Seventy-five. Sephy

I sat on our garden swing, twisting it this way and that. I didn’t actually swing any more – that was kid’s stuff. I just . . . twisted. It was hot. Too hot.

‘Sephy, what’re you doing?’ Mother yelled across our garden at me.

Uh-oh! Trouble! I’d come home and gone straight out into the garden, when I knew Mother did her nut if she saw me messing about in my school uniform.

‘Come here please,’ Mother hollered.

I was going to shout ‘why’ but I thought better of it. For the last couple of weeks, Mother had got worse and now I just did as I was told and kept my head down as far as she was concerned. And for the most part it worked. Jumping off the swing, I ran to the house.

‘Go to your room and put on your navy-blue dress and your blue shoes.’

‘Which blue dress?’ I frowned.

‘Your Jackson Spacey one,’ Mother told me as if it was obvious.

My eyebrows went up at that. That dress had cost over one thousand pounds and Mother told me I was not to wear it without her express permission. The last time I’d worn it was when I’d snuck out of the house to Callum’s after Lynette had died. I and my dress had gone down like a lead balloon then. It kind of made me loath to put the thing on again.

It wasn’t a special Saturday and it wasn’t anyone’s birthday. Or had I forgotten someone? No . . . Today was 24th July and the next birthday was my sister’s and that wasn’t until the middle of August.

‘Why do I have to get dressed up?’

‘Because I said so,’ Mother snapped. ‘Do as you’re told. And tell your sister to hurry up as well.’

‘Where’re we going?’

‘No more questions,’ Mother said, edgily. ‘Go!’

I headed for the kitchen door, turning in the doorway to ask Mum what was going on. She was pouring out a glass of Chardonnay, which she downed in a one-er. She poured out another one. I left the room and headed upstairs.

Minnie didn’t know what was going on either – not that she would’ve volunteered to tell me if she had. Apart from the one time we’d confided in each other in Minnie’s bedroom, my sister and I have never had much to say to each other. But I knew it was something very serious indeed when Mother opened our front door and Dad’s official government Mercedes was parked on the driveway. And Dad was in the back. My face lit up like a Crossmas tree at the sight of him.

‘Dad!’ I ran over to the car and threw open the door before Karl had the chance to do it for me. I hadn’t seen him in over a week.

‘Sephy, get in this car and try to show that you’ve been brought up, not dragged up,’ Dad ordered, his face as stiff a door.

It couldn’t’ve hurt more if he’d slapped me across the face. One week apart – and that was all he had to say to me. Mother and my sister Minerva had reached us by this time. Karl held the door open for them. I hung back, waiting for them to get in first before I did. No way was I going to sit next to Dad. No way was I even going to say a word to him until he apologized. Mother sat next to him, very careful not to actually touch him. Next Minnie, then me. Less than a minute later, we were off – and I still had no idea where. I glanced down at my watch. Four-thirty. I looked at Mother and Dad and Minnie, hoping that someone would let me know what was going on without my having to ask. Nothing doing. I turned and looked out of the window. If everyone else wanted to be mysterious, then let them get on with it. I wasn’t going to join in.

Our car drew up outside Hewmett Prison. Ten to six. There were cars ahead of us and cars behind and people walking in on foot. All the noughts walking through the pedestrian entrance were dressed in black and not one of them spoke. Every expression was a reflection of the one before it and the one after. When we reached the entrance of the prison, Dad flashed his ID card at the two security guards by the gates. We were waved straight through. What on earth were we doing in Hewmett Prison? Why did I have to put on my Jackson Spacey dress no less to go to a prison?

We were taken out into the prison courtyard. The early evening air was humid and uncomfortable. Our car was air-conditioned so I hadn’t realized how unpleasant it had become outside. Already my dress was beginning to stick to me. Half of the prison courtyard was taken up by seats placed in tiers, whilst most of the rest of the space was bare. At the far end of the courtyard was a scaffold. And still I didn’t click. We were shown to our places right at the front of the seated area.

I looked around, puzzled. All the noughts were standing. Some were looking at the scaffold, a few were crying, some were looking at us Crosses on the seats, burning hatred on their faces. Without warning, my eyes caught and locked with Callum’s. Shock, like a bucket of ice-water, flowed over me. What was going on? He stared at me. I hadn’t seen him for so long that the jolt was all the greater for seeing him here.

‘Ladies and gentlemen and noughts, we are here today to witness the execution of Ryan Callum McGregor of 15 Hugo Yard, Meadowview, having been found guilty of seven counts of murder and the charge of political terrorism. His appeal having been denied, the sentence of hanging by the neck until he is dead will now be carried out. Bring out the prisoner.’

And only then, when it’d been spelt out for me, did I finally realize what I was doing there. They were going to hang Callum’s dad. I turned to the scaffold, appalled. A door opened to the left of the scaffold and Callum’s dad was led out.

I turned to Mother and Dad. They were looking straight at the scaffold, their expressions grim, sombre. I tried Minnie. Her head was slightly bowed but she kept stealing glances at the scaffold. And still no-one spoke. We might’ve been in a graveyard.

We were in a graveyard.

I turned to Callum. He was watching me with a look on his face I’d never seen before. A look that cut right through me like the sharpest, keenest scalpel. I shook my head slowly.

I didn’t know, I mouthed. I looked from the scaffold back to Callum, from Callum’s dad to Callum, from my parents to Callum, from the crowds all around and back to Callum.

I swear I didn’t know.

How to make my desperate thoughts reach him? I wouldn’t have come if I’d known where we were going. Wild horses couldn’t have dragged me through those gates. That’s the truth. Callum, you must believe that.

‘Mother, I want to leave,’ I whispered furiously.

‘Not now, Sephy.’ Mother looked straight ahead.

‘I want to leave – NOW!’ I jumped to my feet, raising my voice.

Heads were turning in our direction but I didn’t care.

‘Sit down Persephone and stop making an exhibition of yourself,’ Mother snapped.

‘Nothing is going to make me sit here and watch this. I’m leaving,’ I turned on my heels, trying to push past the other dignitaries in my row.

Mother stood up, spun me around and slapped my face. ‘Now sit down and don’t say another word.’

Cheek smarting, eyes stinging, I sat down. Some eyes were watching me. I didn’t care about that. More eyes were watching the scaffold. Well, maybe I couldn’t leave but they couldn’t force me to watch. They couldn’t force me to raise my head. And if they did, they couldn’t force me to open my eyes. And if they did, they couldn’t force me to see. But I couldn’t keep my gaze lowered . . . Slowly, I raised my head, my eyes drawn to the sight, my heart disgusted by it. Angry with myself, I turned away, only to find myself looking straight at Callum. He wasn’t watching his dad either. He was looking at me – and wishing me and every other Cross as dead as dead could be. I’d seen that look on other’s faces – noughts looking at Crosses, Crosses looking at noughts. But I’d never seen it on Callum’s face before.

And I knew in that moment that now I’d never ever stop seeing it. Flinching, I turned. Back to the scaffold. A choice of views. Hatred or hatred. They were putting a black hood over Callum’s dad’s head now. The prison clock began to strike the hour. When it struck six, it’d all be over.

One . . . All eyes on the scaffold.

Two . . . The noose around Callum’s dad’s neck.

Three . . . Someone begins to weep. Loud, heart-wrenching sobs.

Four . . . A man at the scaffold nods to someone behind him.

‘Long live the Liberation Militia . . .’ Callum’s dad shouts at the top of his voice.

Five . . .

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 589