White Eyes

by Mark Z. Kammell

  Chapter 17.

  “You told her everything, I take it.” Strange was watching Nat closely as they sat together at the one occupied table in the canteen. Nat was looking down into his bowl, at what appeared to be porridge with carrots in it. He was stirring through it with his spoon, trying to get a carrot to stay on it, but each time he did, it seemed to get sucked back into the dark mass of porridge. “What is this stuff?” he asked.

  “Ahem” coughed Strange. “You will get used to it, I am sure.” Nat glanced over at Strange, who hadn’t taken any food and sat watching him, amused. “You’re not hungry?”

  “I think I will eat later, back in my room. I have never really taken to the way that the food is prepared here.”

  “Yeah, I can see why.” He glanced around. It was a large room, painted a dirty white, with a metal counter at one end and lots of metal tables scattered around, each designed to hold about five or six people. Save for the two guards standing at the door, and a large man standing behind the counter, who had served Nat his food without speaking, they were the only people in the room. Maker had taken them here and then disappeared. “Where is everyone, I thought this was when I was supposed to meet people, and you know…”

  “Not break down into sobs?” Strange asked.

  Nat looked down. “Yeah, well, I’m doing all right, aren’t I?”

  “You are. I am sure that they will be on their way soon. Most of the guests here don’t miss a chance to be allowed out of their cells, especially when there is someone new to meet.”

  “But, surely, new people come here all the time?” Nat asked. This really didn’t sound like good news.

  Strange smiled. “You’d be surprised. With government targets on prison overcrowding, they have had to come up with new measures to limit the inflow of prisoners.”

  “I thought you said they did that by getting everyone to kill each other?” Nat asked, and then added, quickly, “but I was kind of assuming that was a joke?” his voice more hopeful than sure.

  Strange nodded, and Nat wasn’t sure what exactly he was acknowledging here. “There are always multiple measures that have to be employed. One can’t rely on one strategy alone.”

  “So… what do they do with all the people they convict?”

  “Well… some come to prison, obviously. You are a good example of that…”

  “I haven’t been convicted yet, I keep telling you…!”

  Strange made a calming gesture with his hands. “Yes, you have mentioned that. All in good time. Others, well, clearly, some are now sent to prisons abroad, you would surely have read that in the papers.”

  “Abroad? Well how does that help?”

  “I must reiterate that I am very concerned about your lack of interest in general affairs” Strange did sound genuinely disappointed. “Ex-pat prisoners are not part of government statistics. It may seem strange, but there is a certain logic to it. Studies show that prisoners who are relocated on an ex-patriate prisoner programme are far more likely to reoffend in the host country, rather than the home country, thereby having the desired effect of reducing crime in our good land.”

  “We ship our prisoners abroad? Isn’t that what the Victorians used to do?”

  “It is indeed. I’m so glad that you have some knowledge of history.” Strange actually beamed at Nat. “We owe a large debt of gratitude to our Victorian ancestors, they had many ideas that were far ahead of their time.”

  “You’re saying this is a good thing?”

  Strange’s arms dropped to the table. His expression became serious and he leaned across until his face was only inches away from Nat’s. “Of course I am. Think through the implications, before you judge. Granted, the Victorian model had its drawbacks, it had an unfortunate impact on certain indigenous peoples, however, fundamentally, as a principle, it made a lot of sense. As with many things, we refine and agree a policy that takes its roots from this, and builds on it. We have agreements with the countries in question. We gain, they gain. The only thing we have to be wary of is people who believe they are morally and ethically superior, who put the adherence to a set of vague notions and principles ahead of the practicalities of running a nation. It’s easy to be a liberal when you are not having to make the decisions.”

  Finishing his rant, he leaned back against his chair, almost out of breath. Slowly he started rolling another cigarette, again making the motions carefully and precisely. He put it into the corner of his mouth, glanced up and raised his left hand to one of the guards, who walked over, lit his cigarette for him and then returned to position.

  “I thought you said you were a private investigator?”

  Strange’s head moved ever so slightly, which Nat took for assent.

  “But you’re sounding like you work for the government now. But why…”

  Strange moved his head very slightly to one side. “Please remember that it’s you that we are discussing, not me.”

  “Yeah, I know, but…”

  Strange gave Nat a look. “Let’s not complicate things by discussing the details of my career. I am here to help you, that is the important thing.”

  Nat sighed. “Yeah, a lot of people have told me that.”

  “Ah!” Strange smiled. “It appears we have new guests.”

  Nat turned around. The guards, who had been standing over the entrance to the canteen, had both stepped aside. The U-shaped entrance was like an open mouth leading from the stark, if dirty, white of the canteen into the shadowy depths beyond, presumably back to the cells, although Nat was sure that he and Strange had come in a different way. Right now, though, two men appeared, side by side. They were both big men, but solid, rather than flabby like Strange, and both wore orange trousers and t-shirts, prison regulation, Nat guessed, though he was still wearing the jeans and t-shirt that he had come in with. The man on the left had long black hair, slicked back over his head and dangling down to his shoulders. He had a full face that broke into a smile when he noticed Nat and Strange, but it was an unfriendly face, an unfriendly smile, full of menace and Nat shivered involuntarily. The man on the right had a thin, gaunt face, in sharp contrast to his body, and a shaven head. His arms and hands were thick with tattoos. He didn’t look friendly, but then again not threatening; his face just held the lines of a weary life.

  “Right” said Strange quietly. “Get up. We’re going”

  “But...” Nat started.

  “Leave your food. It’s completely disgusting, and probably poisoned.” He reached over and shoved Nat’s plate away.

  “But… I thought you said… I should meet…”

  Strange stood up and motioned Nat to do the same. He glanced over at the other prisoners who were walking towards them.

  “Meet, yes. But not these two. Not right now. Get up.”

  Nat got up.

  “Ah, Richard, how are you?” The prisoner who had been on the left was suddenly by Nat’s side, and Nat could feel the warmth of his breath, his body, as he stood close. Nat swallowed and turned around, forced himself to look in the man’s dark eyes. There was no trace of anything there.

  “Afternoon” said the prisoner. He stuck his hand out to Nat who took it. He felt his hand crushed in the grip, but he didn’t flinch as he continued to look at the man.

  “You must be the new guy. I’m Simon. Nice to have you around.” He smiled as he kept hold of Nat’s hand.

  “Nat.” Nat managed to reply. He tried to pull his hand away but it wouldn’t budge.

  “Let go of his hand, Simon” Strange said wearily. “We all know how strong you are.”

  Simon gave a smirk and let go. Nat pulled his hand away quickly, afraid that Simon would grab it again if he wasn’t careful. He rubbed it in his other hand, willing it to come back to life.

  “Sorry, sorry” Simon replied. “Didn’t mean any harm by it. Sam and I were just here to have a spot of lunch.” He nodded to his left to Sam, who had suddenly appeared there. He didn’t say anything, just nodded
and grunted.

  Nat said “Hi.” Strange said “Hello, Sam.”

  Simon broke the silence. “Won’t you join us for lunch?”

  “We’d just finished, actually.”

  Simon glanced down at the untouched plates. “Not much of an appetite, eh, Nat?” he winked at him. “Or just can’t handle the food? We like it, don’t we Sam?”

  Sam grunted.

  Simon nodded at Sam. “He doesn’t talk much, really. Come on, sit with us for a minute.”

  “We’ve really got to go” said Strange.

  “You have?” Simon gave Strange an amused glance. “Got a busy schedule? Lots of things to do?”

  “You know what it’s like.” Strange actually grabbed Nat’s wrist and started moving towards the door.

  “I don’t actually.” Simon moved slightly, partially blocking Strange. He would have had to either push past Simon or walk round the other side of the table to get past.

  “Actually, I find this place extremely boring. There is so little to do. Isn’t that right, Sam?”

  Strange raised his eyebrows. “Oh really? I would have thought the two of you would have had no trouble finding things to while away the winter hours together.”

  “Careful now” Simon replied. “Come on, sit down, stay for a coffee at least.” He sat at the table, and Sam sat with him. Nat looked nervously at Strange, then back at Simon, then at Strange, then at Simon. He sat down. Strange sighed and sat too.

  Simon put his huge hands out on the table, joined them together and flexed them. The bones crunched and he let out a satisfied sigh. He held his right hand out towards Sam, who looked at it, reached into a pocket and pulled out an enormous hunting knife. Its blade glinted in the harsh glare of the fluorescent lights as he placed it, handle first, into Simon’s outstretched hand. Nat stared down at the blade, looked up, and stared at Simon. He looked round, at the guards, who stood there, motionless, showing no indication of having seen the knife.

  Strange shook his head. “I told you we should have left.”

  “But” Nat stopped, not sure what to say next.

  “We should play a little game, Nat” said Simon. “Kind of an initiation for you.”

  “Don’t do this, Simon.”

  “Quiet.” Simon looked Nat in the eye and the blade suddenly flashed up towards his face. Nat flinched and almost fell backwards out of his chair.

  Simon laughed. “Don’t like knives, I see. No matter.” He let the knife fall to the table and put his hand out again. Nat winced as this time Sam placed an old revolver into Simon’s hand.

  “B…b…b…but that’s a gun!” he shouted.

  “Ten out of ten” smiled Simon.

  Nat started to get up. “You can’t have a gun in prison… I need to tell the guard…”

  “Sit down” Simon said in a slow, menacing voice. Nat froze. He could hear his heart beat in the silence. Everyone was looking at him as he sat down again slowly.

  “That’s better. Now, why don’t we play a nice, simple game of Russian Roulette.”

  He picked up the revolver and with a practiced, supple flick, snapped opened the cylinder and inspected it. “Good, good, just one bullet.” He flicked it shut and spun it round.

  “Who wants to play?” He looked round. “Sam?” Sam grunted. “No, I thought not.” He turned to Strange. “Roger?”

  “Richard” said Strange.

  “I thought not.”

  “Nat.” He smiled.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  “Clever man.”

  Strange cut in viciously. “Of course he’s got a fucking choice. You” he pointed at Simon. “Come with me. Now” and he got up and stormed off past the guards into the shadows.

  Simon glanced at Nat. “I’ll be back.” He dropped the pistol onto the table and followed Strange.

  Nat stared at Sam, stared at the pistol, then back at Sam. Sam’s eyes glinted and there was, for the first time, a hint of a smile on his lips. Nat shivered. What on earth did that mean? Where was Strange, what was he doing. He looked again at the pistol, an old thing, battered and tarnished. Maybe it didn’t even work. How on earth had he got himself into this situation, playing Russian Roulette in a prison? It was almost laughable.

  Sam was staring at him now, back with those dull, grey eyes of before, the glint gone. Maybe I should just take the gun, Nat thought. Maybe the guy’s half crazy, maybe he won’t even notice. But then he did hand it to Simon. What about the guards? He looked quickly back, over his shoulder, not wanting to spend any more time than necessary not knowing what Sam was doing. They were still there, standing, not even really paying attention. One of them looked like he was playing a game on his phone, the other one was picking his nose. Were they really going to stand there and watch whilst he blew his brains out? They couldn’t, could they? Maybe that’s it, he thought. Maybe that’s my best option, go and talk to them, get them to put an end to this madness. That must be it. Christ, I could even ask them to go and get Maker. He’s a policeman at least, well at least I think he is. Yeah, that’s it, get Maker. There’s no way he could allow this to happen.

  He put his hands on the arms of his chair, readying himself to get up, watching Sam watching him. But he couldn’t move, didn’t have the strength, or more likely the courage, to do it. Sam’s inert, silent watching was unnerving, almost forcing him to stay. Just get up, Nat. He closed his eyes and put all his thoughts on lifting himself up off his chair.

  There was a slap on his shoulder. “Party’s over.”

  Nat opened his eyes and Simon was in front of him, standing, towering over him. “Your friend Roger has got you a free pass for now.”

  “That’s Richard.”

  Nat heard Strange’s voice behind him. He slumped back into the chair, relief flooding through him, the absurd tension feeling leaving him, suddenly draining his body of energy. He realised he’d been picturing it, thinking of that pistol in his hand, its muzzle against his temple, and his finger on the trigger. The cold of the steel, the expectation of dazzling light, deafening sound and then of course, who knew (I know, said a soft voice inside his head) but he didn’t hear that voice and he wanted to shout, to cry out, but above all he wanted to weep. Then Strange was pulling him up, pulling him away, hustling him back towards the guards before he could say or do anything, Strange, who really seemed to have saved his life, was whispering fiercely, “just hold on, just hold on”. He vaguely heard him, hardly registered him, didn’t register the other voice behind him saying “Don’t worry Nat, we’ll save it till next time” as Strange was pulling him back to his cell, allowing him to collapse on his bed, sitting next to him, patting his shoulder, saying “it’s OK, let it all out now” and he wept and wept and wept.

  “All right” Strange said eventually. “I mean, you didn’t even actually touch the pistol.”

  Nat tried to get himself under control. “What did you say to him?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  “Ah” Strange shrugged. “We go back. We understand each other.”

  “He’s a fucking psycho!”

  “Well, yes, he probably is. There is always a reason that people are here.”

  “But… I mean, Jesus, he was going to kill me!”

  “And… you are still alive. I would therefore count that as a victory.”

  “But he still wants me dead!”

  Strange sighed. “He doesn’t want you dead, Nathanial. He was just playing a game. Stop being so dramatic.”

  Nat sniffed. “Thank you” he mumbled.

  “That’s better. That’s quite all right. Now, look. I was fortunate enough to talk to one of my colleagues, here, who felt that this may be something that you would appreciate.”

  Strange pulled out something from his pocket and handed it to Nat. A silver hip flask, worn and tarnished, but full. Nat blinked. “For me?” he asked, his voice still shaky.

  Strange gave him an indulgent smile, the sort that you would give to a child, t
hough Nat didn’t seem to notice. Like a child, he was eagerly unscrewing the top and he took a deep gulp and lay back against the wall.

  “Is that better?”

  “Yes, yes, thank you, yes…but…”

  Strange tilted his head in inquiry.

  “I am kind of hungry…”

  Strange smiled. “I can understand why you weren’t keen on indulging in the food from the canteen. There have been better meals. However, I think we can procure something different for you. My own food will be arriving soon, and I’ve asked that they bring some extra for you. Is that OK?”

  Nat nodded. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, cheers.”

  “Now, I believe we were at quite an exciting point in your story.”

  “Seriously – you want to carry on with that? After all I’ve been through?”

  Strange gave Nat a stern look. “Nathanial, if I am to help you, I need to understand this. It’s clear that you will struggle with the life of a prisoner, and…”

  “I will?”

  “You will, I’m afraid. And therefore, if I am to help you, you need to tell me everything. I do believe that things are becoming a little clearer…”

  “They are?”

  Strange nodded. “One just has to listen for the undercurrents, the clues, in your account. They are starting to come together. I believe.”

  “You think you can get me off?” Nat asked eagerly.

  “I believe that we have a significant opportunity. But I need to hear more.”

  “God, that would be brilliant, if you did. Do you think they’d just let me out?”

  Strange cupped his fingers together. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, shall we. Pray, continue with your account.”

  “Yeah, yeah, sure, of course. Where was I exactly?”

  “I believe you were about to recount your story to this lady, this Dark…”

  “Yeah, Dark Angel, that’s right!”

  “An unusual name.”

  “You think that’s important?”

  “No” Strange mused. “I think only that it speaks to her character. One chooses a name like that for oneself when one wants to prove a point, or project a certain image.”

  “Yeah, I thought it was strange. You don’t think it’s her real name?”

  Strange’s eyes flicked up in amusement towards Nat, probably to see if he was trying to be funny, or ironic, and saw the earnestness in his face.

  “I doubt it. She was a large lady, you say?”

  “Yeah, I mean, she was huge. But you know, not fat. Really well built.”

  “Hmmm. Tall, cropped blonde hair? Eastern European accent?”

  “Yeah, yeah, that’s her! Why, you know her?”

  Strange made a non-committal noise.

  “She spoke of a man, did she not. A dangerous man.”

  “Erm…”

  “Someone who had dealings with your friend Joshua?”

  “Oh… yeah, yeah, that’s right. Ha! You know, when she talked about him, he reminded me of that guy from that film, what’s his name? How do you shoot the devil in the back? What if you miss?”

  “I must admit you’ve lost me. No matter. This man, did she say anything else about him?”

  “Erm… erm… no, I don’t think so…”

  “What he looked like? Where he was from?”

  Nat shook his head. “No, no, I don’t think so. I don’t think she knew him. Think she’d just heard of him, that’s all, just, you know, mentioned him in passing. How come?”

  “Understood.” Strange nodded. “Pray, continue with your story.”

  “Yeah, well, you know, she asked me what was going on and I explained how Joshua had turned up with Terri, then how they had disappeared, and…”

  “Did you mention the finger?”

  “What?”

  “When you told your story to this lady, did you mention the episode where you found Terri’s finger cut off and left in your apartment?” Strange asked impatiently.

  “Sorry.” Nat gulped. “The finger…. Well, no, no, I didn’t, I didn’t think, I mean, I didn’t know her, right…”

  Strange nodded. “That’s fine, Nathanial. You probably did the right thing.”

  “I did?”

  “Undoubtedly. So, you explained to her your story. And then…”

  “And then…”