Agnes Owens

by Agnes Owens

  ‘Don’t ever mention that man’s name to me again,’ said my sister through clenched teeth.

  She never forgave him. He explained to me later he had come to the Town Hall, but we were gone. Apparently we had been too early. Whether it was true or not I still admired and loved him, but it was like banging my head against a brick wall. It was only the cause he loved – any kind of cause, or excuse for one. No matter how often I accompanied him to drab halls where dedicated men and women gathered together to fight against injustice, or supposed injustice, I could sense he just tolerated me. Eventually I gave up and drifted out of town. I had affairs with other men but they always came to nothing. I think McIntyre had ruined me. He gave me an inferiority complex from which I never recovered.

  The meeting finished inconclusively, as usual, with an optimistic call from McIntyre to keep going. He was hurrying out of the hall with the shabby young man, the latest disciple no doubt, when I caught up with him like a body that runs on when the head has been chopped off. I touched his arm. He turned – expressionless.

  ‘Still carrying on with the good fight?’ I questioned foolishly.

  He looked at me as if I was a troublesome heckler then, after a moment’s pause, asked, ‘Would you like a drink?’

  I had not the will-power to refuse. ‘All right.’

  He turned to the shabby young man. ‘I’ll see you later John,’ he said with such contrasting warmth I could have wept. The young man shrugged and nodded towards me with a flickering glance of calculated understanding. Inside the lounge I clutched my glass of gin while McIntyre sipped his beer. He stared at me encouragingly. ‘You were saying?’

  ‘Saying?’ I strove to remember. ‘Oh yes – I asked you if you were still carrying on with the battle.’

  ‘What else is there?’

  That was true. He had that at least. I had nothing. Spitefully I said, ‘Some people are betrayed in the battle.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘I never betrayed you. You betrayed yourself.’

  ‘It may have seemed like that to you, but you didn’t really care what I did.’ My face flushed. I knew I was talking out of turn. I laughed to prove it didn’t matter. ‘It’s all in the past anyway. I was definitely one cause you lost.’

  ‘Sometimes I lose, sometimes I win, but I must keep trying,’ he said loftily, as if he was God.

  ‘And old man river he just keeps rolling along,’ I replied.

  He looked at me with dislike. I knew I had to get away.

  ‘I really must be going. I’ve made arrangements –’

  ‘I understand,’ he said. He finished his beer. I swallowed my gin, and we walked out together. It was ironic but before he left me he said, ‘Don’t blame yourself too much.’

  I wanted to shout after him, ‘Your feet still smell.’ I had noticed that. McIntyre might be a great man but he never understood that from many people’s point of view smelly feet are worse than capitalism. Only to me had it been a comforting fault.

  I returned to my shabby flat which was not very presentable, but then there was no one to see it but myself. After fetching a bottle of cheap wine from the cupboard, I settled down as comfortably as I could in front of the one-bar electric fire, holding my glass high as though drinking a toast.

  We Don’t Shoot Prisoners on a Sunday

  ‘We don’t shoot prisoners on a Sunday.’

  I looked at César, suspecting a joke, but his face was straight.

  ‘Only horses then?’ My remark was flippant, under the circumstances, but I was tired of his arguments, his excuses, and most of all, his smell.

  ‘Not even horses.’ He added ‘Señor’ within a bubble of laughter. I stared at the floor of the cell and wished he would vanish, like the cockroach I saw slide into a crack in the stone, but I was obliged to respect his last wish to talk to me. In a flash he became serious.

  ‘Here, we recognise Sunday as God’s day.’

  ‘And how many have you killed, even if not on Sundays, including the priests?’

  ‘How many have you?’ He clasped me by the shoulder. I flinched. It was just like him to try to establish old bonds. ‘Besides,’ he added, ‘it was them or us.’

  ‘And the priests, was it them or us?’

  ‘Before the treaty it was them, now after the treaty it is us.’ He added, ‘Or at least me.’

  He angered me, even now, with his one-track mind.

  ‘Besides,’ he said, ‘priests are only men, and they must learn to die quickly too, otherwise they lose sight of God.’

  ‘A Sunday is as good a day as any to learn to die quickly.’ My voice shook with strain and exhaustion. I hoped he wouldn’t mistake it for weakness. ‘I don’t give a damn about the day or the time, so long as the sentence is carried out in the name of retribution and justice for the village. Understand?’

  ‘Yes – Señor.’

  ‘Don’t start calling me Señor at this late date.’

  ‘Yes, Josetti.’

  ‘My gringo name is Joseph.’ There was a stench of sweat between us which could not be solely attributed to César.

  ‘But you are wrong about Sundays,’ he said.

  I shut my eyes for a second to banish the sight of him picking his teeth.

  He continued, ‘It is a day to rest and reflect on our sins, and why if actions were right in the past they are wrong in the present, and we might consider that possibly today’s decisions could be wrong in the future.’ Then he wiped his finger on his jacket and faced me with black eyes, his lips stretched to expose the decay caused by a poor diet. As always he looked happy.

  ‘Why plead so hard for yourself ?’ I asked.

  He squinted at me dangerously. ‘I do not plead. I only ask for this day so that you may consider your decisions. I have no cares or worries for myself, but I worry for you, because you are my friend, who may live a long time with a bad taste in his mouth.’

  I had no answer. His cunning was too deep to be defeated by words. I sat at the rough table and flicked through a greasy bible to distract myself from his pressure. The pages were scored and mutilated, perhaps by César himself, but I suspected they were older marks.

  ‘A worthy book for those clever enough to read?’ he questioned.

  ‘It is badly written.’ I thought I should leave.

  ‘Perhaps the priest can help us to understand it,’ said César quickly when I stood up.

  ‘You are expecting one?’

  ‘For me he will happily come.’

  I was forced to laugh. It was either that or strike him. We both laughed. The noise within the sombre stone walls was indecent, but I felt much better for it. Finally César slumped over the table and I collapsed into the chair. He fetched out a pouch and rolled me some tobacco which smelled nostalgically of old blankets.

  I inhaled deeply. ‘So already they are creeping back for you?’

  ‘Who, Josetti?’ He spoke my name as tenderly as he would have done a whore’s.

  ‘The priests.’

  ‘Like the vultures they wait for death – even for yours.’

  ‘Not for me. I’m not one of the genuflectors.’ I looked at my watch. There was plenty of time yet – in fact, too much.

  ‘You will have no choice – unless,’ his eyes narrowed, ‘you think to get away from here.’

  I crushed the tobacco stub into the stone floor. ‘One can hope.’

  He put his face close to mine, stinging my eyes with his peppery breath. ‘Josetti, if we become good friends again, I could arrange for you to leave here with much money.’

  ‘Where would you get it?’

  He gripped my arm hard, as always when he was carried away with a stupid plan. He whispered, unnecessarily I thought, within the thick walls. ‘When the priest arrives we could hold him to ransom.’

  ‘Who would pay it? The village rots in hunger.’

  ‘The church. It stinks of gold.’

  ‘The churches are burned. Every bit of gold was taken.’

  He lau
ghed, tightening his grip cruelly. ‘In the city there is plenty more: stored in the earth; in the walls; in the tombstones; in the graves with the dead. Anywhere they can think of to hide, and they will get it for a brave priest who has survived to give the last rites for a last peseta.’

  His grip loosened. I pushed him away and stared at the wall, the bars on the window, then finally at César who was breathing hard.

  ‘Think of it Josetti – you could leave this place you hate and live the rest of your life at peace with yourself – eh?’

  I considered his plan desperate, though not impossible, but I suspected one way or another I would never be at peace with myself.

  ‘I can never understand you,’ I answered to avoid commitment.

  ‘So,’ he continued, ‘normally we don’t shoot prisoners on a Sunday to give everyone time to think matters over.’

  ‘Normally,’ I echoed, then, ‘Does it ever occur to you I could be tired of the gold, the tears, the killings? That’s why we are in this situation.’

  ‘There will be no killing this time. The gold will be enough,’ but his tongue passed over his lips as if he could taste blood.

  ‘I don’t think you could resist it, the killing, I mean.’

  ‘I swear on that bible I will resist it.’ He reached for it but I shook my head and laid my hands over it.

  ‘I will swear on my life.’

  ‘Your life?’

  He saw the joke and laughed.

  ‘Besides, who would keep law in the village afterwards?’

  He shrugged. ‘Who cares – let them stew.’ A mosquito crawled up my arm and I brushed it off. It fastened on César’s hand apparently unnoticed. ‘But someone must give the order to hold the priest,’ he shouted, as if the plan had been approved.

  ‘I wonder who?’

  He threw up his hands, disturbing the mosquito. ‘Should we ask that insect who sucks my blood without any great considerations?’ His voice was menacing now. I knew he would become violent if he was not humoured. To play for time I crossed the room and peered through the small barred window. The view of the stains on the bleached wall outside was accusing.

  ‘César,’ I asked, ‘why do you make it hard for both of us?’

  Now he looked more sullen than dangerous. ‘Forget it then.’

  I tapped the bar of the window with my nail, goaded by images of green fields, wet streets and blonde women. ‘And how could you be sure of the gold?’

  ‘I am sure of nothing.’ He blew a smoke ring into the air and it hovered above his head like a halo.

  ‘Then the plan is not foolproof ?’

  ‘Who knows?’ He was becoming more remote by the second, despite the sweat on his forehead.

  ‘There is a place’, he began, as if the subject oppressed him now, ‘where, for not too much money, you can buy a passage.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ I started to say, but he had slid down the wall, falling asleep with his mouth open, grunting in a drunken fashion, because the tequila never quite left his system. I was reminded of a clown who, defeated for the umpteenth time, will leap up to be defeated again. His excuses for the cause were lost. I never had any, and the cause itself was a blood-stained memory better forgotten. To be fair, he had saved my life on a number of occasions, but then I had saved his on a similar number. The score meant nothing to me any more.

  Now I was hungry and alert, but it was too early to call upon the guards. Doubtless they would rush in thinking it was time to carry out the sentence, and if this happened before the priest arrived the village would see it as a gross injustice, only to be expected from a gringo. César had a point when he said let them stew. Apathetically I fingered through the bible. The only statement worth reading was the name of the owner and the comment under it. ‘To Sancho, on his tenth birthday, in the hope he will follow the teaching of our Lord.’ I looked at this for a time, then closed my eyes in an effort to induce sleep and remained still within the sound of César’s piggish grunts. Eventually the door opened and the guards slithered in on their bare feet. They seized César, who writhed and protested like a small boy called to face school. He struggled for a second then apologized. Carefully he arranged his hat and had actually turned to go with them, when he paused and looked at me saying, ‘About the plan. You have decided?’

  ‘I have decided,’ I stated with deliberation, ‘to shoot prisoners on a Sunday if I am required to.’

  His jaw slackened. The pupils of his eyes dilated for a second, then shrank. He threw back his head and laughed, too loud, even for him. ‘So, you shall remain here?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes.’ Just then I wanted to kick the guards out and tell him it was all a bad joke, but a name held me – Sancho, whom I didn’t know and who was likely dead, when someone had scored and mutilated his book. Someone, if not César, like César.

  ‘Why?’

  I wanted to give convincing reasons without appearing pompous, but failed. ‘Because there must be no more killings in the village.’

  He regarded me with distaste, then shrugged. ‘Goodbye Josetti,’ he said with one final flash of his bad teeth. The guards straightened and saluted me crazily. ‘Watch out for the priest,’ I warned them. ‘See he is not harmed.’

  A short time afterwards there were shots – too many for my liking, but you couldn’t expect the guards, who were the poorest of dirt farmers, to be good marksmen. Some day they might learn.

  A Change of Face

  I was five pounds short of the two hundred I needed by Thursday, and I had only two days to make it up.

  ‘Why do you need two hundred pounds?’ asked Ingrid, my room-mate.

  ‘Let’s say I promised myself that amount.’

  ‘That explains everything,’ she said. ‘I once promised myself a holiday in Majorca, but things don’t always work out.’

  ‘In your case things never work out.’

  ‘I think you’re crazy,’ said Ingrid. ‘What good is money to you anyway?’ Her fatuity was maddening, but I kept calm.

  ‘Lend me a fiver. You won’t regret it.’

  Her tinny laugh pierced my ear. ‘What, me – with scarcely a bean!’

  ‘Get out,’ I said, ‘before I cripple you.’

  She folded down her tartan skirt and walked out the door with a hoity-toity air, ludicrous, I thought, in a down and out whore. I waited a good five minutes to make sure she was gone before I fetched the briefcase from under my bed. I never failed to be impressed by the look of it. Good quality leather was more in my line than the trash Ingrid flaunted. The briefcase had originally belonged to one of her clients. I remembered his piggish stamp of respectability. Mind you that was ten years before when Ingrid was in better condition. He had left it by the side of the bed, complete with lock and key and containing two stale sandwiches, while Ingrid slept off her labours. I explained later I had found it in a dustbin. Once again I counted the money acquired in pounds and pence but it still totalled only one hundred and ninety-five.

  In Joe’s Eats Café I leaned over the counter. ‘Joe,’ I asked, ‘how’s about lending me a couple of quid – five to be exact. Until the giro comes on Saturday.’

  Joe kept his eyes on the trickle of heavy tea he was pouring. He breathed hard. ‘What for?’

  ‘Oh I don’t know. Who needs money?’

  ‘It don’t pay to lend money. I should know.’

  ‘Of course, never a borrower or a lender be,’ I said, fishing for ten pence.

  ‘I’ve been done before. No reflection on you.’

  I looked round, then leaned over and whispered. ‘You can have a free shot and I’ll still owe you the fiver.’

  He recoiled then hooted with laughter. ‘You must be joking – not even with a bag over your head.’

  I shrugged and put on what passed for a smile. ‘It’s your loss. I know some new tricks.’

  Joe patted my shoulder. ‘I know you mean well, Lolly, but you’re not my taste – nothing personal.’

  We brooded together fo
r a bit. Finally Joe said, ‘Ingrid might lend it to you.’

  ‘Not her.’

  ‘Oh well . . .’ He turned to pour water into the pot.

  ‘I’ve got one hundred and ninety-five pounds,’ I threw at him. His back stiffened.

  ‘What’s the problem then?’

  I knew I was wasting my time but I explained. ‘I need two hundred by Thursday. It would alter my whole life.’

  He chortled. ‘You paying for a face lift or something?’

  ‘Better than that.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry kid, you see –’

  I took my cup of tea over to the table without listening. Ten minutes later I was strolling along a quiet part of the city occupied mainly by decaying mansions.