The Low Road (28 page)

An overdose of opiates wasn't exactly a peaceful way to go. There was usually circulatory collapse and cardiac arrest. An entire skirmish beneath the skin. The lungs clogged with blood.
Haemorrhage.
Was there a more frightening word in the language?
The escape of blood.
Profound coma and death. But despite knowing all these effects and dangers, he had listened with mute detachment to Anne riffling through the cupboards for a narcotic antagonist. Thinking that he'd never heard her swear before now. That a pretty girl in a nurse's uniform saying
shit
was almost unbearably cute.

It wasn't that he didn't care whether he lived or died, it was just that suddenly it didn't really interest him. This was the beauty of it all: his own fate was no longer his concern. It had seemed to him then that death was no big deal, perhaps no more than stepping into another room of which you had previously been unaware. There was Mao's fifty million, the great plagues, untold massacres and the sudden death of his uncle James, each of them desperate and profound but worth little in the total scheme of things. Brueghel's Icarus forever tumbling to his death, unnoticed by the ploughman. The planet kept revolving, had not even blinked.

Then that jolt and a rude resurfacing: back to his office floor where he had slumped, back to life, to Anne leaning over him, still clutching the syringe she'd used to administer the drug that saved him. She'd laughed quickly with surprise and relief before berating him about how lucky he was that she'd happened to find him in time.
It's only because I happened to look in that you're bloody alive at all, you stupid man.
Disoriented, Wild had apologised and agreed about his luck, but knew already that it was in some way too late; learning is a one-way street.

Now he crouched on the floor, weeping. The evening wore on, grew darker, inevitably became night. He thought back to that night on his office floor. The memory of it was warm, almost a comfort. Was this how life was going to be from now on? Was this how it would be?

Save me from the lion's mouth. Deliver my soul from the sword.

29

J
osef stood before the bathroom mirror. He wiped it free of accumulated steam with one palm and took a moment to stare at his own long features. He wore just dark-green trousers. His toes curled and uncurled on the cold, tiled floor.

He lathered his skin with shaving cream and applied his razor to his face, adhering to the pattern he had followed for thirty-five years. First he pulled his upper lips against his teeth to pass below his angular nose. Then the cheeks, along the hazardous jawline, and finally his chin and throat. He enjoyed the sensation of towelling off the frothy remnants and running his palm along his fresher, cleaner self each day. In defiance of his frugal nature, he used a new blade every morning. It supplied a small gratification, of the sort that only a private extravagance can provide. He splashed cologne onto his palms and applied it to his stinging skin before running lotion through his sleek but thinning hair. If he were the kind of man who hummed, it might be at this point that he would do so.

It was mid-morning by the time Josef picked his way across the bright, icy footpath. There was nobody else out on the street. The few shops along the main street were apparently closed or otherwise abandoned. Perhaps it was a holiday. The needling air smelled crisp, of wood smoke and winter.

Hard-packed snow had buried the lower half of his car's wheels overnight and he had to kick some aside to get in. The car door was stiff and creaked loudly on its hinge. The car interior offered only the slightest insulation; the leather seats were as cold as rocks. He rubbed his hands together and huffed and blew in an effort to generate some heat.

The car's windscreen was frosted and mounds of snow had gathered around the wipers, making it impossible to see. Josef sighed and stared for a moment at the webbing of ice on the glass. Reluctantly, he went back into the hotel, got a bucket of water and a rag, and managed to sluice the ice and snow from the windscreen. It took some time, and when he returned to the driver's seat, he felt even colder than before, his hands as unfeeling as planks. He paddled his feet on the floor and hugged himself. In silence, he rolled and smoked a cigarette but even that failed to warm him. He rubbed at his tattoo and ran a hand over his face.

Eventually he jammed the soggy cigarette butt into the ashtray, smoothed his hair and slotted the key into the ignition. He depressed the accelerator and turned the key. Nothing. Just the keys clanking against the steering column and the impotent gulp of the pedals. He paused before trying again, but with the same result. The engine gave no sign of life, might have been a solid block of ice. Something was seriously wrong with this car. It wasn't going anywhere. Shit, he muttered under his breath. Shit.

30

E
ven at night, the prison is never completely silent. There's always someone moaning or talking or laughing or threatening. The unhappiness of men waking in darkness makes an impression. And the building seems to possess sounds of its own apart from those of restless men. It shifts and sighs. The walls have their own things to say.

Although he has been awake most of the night, Lee is somehow taken unawares when morning scratches around the prison walls and peers through the high, barred window. When he does manage to sleep, he dreams of snapshot things with no apparent relationship to anything else: of a rusted tap; a grey wall worn and dirty at shoulder height; a scuffed kitchen floor. With disappointment, he realises it is prison he is dreaming of.

His eyes are gritty. After a short while he feels the bunk wobble as Simon jerks off furiously in the bed above, finishing with a small gasp that could be mistaken for surprise. Is there anything more disgusting, Lee wonders, as he turns to face the grimy wall. His own quickening breath bounces back at him, with the flavour of dreams and sweat and terror, like the remnants of something eaten long ago. He lies like a
Z
on its side with trembling hands clasped between his thighs. Like every other morning, Lee listens to Simon get down from his upper bunk and pad across to the toilet in the corner. The sound of his pissing is deep and frothy.

It's 6.00 a.m. Soon the cells will be unlocked, they will be counted off and file under escort to the showers, after which they will be counted off again and allowed to eat breakfast. There is a system here. There is nothing but system. Lee knows the habits of strangers. He knows how old Gerry likes his tea. He knows the way Lebanese Sammy shaves. He knows Simon will smoke a cigarette in bed and fall back into a heavy sleep for a short while longer. In fact, he is relying on it. It's 6.04.

How do you know you're doing the right thing? How can you ever know? Life should work backwards: at least then you could see the consequences of things first. He looks around the tiny cell. The light is pale and medicinal. Early morning was once his favourite time of day, but that seems a long time ago now. Breakfast at a wooden table, the clatter of voices and crockery, the slightly adhesive texture of poached eggs. The light just so. His father's voice always shone as he gazed down his nose at the form guide and prodded the newspaper at a particularly good bet.
That's the one
, he would say.
That's the one.
And all the while Lee's mother would stand behind, rolling her eyes dramatically and making faces at her husband's forecasting ineptitude. His father would then peer over the rim of his glasses to try to fathom the nature of his son's giggling before spinning to look at his wife, who would be suddenly straight-faced, blowing cigarette smoke from the corner of her mouth. Then Lee's father would return to his newspaper, allowing his wife to wink at Lee and swivel back to the stove. If love could be compressed into a single point, then it might be this ancient moment.

Everything seems a long time ago, his childhood thousands of miles away, enacted by strangers in foreign cities like Cairo or Prague, the language and place incomprehensible from this distance. He wonders what really happened in his life. He teeters. He has to show Morris and his cronies a thing or two or it will be the end of him. His heart is afraid. He worries it will, in fact, fail him altogether.

In the minutes before all the cell doors are unlocked by the central system, Lee dresses and sits on the very edge of his hard bed. In one hand is the tin of lighter fluid he stole from Simon during the night. The tin is full, having been smuggled in by Simon's brother the day before. Its surface is textured with embossed print. Lee picks at it with his thumbnail and manages to remove a curl of paint. He breathes through clenched teeth, is aware of cold air sliding down his throat. He stands slowly so as not to disturb the bunk, and peers over the lip of the upper mattress. He has rehearsed this for several days now. As always, Simon is sleeping with his body curled towards the wall. His shoulders rise and innocently fall as he breathes. Men are beginning to cough in the cells around him. Toilets flush. Someone laughs like a squeezebox. In his other hand, Lee holds a box of matches. It's 6.28.

And then, as quietly as he can, Lee squirts lighter fluid on the mattress behind Simon. He soaks the mattress as much as possible, saving the last of the fluid for Simon himself. The smell of the fluid reminds Lee of dark back sheds during childhood, of rusty nails and broken wood. At exactly 6.30 a.m. there is a hum and click as the cell doors are unlocked remotely. Lee squeezes the tin and sprays fluid all over Simon's back, into his hair. The tin whistles as it empties and Simon wakes suddenly, making small sounds of bother and annoyance, wiping at himself and spitting. Lee fumbles with the box of matches. Simon turns and sits up. Lighter fluid is in his mouth. It runs down the side of his neck. Simon looks at Lee, one eye closed with sleep, or discomfort at the fluid, and opens his mouth to speak but it's at that moment that Lee strikes a match.

The small, pale fire of the match tumbles through the air. It inhabits the space completely, is the only thing happening anywhere. They both watch it cross the short distance between them. It makes no sound. What on
earth
are you doing? Simon asks. His voice is croaky. It's clear that he is struggling to assemble the smell of the fluid, Lee's presence, the fluttering match and the liquid spattered over him into some sort of coherent thought. And then a deep whump and fire slides across the mattress and the tangle of sheets and scrambles over him, fattening itself as it goes.

It isn't long before the fire takes hold, just a few seconds. It emerges from Simon's own skin, as if it has been sleeping underneath all along. At first, Simon swats at it with his hands, then backs against the wall. His mouth is set at a strange angle. Dark holes with glowing orange rims appear in the sheets and expand. There is the sharp and bitter smell of burning hair. A crackling. Simon has forgotten all about Lee, is yelling, swearing. Words fall from his mouth, half formed. Then not even words, just dark, volcanic sounds.

Lee tosses the empty tin of lighter fluid onto the bed and flees the cell. He slides the heavy door closed, but can hear Simon crashing about inside, the screams and roars. There might even be the low whine of an alarm sounding. Out on the tier, the screws are running around enquiring about the commotion and the other prisoners are looking around trying to figure out what is happening. Some of them grin; there is at least the promise of some sort of excitement.

Lee stands with his back to his cell and a little to the side. He hitches his trousers and hugs himself to himself. The cell doors each have a small oblong window of reinforced glass fitted into them for observation. Men on the opposite walkway are staring at him and peering into his cell. They point and bob around to see better. They must be able to see something. A man in flames.

Part Four

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