Bodily Harm (41 page)

One man still wears a woolly tea-cosy hat; a policeman snatches it off and the hair tumbles out. A pig runs in panic through the archway, it zigzags among the men, standing and kneeling, the policemen laugh, two of them chase it with cattle prods while the others watch, it dashes under the gallows platform and then back through the archway again. The kneeling men turn their heads, follow it with their eyes.

Now Rennie sees that one of the policemen has a rifle, he’s raising it, for a minute she thinks he’s going to shoot them all, the whole line of them. He hesitates, letting them believe this, do they?
But he detaches the bayonet and walks slowly around to the back of the line with it, strolling, hips rolling, taking his time, luxuriating. He’s not doing this just because he’s been ordered to: he’s doing it because he enjoys it.
Malignant
.

“What’s going on?” says Lora, whispering. Rennie doesn’t answer.

The policeman grasps the hair of the first man in the line, gathers it almost lovingly into a bunch, a handful, then suddenly jerks the man’s head back so that the throat is taut, it’s going to be worse than shooting. Butchery.

But all he does is saw at the hair, he’s cutting the hair off; that’s all he’s doing. Another man follows him with a green garbage bag, for the hair. It’s chilling, this tidiness.

“What is it?” says Lora. “What’re they doing?”

He’s at the second man now, the courtyard is oddly silent, the noon sun beats down, everything is bright, the men’s faces glisten with sweat, fear, the effort of keeping in the hatred, the policemen’s faces glisten too, they’re holding themselves back, they love this, it’s a ceremony, precise as an operation, they’re implementing a policy, he pulls the head back like a chicken’s, the hair is grey, he slices again with the bayonet but he’s not careful enough, the man howls, a voice that is not a voice, there are no teeth in his opened mouth, blood is pouring down his face. The man with the bayonet stuffs the handful of hair into the bag and wipes his hand on his shirt. He’s an addict, this is a hard drug. Soon he will need more.

The kneeling man continues to howl. As if they’ve been waiting for it, two others come over and one of them kicks the howling man in the stomach. A third throws water over him from a red plastic bucket. The man falls forward, he’s kept from hitting the pavement by the ropes that link him to the other men, one of the policemen jams the cattle prod in between his legs, he’s flung back, now it’s a scream. Not human.

“Pull him up,” says the man in charge, and they do. They continue along the line, the hurt man’s face is on a level with Rennie’s own, blood pours down it, she knows who it is, the deaf and dumb man, who has a voice but no words, he can see her, she’s been exposed, it’s panic, he wants her to do something, pleading,
Oh please
.

“Let me down,” says Rennie. The best they can do is avoid calling attention to themselves. She leans against the wall, she’s shaking. It’s indecent, it’s not done with ketchup, nothing is inconceivable here, no rats in the vagina but only because they haven’t thought of it yet, they’re still amateurs. She’s afraid of men and it’s simple, it’s rational, she’s afraid of men because men are frightening. She’s seen the man with the rope, now she knows what he looks like. She has been turned inside out, there’s no longer a
here
and a
there
. Rennie understands for the first time that this is not necessarily a place she will get out of, ever. She is not exempt. Nobody is exempt from anything.

“Good God, what is it?” says Lora. She’s still whispering, her hands on Rennie’s shoulders.

“Prince isn’t there,” says Rennie. “They’re cutting their hair off.”

She kneels, picks up the chicken back Lora spilled, wipes the dirt from it with her fingers, puts it on Lora’s plate. “You should eat it,” she says. “We need to eat.”

In the middle of the morning, at the usual time, the two guards come again. Today one of them is new, he’s too young, skinny body, thin wiry arms, face smooth as a plum, eyes innocent. Rennie takes one look at him and sees that he knows nothing at all. Morton is frightened, he’s got his arm across his chest, almost touching his pistol, things are no longer under his control. It’s the innocence of the other one that frightens him.

They unlock the door. Lora’s watchful but she bends over anyway to pick up the smelly red bucket.

“Her turn today,” says Morton, pointing at Rennie with the other hand. “You been doin’ it every time.”

Rennie isn’t prepared for this, she knows what will be expected of her and she’s not ready for it, but Lora steps in front of her, she’s going to dare him. “Why?” she says. “Where’s Sammy?”

“I don’t mind which one,” says the boy. He’s heard something then, he wants part of it, he knows what but not what for.

“Shut your mouth,” says Morton. He’s afraid of being caught out, the young kid’s smart enough to figure it out but he’s a fool, he’ll tell, maybe not deliberately but one way or another. He wants Rennie to go rather than Lora because it’s safer, that’s what he thinks. “Sammy’s grandmother got sick,” he says to Lora.

“Yeah,” says the young boy. “She sick bad.” He has a high nervous giggle. “What you need Sammy for? I just as good.”

“I’ll go,” says Rennie. She doesn’t want a squabble, something’s about to go wrong.

“No,” says Lora. The barred door’s partly open, she yanks it and pushes out into the corridor. “What’s happened to Prince? Is that it? You don’t want me to know, you don’t want to tell me. Oh shit. Where did you put him?”

She’s got Morton by the arm but he’s the one who’s sweating, it’s not her, she’s tight and cold. The young boy’s looking at both of them, trying to untangle this. He giggles again. “Prince?” he says. “The big man, Prince of Peace? He never in here at all, man.”

“Shut your damn mouth,” Morton says to him.

“You tell her he still alive?” says the boy. “He dead a long time ago, man.” He thinks this is a joke. Rennie wonders whether he’s stoned, it’s a possibility.

“When?” Lora says quietly, to him alone, not to Morton. She’s dropped her hands down, she’s no longer holding Morton’s arm.

“What you need to tell her that for?” Morton says with disgust. The boy has completely blown it.

“He caught in the crossfire,” the boy says. He giggles some more. “That what it say on the radio. You tell her you got him in here, make her work hard for you, eh? Get some for your own self. You are a bad man.” He’s laughing now, not just giggling, this is the funniest thing he’s heard in a long time.

“You pig,” Lora says to Morton. “You knew all along. You were just afraid I’d crack up if I heard about it, right, and then they’d find out what you were up to. They shot him in the back, right?”

Morton puts his hand on her arm, soothingly, like a doctor almost. “You go back in,” he says. “I doin’ the best I can for you. You lucky you alive.”

“Fuck you!” Lora screams. “I’ll tell everyone about you, nobody screws me around like that, they can shoot you too for all I care!”

Tears are running down her face. Rennie heads towards her. “Lora,” says Rennie, “there’s nothing you can do,” but Lora is beyond her. Morton is pushing her now, back towards the door.

“Fucking pig,” she says, “take your fucking hands off me!” She kicks at Morton, aiming for the groin, but he’s too fast for her. He catches the raised leg, lifts, tips her backwards towards the boy, who’s quick enough, he’s not stoned after all, he catches her and jerks her arms behind her. Morton knees her in the belly, he’s knocked the air out of her. Now nobody needs to hold her arms and after the first minute she’s silent, more or less, the two of them are silent as well, they don’t say anything at all. They go for the breasts and the buttocks, the stomach, the crotch, the head, jumping,
My God
, Morton’s got the gun out and he’s hitting her with it, he’ll break her so that she’ll never make another sound. Lora twists on the floor of the corridor, surely she can’t feel it any more but she’s still twisting, like a worm that’s been cut in half, trying to avoid the feet, they have shoes on, there’s nothing she can avoid.

Rennie wants to tell them to stop. She wants to be strong enough to do that but she isn’t, she can’t make a sound, they’ll see her. She doesn’t want to see, she has to see, why isn’t someone covering her eyes?

This is what will happen.

Rennie will be taken to a small room, painted apple green. On the wall there will be a calendar with a picture of a sunset on it. There will be a desk with a phone and some papers on it. There will be no windows.

Behind the desk there will be a policeman, an older man, with short greying hair. In front of the desk there’s a chair, Rennie sits down in the chair when the policeman tells her to. The policeman who’s brought her here will stand behind her.

She is asked to sign a release form saying that while in custody she has not been harmed in any way and has not witnessed any other detainee being so harmed. She thinks of Lora, her pulped face. She understands that unless she makes a mark on this paper they may not let her out. She feels that she has forgotten how to write. She signs her name.

They have her suitcase here, from the hotel, and her purse. The older man says that perhaps she would like to change her clothes before meeting the gentleman from the Canadian government who is here to see her. Rennie feels this would be a good idea. She’s taken to another small room, much like the first except that the calendar is different, it’s a white woman in a blue bathing suit, one piece, again no windows. She knows the young policeman is standing outside the door. She opens her suitcase and sees her own
clothes, the clothes that used to be hers. Alien reaction paranoia. She starts to cry.

Rennie knocks on the inside of the door, which opens. She walks out. She’s just as dirty but she feels less dirty now, she feels decent, she’s wearing a cotton dress, faded blue, and her hair is combed, as well as she could do it in the mirror from her purse. She’s carrying the suitcase in her right hand, the purse is over her left shoulder. Her passport isn’t in the purse or the suitcase either. So she’s not really out, not yet. She’s decided not to ask where her camera bag is.

She is taken up some stairs, along a stone hallway, then into a much larger room, one with windows. She can hardly remember what it’s like to be in such a large room, to look out of windows that are so huge. She looks out. What she sees is the muddy field where the tents were; now it’s empty. She understands that this is one of the rooms that are usually shown to tourists, the room where they were going to sell the local arts and crafts, a long time ago. There are two wooden chairs in the corner, and a man is standing beside them waiting for her. He’s still got the tinted glasses and the safari jacket.

He shakes hands with Rennie and they sit down on the wooden chairs. He offers her a cigarette, a black one with a gold band, which she refuses. He smiles at her, he’s a little nervous. He says she certainly has given them some uneasy moments. There wasn’t a lot they could do when the region was destabilized and the government here was so panicky, overreacting he says, but the situation is normalizing now.

The government can’t make a public apology of course but they would like her to know unofficially that they consider it a regrettable incident. They understand that she is a journalist and such things should not happen to journalists. It was an error. They hope she’s prepared to consider it in the same light.

Rennie nods and smiles at him. Her heart is beating, she’s beginning to think again. Of course, she says.

To tell you the truth, says the man, they thought you were an agent. Of a foreign government. A subversive. Isn’t that absurd? It’s the common charge though, in countries like this.

The man is uneasy, he’s leading up to something, here it comes. He says he realizes she’s a journalist but in this instance things are very delicate, getting her out of here has been more difficult than she may suppose, she doesn’t know how these small southern countries operate, the people who run them are quite temperamental. Irrational. For instance, the Prime Minister was very angry because the Americans and the Canadians didn’t send in their armies and their navies and their air forces to support him, over, let’s face it, a completely minor insurrection, doomed even before it started. The Prime Minister seemed to feel that Rennie should be kept in a cell because these armies had failed to materialize. As a kind of hostage. Can she imagine that?