One hundred and sixteen. Callum

‘Jack, your mind isn’t on this game, is it?’

Jack throws down his cards. ‘I don’t want to play any more.’

‘I thought I was the one who was meant to be temperamental and moody, not you?’ I say dryly.

‘Sorry.’

I gather up the cards. Poor Jack! This is almost as bad for him. Almost! Bless him! He’s the one who’s kept me up to date with what was going on in the outside world. He’s the one who told me that since my farce of a trial, Sephy has spoken out publicly against the guilty verdict and has openly declared that I didn’t rape her. She’s told anyone prepared to listen that the authorities refused to let her testify on my behalf. And apparently even some of the national papers are beginning to question the death penalty being given in my case. I’m hoping that Kamal Hadley doesn’t emerge from this one smelling of roses, the way he always does.

A prominent psychiatrist stated in one of the so-called quality papers that Sephy was suffering from Kidnapper Empathy Syndrome. Some psycho-babble about the captive taking on the ideals and beliefs of the captor, to the extent that he or she begins to empathize with them. In Sephy’s case that’s just so much nonsense. If I could’ve spoken to Sephy, I would’ve told her not to say anything on my behalf. Once I’d been found guilty nothing on earth could’ve made the judges overturn the verdict. The reason is simple. I’m a Nought who’d dared to fall in love with a Cross. And worse still I actually made love with her. And even worse than that, she’s pregnant with my child and doesn’t care who knows it.

Poor Sephy! She never could tell when she was fighting a losing battle. I knew I was going to hang before the jurors were even sworn in.

And now I’ve come to my last day on this earth.

And I don’t want to die.

‘What time is it, Jack?’

‘Ten to six.’

‘Ten more minutes then.’ I shuffle the cards. ‘Time for a quick game of rummy?’

‘Callum . . .’

I throw down the cards. ‘It must be catching. I don’t feel like playing myself now.’

Silent moments tick by. I don’t want to spend my last ten minutes in silence.

‘D’you ever wonder what it would be like if our positions were reversed?’ I ask. At Jack’s puzzled look, I continue. ‘If we whites were in charge instead of you Crosses?’

‘Can’t say it’s ever crossed my mind,’ Jack shrugs.

‘I used to think about it a lot,’ I sigh. ‘Dreams of living in a world with no more discrimination, no more prejudice, a fair police force, an equal justice system, equality of education, equality of life, a level playing field . . .’

‘Good grief! Is that a thesis or a fairy tale?’ Jack asks dryly.

‘Like I said, I used to think about it a lot.’

‘I’m not sure I share your faith in a society ruled by noughts,’ Jack tells me, thoughtfully. ‘People are people. We’ll always find a way to mess up, doesn’t matter who’s in charge.’

‘You think so?’

Jack shrugs.

‘You don’t believe that things get better? That they have to, one day, some day?’

‘When?’

‘It takes a long time.’

‘But they do?’ asks Jack.

‘They do.’

But not for me. A long silence fills the gap between us. Until at last, I open my mouth to speak but Jack gets in first.

‘Your girl, Persephone Hadley, tried to get in here to see you – and more than once as well,’ Jack tells me softly. ‘But orders came from way above the governor’s head that you were to have no visitors whatsoever under any circumstances.’

I digest this piece of news with regret. Kamal Hadley’s influence no doubt.

‘Jack, can I ask you for a favour?’

‘Just name it.’

‘It might get you into trouble.’

‘My dull life could do with a bit of sprucing up.’ Jack grins.

I smile gratefully. ‘Could you find a way to deliver this letter to Sephy?’

‘Persephone Hadley?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Sure thing.’ Jack takes the envelope from me.

I hold his wrist. ‘You have to personally put it into her hand. Promise?’

‘I promise,’ Jack replies.

I let him go and watch him put the letter into his pocket. Sighing, I sit back on my bed, my back against the cool wall. There’re still so many things I want to do, so many things I want to find out. I would’ve loved to see my mum again, just once more. Just to say . . . sorry. But it hasn’t been allowed. Heaven only knows what she’s going through now. Her husband is dead. Suicide or murder – take your pick. Her daughter is dead. An ‘accident’. Her youngest son is going to die because of his own self-inflicted stupidity. And her eldest son is . . . missing? Wanted – dead or alive. Poor mum. What has she ever done to deserve all this? My thoughts are flitting around now. I wonder about Jude? I miss him so much. I’d love to know if he’s OK. Is he safe or in prison? Has he linked up with Morgan? Has he come up with a way to deal directly with that traitor Andrew Dorn? A newspaper article is all very well, but how can he be sure Dorn won’t weasel his way out or just disappear? Dorn doesn’t deserve to disappear after everything he’s done. Will Jude catch up with him? I’ll never know.

And Sephy, how does she feel about me now? Is she still going to have our child? I’m sure her mum and dad are doing their best and then some to make her get rid of it. Maybe she has already. Our time together in the rose garden was so brief. All those things I’d wanted to say to her – and now they’ll never be said. If I could just see her one more time then I could make sense of all this, I’m sure I could.

I hear the security door click at the end of the corridor. Jack jumps to his feet and heads out into the corridor to stand by my open cell door.

This is it then. I stand up and pull down my T-shirt. I can feel little prickles of heat break out all over my skin.

I don’t want to die . . .

Governor Giustini stops in the corridor outside my cell. He looks at the cards scattered on the floor and the bed and then at me.

‘Do you have a last request?’ Governor Giustini asks sombrely.

‘Just get it over with.’ My voice trembles over the last couple of words. I’m going to break down.

Oh, please God – if you’re up there, somewhere – don’t let me break down . .

No more words. I can’t risk it.

Don’t show them how terrified you are, Callum. Don’t show them how you want to clutch at them and beg them not to kill you. Don’t show them . . .

‘Put your hands behind your back, Callum,’ Jack says quietly.

I look at him. Strange . . . His eyes are shimmering. I try to comfort him. No words, just the briefest of smiles in gratitude for his pity before I turn around, my hands behind my back as I wait to be handcuffed.

‘D’you want a priest or some kind of spiritual counselling?’ Giustini asks.

I shake my head. I never really believed in it when I was alive, so it would be hypocritical to call for it now.

When I was alive . . .

I’m not dead yet. Not yet. Every second counts. There’s still time. I must have hope. Hope till the very end. Miracles have happened before. My cell door opens wider. Giustini leads the way, with two guards I’ve never seen before on either side of him. Jack walks next to me.

‘You’re doing fine, Cal,’ Jack whispers. ‘Be strong. Not long now.’

They lead me down the long corridor. I’ve never been this way before. Early evening sunlight streams in through the high windows and dances across the floor all around me. It’s so bright I can see the dust motes swirling through the air. Who would’ve thought that dust could look so eerily beautiful. I try to walk as slowly as possible, to drink in every sight and sound. To make each moment last a lifetime.

‘Good luck, Callum . . .’

‘Spit in their eye, Cal . . .’

‘Bye, Cal . . .’

Anonymous calls from the cells on one side of the corridor. I’m tempted to turn and study the faces behind the words but that would take too much time. And that’s the one thing I don’t have any more. I look straight ahead. The door opens at the end of the corridor. More blazing sunshine. Such a perfect day. We step out. I stop abruptly. Faces. A sea of faces, even more than when my father was about to be hanged. Lots of Crosses, come to watch the show. But the sun is before me and dazzling my eyes. I can’t see much. Besides, the scaffolding is in the way. And the noose up there, gently swaying in the evening breeze.

Don’t look at it.

I want to cry.

Please God, don’t let me cry . . .

Please God, don’t let me die . . .

Giustini and his guards move to one side of the scaffold. Jack leads me to the stairs. I climb up them. He follows.

‘Forgive me, Callum,’ Jack whispers.

I turn my head. ‘Don’t be silly, Jack, you haven’t done anything.’

‘Neither have you,’ says Jack.

I pause to smile at him. ‘Thanks for that.’

We’re at the top of the scaffold now. The noose is less than a metre away. And beneath it a closed trapdoor. I turn to look at the governor. He’s standing beside another man, a nought with blond hair wearing a black suit. The nought stands behind a long lever. The lever for the trapdoor.

My life in your hands.

I don’t want to die . . .

There’s still time. There’s still hope.

I look around, scanning the crowd, searching the audience for her. But I can’t see her. If I could just see her one last time . . . Where is she? Is she even here? Sephy. And my child that I’ll never see. Never hold. Never know.

Is she here?

Please, God . . .

‘I’ve got to put your hood on now,’ Jack says softly.

‘I don’t want it on.’ How will I find her with a hood on?

‘I’m afraid you have no choice. Those are the rules,’ Jack apologizes.

He pulls the hood over my head. I try to pull back. I’m not trying to run away. I just want to see her . . . One last time . . . The hood is over my head and hangs down to my shoulders. The world is black as night. Jack pulls my arm to lead me to the rope.

Please God, I don’t want to die . . .

Sephy . . .

Tears run down my face. Now I’m grateful for the hood.

‘I LOVE YOU, CALLUM . . .’

Wait . . .

‘I LOVE YOU, CALLUM. AND OUR CHILD WILL LOVE YOU TOO. I LOVE YOU, CALLUM, I’LL ALWAYS LOVE YOU . . .’

The noose is being pulled down over my head and around my neck. But I can hear her.

I can hear her. She’s here.

‘I LOVE YOU, CALLUM . . .’

Thank you, God. Thank you.

‘I . . . I LOVE YOU TOO, SEPHY . . .’ Can she hear me? ‘I LOVE YOU, SEPHY. I LOVE YOU, SEPHY.’

Wait . . . Please wait . . . Just a moment longer . . .

‘I LOVE YOU, CALLUM . . .’

‘SEPHY, I LO . . .’

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 594