don’t think …’ His face stilled and he sat there staring into space. After a while his head began to sag and his eyes closed.
‘Russell?’ I said. ‘Russell … ?’
I leaned across the table and shook his arm. His head slumped forward and his breath rasped. He was miles away. Dead to the world.
‘What’s the matter with him?’ Fred asked.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘He’s just tired. He’ll be all right.’
Fred shrugged. The message didn’t seem to bother him at all. Neither did Russell’s odd behaviour. Those kinds of things never bother Fred. It’s like if he doesn’t understand something, or if it doesn’t have any direct relevance to him, he just ignores it.
It’s not a bad way of going about things, I think. I wish I could do it.
Fred reached out, picked up the note and scanned the words. As he read, he carried on picking bits of meat from his teeth.
‘It’s crap,’ he said, tossing the note to the table. ‘He’s just pissing around.’
‘Of course it’s crap,’ I agreed.
‘So why are we talking about it?’
‘It says he,’ Jenny said suddenly.
I looked at her.
‘The note,’ she said, pointing. ‘Look. It says he who kills another.’
‘It doesn’t mean anything, Jen. Don’t worry about it. It’s just another of His stupid games.’
‘She’s right,’ said Anja.
‘What?’
‘He who kills another. Not the person who kills another, or she who kills another.’
‘So what?’ I snapped.
‘That’s what it says.’
‘So?’
She glared at me. ‘You’re the one who said He’s not stupid. If He’s not stupid …’ She began twisting a lock of hair round her finger. ‘If He’s not stupid, why would He say that? Why would He?’
‘Because He’s mad. That’s why.’
She pouted at me.
I closed my eyes.
This is what He wants, I thought. This is what He wants. Madness, disruption, descent into chaos. This is what it’s all about. He’s like a little kid poking a stick into a nest of ants. He enjoys seeing the chaos.
That’s it, isn’t it?
That’s what You want.
You just want to see what happens.
All right, I’ll show You what happens. I’ll write it down for You, OK? How about that?
What happens is this.
Bird comes out of his room and shuffles over to the table, holding his head to one side and squinting at the light. His skin is a mess of blotches and streaks. He sits down.
‘Hey,’ says Fred.
Bird grunts.
Despite the cold, he’s sweating.
He looks at the meat.
‘What’s that?’
‘What’s it look like?’ says Fred.
Bird glances at him. ‘What?’
Fred grins and shakes his head.
‘Is he poorly?’ whispers Jenny.
I nod.
Jenny looks at Bird with the true concern of a child. She shouldn’t, but she does. With delicate fingers, she picks a shred of meat from the joint and offers it to Bird. He looks at her, sniffs, then plucks the morsel from her fingers and puts it in his mouth. Chews wearily. Swallows. Winces.
‘There’s a note,’ Anja tells him.
‘Uh?’
She picks up The Man’s note and passes it to Bird. He stares at her. Unsettled, she lowers her eyes. He reads the note. Blinks. Reads it again. Looks up. Blinks again. Then he carefully folds the note and puts it in his shirt pocket.
‘I’m tired,’ he says. He stands up and groans. ‘My throat hurts.’
Across the table Russell has opened his eyes and is staring intently at him. Bird looks back at Russell, says, ‘What?’, then turns away and walks unsteadily back to his room.
All these things – the meat, the message, the £10 note folded into a butterfly – I’ve thought about them. I’ve thought long and hard. Are they supposed to mean something? Are they clues, symbols, signs, hints?
I don’t think so.
They’re just toys. Games. He’s just messing about. That’s all. He’s just enjoying Himself.
I’ve thought about that too.
But I’m not going to tell you what I think just yet. Because 1) I’m not sure it makes any sense. And 2) If it does make sense, I’m not sure I want to talk about it.
Later on I made some tea and took it into Russell’s room. It didn’t smell too good in there. Kind of sicky and stale and a bit shitty, like a mad old person’s room. Everything seemed dirty and brown, even the air.
Russell propped himself up on the bed and sipped his tea. Some of it dribbled down his shirt. He didn’t seem to notice. I sat down and looked at him. He looks very old now. Ancient. Grizzly and weak. His black skin is tinged with yellowy-grey.
‘Have you got it?’ he said.
‘Got what?’
‘Have you worked it out yet?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Come on, Linus,’ he sighed. ‘It’s obvious. You’ve got a choice. One or the other. It’s not going to be easy, of course, but it’s all you’ve got. Believe me.’ His voice was short and breathy. He put down his tea and looked at me. ‘Are you up to it?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘The note,’ he said. ‘The covenant. It gives you a choice. You have to …’ His voice broke into a wet cough – eck eck eck – and flecks of spit splattered his lips. He wiped his mouth and went on. ‘You have to use what you’ve got, Linus. You tu
rn the bad to good. Understand? Use what you’ve got …’
‘What have I got?’
‘Ah …’ He raised a knobbly finger and waggled it absently in the air. His mouth was smiling loosely and his good eye was unfocused. It was too much to bear. I looked away, embarrassed. I didn’t know what to say or where to look or how to feel. The room was silent and white. I stared at the floor, looking for something to look at, looking for patterns in the concrete, anything.
‘Listen,’ Russell said suddenly. ‘You’ve got me or Bird. Two of us. We’re both dying anyway. Take your pick.’
‘I don’t –’
He waved me quiet. ‘I’ve had it, Linus. I’ve had enough. This thing …’ He touched his head. ‘This thing is eating me. I can see it growing inside my head. I can see it. It changes shape. Like a coal-black finger, thin and crooked. Like a burnt stick of coral. Like a witch-bone. Like a blackened worm dried in the sun. Sometimes it’s white, the white of fish-gristle. Or pink, like wet strings of chicken meat. I can see it. It’s nothing. Rogue cells, that’s all it is. Living bits gone wrong. Deformed misfits. Microscopic barbarians. Juvenile delinquents screwing themselves into oblivion.’ He laughed. ‘They’re devoted to death, the little devils. They’ll kill me and die doing it.’ He looked up. ‘You can’t help but admire that, can you?’
‘You’re not making sense.’
‘Precisely,’ he said. ‘That’s why …’
‘Why what?’
‘Never mind.’ He blinked hard. ‘Mr Bird is infected. I don’t know what it is. Dog germs … probably septicaemia or meningitis or something. I don’t know. I’m not a doctor. It doesn’t matter. He’s dying. Probably got a few days at most. So there you are. Two of us, dead already. You only need the one.’
It began to dawn on me what he was saying. ‘You mean … ?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he grinned. ‘You cheat Him at His own game. Kill me or Bird, or both of us if you want, and He’ll let you go. You can go home, go back to your father, then get the others out, Jenny, Fred …’ He glanced slyly at the camera on the ceiling and lowered his voice. ‘He doesn’t know that we’re dying anyway … He doesn’t know …’
I felt like crying.
Crying for Russell’s mind.
For mine too.
I let him carry on for a while, babbling on about the philosophy of death, natural justice, time and physics, until at last his head started sagging again and his eyes began to close and the words dried up. A dribble of spit had collected in the corner of his mouth. I went over and wiped it away and covered him up with a blanket. Then I walked sadly back to my room.
And here I am.
Lost.
My balance has gone.
The stuff I was thinking about earlier, about Him Upstairs enjoying Himself … it’s true. That’s what He’s doing. He’s just enjoying Himself. And the thing is, it doesn’t matter what I think about it. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about it. Comprehension, judgement, disapproval … none of it matters. All that matters to Him is His enjoyment. Because He’s all there is. Nothing else comes into it. It’s Him alone. What He wants, what He needs, what He does. It’s all beyond question.
That’s all there is to it.
See?
I told you it was a waste of time thinking about it.
Sunday, 11 March
We finished off the meat this morning. Stupid, really. We all know we’re not getting any more. We all know we should have saved it, been sensible, used our brains. But our brains seem to have gone on strike. We’re living like animals now. Living on needs. Eat, drink, breathe, get through the day.
Tomorrow? What’s tomorrow?
Today’s tomorrow.
Today the lift is empty.
Tomorrow, too.
Bird went crazy at Jenny this afternoon. She was in the kitchen, she told me, getting a drink of water. Bird came in, mumbling to himself and shielding his eyes from the light, and walked over to the far wall. He didn’t seem to notice Jenny at first. He just stood there looking at the wall for a while, then jerked his head and started waddling around the kitchen swearing at things.
‘Waddling?’ I said.
‘Like this …’ Jenny showed me, walking around with her knees bent and her feet sticking out. ‘Like a duck.’
‘A duck?’
‘Yeah. He was walking around like that and then he just stopped in the middle of the kitchen and looked at the floor. His eyes were all wide and starey. Then he started stamping his feet and going on about wasps, and then he stopped again and just stared.’
‘Wasps?’
‘I think so. It was a bit hard to understand what he was saying. He was talking all funny, like he had a wet mouth. I think it was wasps.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I went over and offered him a drink of water. He went mad, Linus. Knocked the cup out of my hand and yelled at me, then pushed me away.’
‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No, he just pushed me. Then he waddled out.’
She’s staying with me tonight.
She told me a joke. This duck goes into the chemist’s. It goes up to the make-up counter and says, ‘I’d like a tube of lipstick, please. And would you put it on my bill.’
Duck = 29.
Wasp = 30.
The world keeps turning.
Monday, 12 March
It’s been a long day. Full of cold and hunger. Everything is that much harder without food. Hunger is a slow and lowering thing. It creeps up on you. You lose strength and you lose heart. And the cold saps your energy, saps your will to do anything. Not that I’ve got much will left anyway. Whatever will is. Hope, determination, optimism, grit …
Words.
The cold gets into your bones and drains the life from your blood. It hurts. I’ve been cold before. I know what it’s like. I’ve been cold and hungry before. I know what that’s like. But knowing what something’s like doesn’t make it any easier. You just know what it’s like.
And besides, it’s different down here. Down here, the cold is … I don’t know. It’s just different. Colder than cold. Underground cold. Everywhere. Unrelenting.
Jenny can’t stand it. It makes her cry.
This morning we ripped up a bible and lit a fire on the floor. Just a small one. Nothing fancy. Just a ragged pile of crumpled pages arranged in a circle. I lit it with Fred’s cigarette lighter.
Click, crackle.
The magic of fire.
The flames were just beginning to flicker when the grille in the ceiling started to hiss and a fine spray of water came raining down. Jenny shrieked and cowered against the wall and I just sat there, soaking wet and freezing cold, watching the flames splutter and die.
After a few minutes the water stopped.
The half-burned bible pages were slopped in a puddle on the floor.
I looked up at the grille. Water was dripping slowly from the mesh – plip plip … plip … plip – like tears from a metal eye.
Murder beat in my heart.
Later on the noise started. That infernal racket he tortured us with before, the drums, the screeching, the wailing – shaking the walls, shaking our bones, making us weep and hold our heads and curl up on our beds like babies.
It lasted a long time, but it’s over now.
A woman once told me how to deal with scary things. She was a psychiatrist, or a psychotherapist or something. I don’t know. Is there a difference? Doesn’t matter. She was one of those whispery women, all calm and relaxing. Long skirt, pale face, pale lips. She wore a small polished stone on a piece of string around her neck. Black and shiny, egg-shaped. I ask
ed her what it was for. She said it helped to dissipate negative energy. Yeah, right, I thought. Negative energy. A polished stone … that’s going to work, isn’t it? That’s really going to help.
Anyway, what she told me was …
Let me think.
It was something to do with unresolved fears.
Yeah, I remember.
She said, ‘Imagine something that frightens you, Linus. Something that’s going to happen, say. A situation. Something you’re worried about. Can you do that for me?’
‘Yes.’
‘Good. Are you doing it now?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, now imagine that you can fly.’
‘Fly?’
‘Like a bird.’
‘Ri-ght …’
‘You can fly into the future.’
‘The future?’
‘You can do it, Linus. All you have to do is fly up into the air … fly into the future, and then look down and see yourself in the situation you’re worried about. You’re there, right now. You’re in this situation. Do you understand? You’re there. Are you there?’
‘Yeah,’ I lied.
‘Good. Now look down at yourself. You can see yourself … you’re there. See? It’s all right. You’re coping. Do you see? It’s not so bad, is it?’
I couldn’t work out whether to nod or shake my head. So I did something in between, a kind of diagonal, side-to-side nod. It didn’t make any difference, there was absolutely nothing in my mind anyway.
Whispery-woman carried on. ‘Now, fly on a bit more, a bit further into the future, and imagine yourself when it’s all over. You’ve been through this worrying situation and now everything is all right. Look, you can see yourself. You’re fine. You can feel yourself … feel yourself, Linus. It feels OK, doesn’t it?’
‘Mmm.’
‘Good. Now, soak up that feeling, soak it right up into your body and remember it. Remember how it feels. Now turn round and fly back to now, all the time keeping that good feeling inside you. OK?’
‘OK.’
She smiled. ‘That’s it. That’s all you have to do, Linus. Look forward, see yourself feeling good, soak it up and remember it. Remember the future. Remember how it feels, and it’ll be all right.’