* * * *
Mrs. Kenton put the kettle on and hurried to answer the doorbell.
Her neighbour, round-eyed, thrust a copy of the local paper at her. “Here you are, Sue. Page three. What a tragedy! Ever so sorry, dear. Better not keep you, in the circumstances.” And she hurried off.
Sue Kenton settled down at the kitchen table with a pot of tea to read the account.
Angel of Death Flies Over Village.
Second mysterious death in twenty-four hours.
Has the Angel of Death flown over Shepton this weekend? This is the question villagers are asking themselves as they grieve for a second local person whose dramatic death is reported.
A young detective constable whose family lives in the village, Christina Kenton (26), witnessed the tragic event. Walking in a quiet country lane near her home, she was surprised, on approaching the Foxfield level crossing, to be overtaken by a black taxicab. “The driver must have seen the lights flashing and the bar come down,” states the witness. “Everything mechanical appeared to be working perfectly. The driver hesitated and waited until the goods train drew near and then he charged forward deliberately into its path."
The taxi was swept a quarter of a mile down the track. It's a miracle that no one but the cab driver was killed. The driver of the train was taken to hospital suffering from shock but later released.
The victim was thirty-eight-year-old actor Julius Jameson, who will be remembered for his appearances as a young surgeon in the popular East Anglian series Cottage Hospital. Coincidentally, Mr. Jameson was, in recent years, actively concerned in real life in hospital affairs. He was one of the moving forces in the red-ribbon AIDS charity and was returning from an event at the Cambridge Clinic hours before the incident. Mr. Jameson made no secret of the fact that he was himself a sufferer from the scourge of HIV. In the circumstances, police are treating the death as premeditated suicide.
* * * *
Minutes later, Chris appeared, still in her dressing gown, pale and distressed. She'd shown every sign of bearing up well after the death of her old schoolteacher, but the news on Sunday of Sarah's death had sent her into a shuddering and prolonged silence. She came and sat down by her mother's side to read.
"Jameson wouldn't be pleased. Second billing. His death only makes it onto page three this morning,” said Mrs. Kenton with asperity. “You lied to them, Chris. You told me you were in the car with this nutter seconds before. Have you told me everything?"
"I told them the simplest thing. What I thought they'd believe. It's taken me awhile to work it out for myself,” Chris said. “He was going to kill us both.” Her voice was subdued, emotionless. “I couldn't get through to him, Mum. He wasn't even listening. He'd decided I was some worthless whore who'd be better off dead. He was doing me a favour. And using me to ward off the loneliness. He could never function without an audience and I was unlucky enough to drop into the front seat of the stalls to witness his grand finale. His death scene."
Her mother hugged her and poured out two mugs of tea. “What made him change his mind?"
"I used the only words that would penetrate his delusions.” She smiled. “Not my words. The Bard, as he called him, came riding to my assistance."
In a pure, awed voice she repeated the lines:
"That death's unnatural that kills for loving.
Alas, why gnaw you so your nether lip?
Some bloody passion shakes your very frame:
These are portents; but yet I hope, I hope,
They do not point on me."
"Good Lord! That's Desdemona pleading for her life minutes before Othello kills her! And you're saying he heard you? Did he understand? What did he say?"
"He understood, all right! He was never one to miss a cue! He gave me Othello's response: Down, strumpet!
"And all I had in reserve was the very next line: Kill me tomorrow; let me live tonight!"
"It didn't work for Desdemona, poor chick."
"The train hooted its half-mile signal. He burst out laughing, unlocked the doors, and pushed me out into the lane. He gave one of those Shakespearean bows, you know, all fluttering hands, gleaming teeth, and tossing curls, and barged through the crossing bars. End. Finis."
"But why the hell ... ? I don't understand! At least I can see why he'd want to do away with himself ... but ... why put you through all that?"
"Well, this is why, Mum! Here I am, here we are, talking about his final flourish. If he'd had a lonely death, unobserved by anyone, they might have thought he'd made a silly mistake, lost concentration, been blinded by the sun.... Idiots drive through level crossings every month, don't they? Who would know that Julius Jameson had died with panache, handsome as the devil, laughing at Death?"
Chris's calm finally broke, her voice stricken and angry: “He's left me forever with that image branded onto my mind. He made sure that there was someone here below who'll never forget his last performance."
But her mother was having none of it.
"Bollocks!” she said. And, surprisingly:
"All the world's a stage
And all the men and women merely players,
They have their exits and their entrances.
"Fine, Chris love. The bugger's had his exit, as far as you're concerned! Got that? Offstage ... through a trap door ... up in smoke ... whatever you can picture. And now what you've got to do is look forward to an entrance. Prince Charming, for choice. Surely time for him to show himself?”
[Back to Table of Contents]
Passport to Crime: THE LONG NIGHT OF A PENITENT by Yasmina Khadra
A former Algerian army officer living in exile in France, Mohammed Moulessehoul, aka Yasmina Khadra, has had five novels translated and pub-lished in the U.S., including The Sirens of Baghdad (Nan A. Talese ‘07), and The Attack (Nan A. Talese ‘06). Wolf Dreams (Toby ‘06) may be of interest to readers of this story, for it too deals with a participant in the Algerian Civil War.
* * * *
Translated from the French by Peter Schulman.
* * * *
"When peace reigns, the bellicose man makes war with himself."—Nietzsche
* * * *
Abou Seif gingerly touches the blade of his knife as he carves a barely noticeable oval incision within the lines of his finger. Slowly, a minuscule drop of blood hatches, grows, drips down his thumb before trickling down to his palm. Abou Seif licks it luxuriously, then, with demoniacal laughter, throws his head back and advances towards the woman tied to a chair.
"I'm going to rip your guts out."
Matching action to speech, he lifts her chin with the tip of his knife and, in one swift move, slits her throat from ear to ear. The pain is so intense that the torture victim is thrown brutally into the air. Her eyes are popping out of their sockets. Abou Seif has to move aside to avoid getting splashed by all the blood. All of a sudden, the wall gives way behind him as he tumbles down an abyss.
"Nooooo!"
"Abou Seif ... Abou Seif ... wake up."
Abou Seif indeed wakes up. He is sitting in the middle of the bed, his throat on fire. His breathing resonates throughout the room as though it were a subterranean rumble. With a feverish hand, he wipes the sweat from his brow and lets himself fall back onto his pillow. His wife leans over him, takes his hand, and holds him tightly.
"Another one of those damned dreams?"
"Leave me alone."
"Why do you refuse to see a doctor?"
"I'm not a nut job."
"I..."
"Shut up, will you!"
Abou Seif's eyes bulge with rage, then, feeling completely wiped out, he hides behind the palms of his hands.
"I'm sorry,” his wife says.
"It's not a big deal."
"I'm worried sick about you. You're wasting away; you're not eating and you can't fall asleep for more than a second without waking up and hitting the roof. There's no shame in seeing a doctor. He can prescribe some sort of treatment and, in a few days, you'll feel
better."
"Stop talking about doctors, okay?” Abou Sief becomes agitated once again. “I'm not crazy, dammit. Watch what you say..."
Filled with rage, he gets out of bed, hastily puts on some underwear, and, as he gets dressed, grumbles: “Do you think I enjoy this shit?!"
He goes towards the bathroom and turns the light on. The harsh brightness makes him squint. The mirror hurls a disturbing face right back at him. Abou Seif notices that he has in fact lost a lot of weight. His face is but a dried-out mask that a stubbly beard has made even uglier. He slaps himself a few times to fully wake himself up before addressing his reflection:
"You're not going to let that scum ruin your life, are you, Abou Seif? You really sealed their lips once. Now let them rot in their mass graves ... you don't have to worry about running into them around here. You know the dead are yesterday's news by now. Once they're down there in their little holes, they're out of sight, out of mind. If they come back to wander through your memories, what do you think you should do? You give them a kick in the ass, that's what. It's that easy. They don't deserve another look. They weren't even worth much when they were alive."
He pats down his moustache, scowls intently to psych himself up, and then, feeling a bit more cheerful, turns towards the bidet to urinate.
"You weren't afraid of anybody. And it's not some rotten stiff who's gonna stop you from sleeping. You've seen a lot worse, my friend. You dealt with so much crap that you don't even have any more saliva left to go spit on them. So relax, okay? There's nothing to be gained by bringing them all back. You knocked them off, got it? Dead, gone. They can't step on your toes anymore; you've got to tell yourself that once and for all."
He goes back towards the wash-basin and turns the faucet on. No water. He bangs on the sink, all put out: “More stinking water rationing. Why don't those shithead politicians build some desalination factories around here? When those dirty demagogues open their big fat mouths, they're at their absolute best. When it comes to actually doing something, however, well, that's too much to ask of them apparently."
"Go back to bed,” his wife orders.
"Not sleepy."
"Come on, get back in here...."
"I'm good right where I am."
"You're worried that you're going to have some more nightmares, aren't you?!"
"Stop provoking me, you bitch."
"That's it, you're scared of your nightmares."
Abou Seif lets out another curse and stomps into the bedroom: “Are you gonna shut your mouth, you slut?!"
His wife won't let him affect her. She remains on her knees in the middle of the bedroom. As she holds on to a candleholder, an aggressive look crosses her face.
"You're not going to touch me with those butcher's hands anymore."
"You really want to see me flip out, don't you? That's what you want, isn't it?!"
His wife lowers her arm and wistfully looks at the candleholder. Confused, she ventures: “I'm exhausted. I'm trying to help you, and you, you always take things the wrong way. Does that seem like a life to you? I'm sick of having to walk on eggshells all the time. Everything I say seems to wound you in some way. It's unbearable. As for myself, I worry about you. And you, you're ready to pounce on my every word. This can't go on any longer, Abou Seif. I've had it up to here. Either you turn in a more positive direction, or we go our separate ways. I don't feel like getting my head blown off just for trying to help you."
"I didn't ask you for anything."
"I'm your wife, in case you forgot. I'm supposed to be sharing your life."
"Not my past. And that's where I'm having all my problems. Believe it or not, it's not easy at all. You don't slam the door on your past just like that. You try to get far away from it, and all you have to do is turn around to find it latching on to you. If you really want to make yourself useful, put a zipper on your mouth and get lost. That way, at least, there's no danger of your coming out with any more crap like that. In case you've forgotten, I've just come back from a really distant place. I fought a war, for God's sake! And just so you know, war is no fun at all ... I guarantee it. Once they hit you deep down there where it hurts, it's impossible to come out of it fully intact. You can't look at the world with the same eyes anymore. You turn right, you turn left, there's no way to keep track of the hundreds of ghosts you leave behind in your wake. I tried, however. God knows how many times I closed my eyes so tight my temples cracked. Nothing doing. In the darkness, in bright daylight, wherever you go, wherever you retire to, they're there, stubbornly lodged in your memory banks, desperately hitched to your guts. I feel that even if I were to burn a hole through my brain or immolate myself with a flame-thrower, I wouldn't be able to get rid of them. And all the guilt in the world could never reconcile you with them. It's true, I did really rotten things—evil, unspeakable acts—but I've repented, for goodness’ sake! I've asked for forgiveness ... what good does it do? Nothing ... yet, at the time, I was convinced that I was on the right side, that I was fighting for a noble cause. I had decided to sacrifice my life for an Islamic state. I had faith! I dreamed of a pure race, of a colossal nation, of an unbeatable empire, handsome and strong like a god; I dreamed of a sterilized planet that was finally rid of its vermin, its lowlifes, its freaks; a splendid society with its sublime men, with purified gazes, with faces so radiant they looked like summer suns. I wanted to contribute to that glorious goal, make myself useful instead of drying up hanging around street corners, harassing passersby and acting like a smart-ass all the time. Can you imagine? A race of kings, a community of the just, and me, valiant, courageous, proud of my commitments to eternity. No one ever offered me such a fabulous proposition; I never thought I was up to such a task."
His wife is moved. She tries to calm him down.
"Don't touch me!” He pushes her away in disgust. “You've got nothing to say to me. Someone who hasn't fought a war can't possibly understand what I'm talking about."
He goes back to the bathroom. He spits, and the faucet lets out a long whistling sound. Suddenly, a reddish streak streams down from it; effervescent blood floods the sink and starts cascading onto the tiles with an unbearable hissing sound.
Abou Seif takes a few steps backwards. He's incredulous. Blood flows in all directions, splatters all over the walls, squirts with increasing volume, and even reaches the ceiling.... Terrified, Abou Seif holds his head in his hands and starts screaming, shrieking...
"I'm here, dear. Abou Seif, Abou Seif, wake up. It's just a dream."
Abou Seif wakes up. He's in bed. In a state of shock. A wrinkled blanket is wrapped around his waist, dripping with sweat. His entire body is shivering and his teeth chatter uncontrollably with a strange intensity. He climbs out of bed, determined to put an end to all of this, rushes towards the bathroom but stops in his tracks, stunned by the immaculate whiteness of the walls.
He rubs his eyes, vigorously, furiously.
His wife is right behind him and takes him by the shoulders. He recoils in horror, as though he has just been electrocuted.
"Darling, it's only me."
"You scared me."
Abou Seif is at the end of his rope when he finally weakens and bursts into tears. His wife takes his head and rests it tenderly against her shoulder.
"I can't take it anymore..."
"It'll be okay, dear."
"What the hell do you know?” he screams, pushing her away from him.
The rest of his cries are choked by a gurgling sound. His wife's physiognomy has changed. The woman who is holding him in her arms is somebody else: an old Bedouin woman. She is small and haggard. Her face is decorated with sinister tattoos.
"Who are you?"
The stranger tries using her hands to tell him that she is unable to speak.
"Where do you come from, you ...?"
She raises her chin all of a sudden: Her throat has been slit from one end to the other.
Abou Seif cries out, and retreats behind his hands. As he re
opens his eyes, his wife is lying on the floor. The stranger has vanished. The only sound comes from some clear and bizarrely troubling water streaming from the faucet.
"This is not happening. Nora, this is absurd ... absurd..."
His uncertain fingers sift carefully through the sleeper's red hair, touch her forehead, and stop dead in their tracks. Immobilized. Nora is ice cold. Abou Seif falls over. The walls disappear. He's on a street.
"What's this carnival all about? I'm really losing it."
The streetlamps twinkle. A voluminous moon emerges from the opaqueness, as white as a punctured eyeball. Anarchistic noises invade the silence; the grumbling intensifies and spreads throughout the night; Duhv! duhv! duhv! ... the ground is vibrating. At the end of the street, first in little groups, then in large regiments, hundreds of mutilated, bloodied kids come forward, in tatters, then women and old men, emaciated shepherds with their flocks, with faces so pallid that they seem almost phosphorescent...
Abou Seif gets up and starts running through the fields as though he were possessed by a demon: “No, no, noooo..."
"Abou Seif ... Abou Seif..."
He's on all fours. At the foot of his bed. His wife looks down on him, tries to grab on to him so she can lift him up.
"I tried to restrain you,” she explains, “but you're too heavy. You didn't hurt yourself, did you?"
"I'm not completely awake, am I? It's those damned dreams again. They're making a jackass out of me..."
EQMM, February 2008 Page 18