The Blink That Killed the Eye Page 5

  ‘It’s brightened up hasn’t it?’ She checked the time on her phone. ‘Maybe I’ll go get my son and take him to sit in the garden for a while.’

  The crystals had all vanished leaving a flurry of faint streaks like infant chemtrails over the sky of her face. She rubbed at them with the last clean tissue in her bag, disposing of the one she used previously in the empty packet then picking up her cold coffee-cup. Indeed she was right; the day had brightened up. The sun was out to discover our doors. It was approaching 10am, time for our first tea break. A spectacular shaft of clean daylight bounced through the windows of Building Six, illuminating our polished section of stone marble flooring. The plastic plants placed either side of us appearing to be happy in the their infamy. Walking straight through the doors, we both watched the way they gracefully slid to open, granting Rupal Shah access to a world we had no control over and no voice in. Fast and synchronised they parted. Like two dancers perfectly tuned in to the weeping belt of a singular act. From a few feet away she looked back on us; standing beneath the door’s sensors so as to prevent them from closing and reopening, like they understood something about the relevance of what she was about to confess, obsequiously allowing her to deliver these final few words.

  ‘I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in two years, since around the time I got married. He can be the cruelest of animals at the most desperate of times. What makes it all increasingly harder to bear is our neighbours too can’t decide whether they should be loving or hating each other. It was only the other night when the guy who lives in the flat above ours, who I’ve never actually spoken to or seen, surprised me. You can usually hear all the screaming and fighting between him and his partner. The other night was different. There was no fighting. Instead, he was speaking something out loud, words to himself perhaps, or maybe to her. Some of it sounding too muffled for me to understand, but by the way he was saying everything a strange sense of peace came over me, one I haven’t been able to feel in years. That night I slept so deep I have no recollection of me even climbing into bed, plus, my husband he didn’t come home either which I know helped. I hear the guy leave for work in the early hours each morning, but I can’t say I’ve ever see him come home. From the sounds of it I don’t think he gets much sleep.’

  I looked over at him. He hadn’t moved. Frozen in his ridiculous security pose. The doors gallantly rejoined. Standing exhausted inside myself I watched Rupal Shah make her way into the big future while he allowed himself to stand naked and beaten at the doors of his crammed suffering. Those hopeless crystals. How splendidly they erupted over his entire mouth conquering everything he’d tried so diligently to guard. An entire sky of white gold planting a million wet stars all over his great wretchedness. Over his badge they fell exploding. Over his muted words. His stubborn reticence. His tangled dreams and nightmares. Over his fragility. His pride. His jacket and shoes. The ones that kept him so firmly positioned in those twelve-hour shifts. His athletic posture cancelling itself out, giving way to the indelible resplendency of all his muzzled agony. The scar on the side of his head still lurid and alive. I didn’t ask him if he was alright. The questions had exceeded themselves already today, plus I already got my answer. I checked my watch, it was 10.18am, time for a break I thought and yet nothing had even happened.

  Have You Ever Seen A Big Man Fall?

  It was a song they all liked so Paul turned the radio up. When it finished Little Terry turned it back down so as to avoid hearing the irritating adverts. That’s when he collapsed. Hussein. It took both Paul and Little Terry to try and lift him back up. Rushing. Paul grabbed Hussein from under his right armpit, his face vasodilating under the immense strain of the effort, while Little Terry, being little, remained unable to handle the side of Hussein weighing the most. The side where his heart lived. Distressed, he called out to Massimo who was the only other person in the room. Panicking, Paul yelled at him to come over and give Little Terry a hand with his side. Rather than complying, Massimo seemed more inclined to want to know what had just happened. Paul retorted aggressively telling him to shut up, to help with the lift, then bring a chair over to sit him in. Massimo subsequently fell into a state of confusion; what was he to do first? The chair or the lift?

  Little Terry yelled for the second time how he couldn’t lift Hussein alone, he needed assistance. Hussein was out. Cold. Someone suggested to call Con, the building site manager and pandemonium ensued. The voice sounded like Massimo’s who, despite there being one right in front of him, was still looking all over for a chair. Going against what Paul had initially ordered he reasoned that the chair should take precedence over the assisting lift. Once the chair was in place he could then help Little Terry and Paul mount the giant Hussein up onto it. What would be the use in lifting up such a man then having nowhere to sit him? That was his logic. So amidst the heat and turbulence of the dreaded moment he decided the first thing anyone should ever do if they happen to encounter a big man falling, is to look for a place to sit them. Somewhere secure and supportive. Massimo’s thinking however was soon rendered useless when circumstance would prove that a chair, in this context, would be totally ineffective. He wasn’t to come to this realisation until after he had hurriedly wheeled the seat over to where Hussein lay. How are we supposed to get him on there if he’s unconscious? Said one of the two men. What kind of idiot are you Mass? Profanity ensued. Arguing. Insults. Then came the speculations. The cause of the collapse. Paul said Hussein was feeling unwell that morning. He’d wondered why he wasn’t saying much. He seemed slightly under the weather. Little Terry just kept repeating the words heart attack. If we manage to get him on the chair we can at least check to see if he’s still breathing. This was said by Massimo who had at last brought himself around to help lift the side which held Hussein’s heart. The side too heavy for Little Terry to lift alone. We can see if he’s still breathing while he’s on the floor said Paul. Have any of you lot done first aid? The answer was a collective and disappointing no. Ok, after three we’re going to lift him up onto the seat. It was clear who’d given that order. The three men slowly raised big Hussein up onto the wheeled chair. Six foot three inches and fifteen stone of unconscious man. The only other person who had ever seen him in such a helpless way was his mother twenty-eight years ago, and his wife. Get him water quick. Now, check his breathing. Well? Feel for a pulse then. He’s dead! He’s fucking dead! No, that’s the wrong side you idiot. Put a mirror under his nose. I don’t have a bloody mirror. Then use something else for fuck sake. Like what? I don’t fucking know do I? What am I, a bloody paramedic? Shut up you twat! Both of you shut up, look, use the screen of your watch. I can see mist. He’s alive. Thank fuck.

  Massimo ran over to the monitor which surveyed the main doors. He could see Con talking to a lady and two security guards. He radioed in. Con’s walkie-talkie was clipped onto his belt. It must be turned down. Forget Con. That was Little Terry who said that, going on to call Hussein’s name repeatedly. Loudly. In his ear. As if Hussein had just walked out the door and had left his keys behind. Paul took the water that Little Terry had brought over, splashing it anxiously over those unresponsive parts of Hussein’s face. Eyes. Movement. Life. Then, slowly, he regained form. His body developing itself into the holds of the chair supplied by Massimo, losing the support of the two men who were inflexibly positioned either side of him.

  What happened mate, you scared the living shit out of us? Little Terry said. You alright Huss, can you breathe? Mass, go grab him some more water will you, said Paul.

  Massimo filled a bottle from the drinking tap outside the room. Hussein rubbed his neck in a daze. He mentioned his head hurt. Maybe from the fall, maybe from something else. He didn’t know what happened or how he blacked out like that. Paul asked him if he was diabetic. Hussein said he wasn’t. Are you stressed asked Little Terry. I’m not sure. Perhaps. That’s never happened to me before. The three men stood round him concerned and attentive listening as he spoke in a hacked, discombobu
lated tone. All I remember is the song on the radio had just finished then nothing, I was out. Yeah I know, I went over to turn it down then bang. My chair rumbled like we were in the middle of an earthquake or something. I looked around, saw you flat out on your face. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a geeza fall like that before said Little Terry. Me neither said Paul. Massimo didn’t say anything, instead he remained concernedly looking over at his colleague. Hussein took a small sip of the water then said again his head and neck hurt really bad. For the first time since all the commotion Massimo, with an unusual air of confidence and expertise, cleared his throat to say you might have concussion mate. Your best bet is to go hospital and get yourself looked at, better to be safe than sorry.

  I think I should call my wife said Hussein. Little Terry looked over at Paul in the way a person might when a friend has just confessed they’re dying inside and need desperately to talk to the person who’s killing their heart. Turning away Paul shook his head, signalling to Little Terry it would be best to not say anything and let Hussein do what he needs to do. He understood. I’ll make you a tea he said. The DJ on the radio could be heard plugging a gig for a band nobody knew. Massimo looked again at the CCTV screen which surveyed the main doors. Con was gone.

  Hussein knew his wife would be at work. Mobile phones weren’t permitted in the surveillance room as they were known to interfere with equipment, only a radio was allowed. Here you go pal. Little Terry brought him over a cup of hot tea, putting it down on the desk beside him. How you feeling now? Yeah a bit better, thanks boys. I’m really sorry to just drop on you like that. Don’t be silly Huss, we’re just glad it’s nothing serious. I mean, it would have been a real nightmare if we had to carry you over to those lifts said Paul facetiously. Little Terry laughed. Massimo didn’t. Instead he remarked by saying that little hobbit Terry couldn’t even lift you so I don’t know what he’s bloody laughing at. I had to come over and help him put you on the chair. Fuck off you wobbly mug, yes I could, I just couldn’t get a proper grip that’s all. Anyway, what the fuck were you supposed to be doing? You brought a chair over for a bloke who was unconscious. What’s he supposed to do with that, sit up and have his dinner? No wonder you’re in here watching these screens six days a week… fucking retard! I brought a chair over because Paul told me to and anyway...Alright you two pack it in. Hussein’s alright now so no need to start pouring your hearts out to each other. Someone try calling Con again. I just did Massimo said sulkily but he weren’t answering, he must have the volume turned down on his walkie. What kind of manager fucks-off during moments like those anyway.

  Another song came on the radio. Nobody recognised it. Massimo went back over to his unit as did Little Terry. Paul wiped away the circles of water left by the bottle. Hussein told Paul he was going outside to try and make a phone-call to his wife. Yeah no problem mate, take the afternoon off if you want and go get some rest. He took the lift down to the ground floor, heading for the back doors where the guards were permitted to smoke and make calls if necessary.

  Outside the day was cold but bright. November. Taking his phone out from inside his blazer he unlocked the keypad to reveal the wallpaper picture he had on the screen, the one of him holding up his young daughter while she laughed playfully on his shoulders. His wife had taken the picture. He looked at it, once with his eyes, then again with his heart. The sky appeared to look as if it had just swallowed the entire sun. It wasn’t bright anymore. Lifting his eyes from the screen he put the phone back into his pocket, then after a few seconds the giant Hussein headed back up to work.

  Yellow Daffodil

  The jury unanimously found Robert Shah guilty of murder in the first degree. The judge read out his sentence with the same metallic cadence he secretly reserved for such tragic cases. A pillowed murmur could be heard trying to conceal itself from somewhere in the back of the dreary room. While the judge spoke of the severity and brutishness of his actions, Robert Shah turned to catch sight of his mother-in-law burying her face into the cages of her weak interlocked fingers. The arms of her brother wrapped themselves around her shoulders as they convulsed synchronistically inside the relief of such a long awaited verdict. Their eyes caught halfway between a place of inconsolable indignation and of deep loss. The inscrutable expression holding together Robert Shah’s face remained as unaffected as the day he first saw his father break his mother’s jaw. As the day his older cousin tied him to a chair to ram a hot iron into his thigh, for fun. As the day his mother’s new boyfriend crept into his room, accompanied by the spirited stench of cheap whiskey and tobacco-ash, to manoeuvre a sticky hand slowly, pantingly down into the bareness of his underwear. The day after his eighth birthday. The day which would subsequently crystallise the rest of his childhood, thrusting him into a tortured state of adolescence and adulthood. His famed stoicism could be seen compounded and unrelenting by the entire courtroom. When the judge asked if he had anything he wished to add before being removed from general society he nonchalantly declined. Two hefty guards stepped forward to usher him out of the room, a set of steel cuffs jangling on his limp wrists. The courtroom was adjourned. Conversations could be heard slowly emanating. Reflections on the case were openly shared by those involved since Sam Anderson’s discovery of Rupal Shah’s body on her kitchen floor – their baby wailing relentlessly until the neighbours concluded something must be terribly wrong.

  The autopsy revealed she’d been stabbed eight times. Her face, after the ruthless sanguinary beating, showed multiple bruising in the tissue under the skin from what appeared to be previous assaults. The couple living above the Shah’s home testified that her screams were never heard, suggesting she must have endured all her husband’s cruelty in silence. The only audible sound on the night of the murder was the irregular throwing of what sounded like objects against a wall, followed by the final thump of something, or in this case someone, landing hard.

  Within the following days Robert Shah was moved to a maximum security prison. There he would sit and recall the twenty-eight years which constituted all his life’s experiences. Twenty-three hours each day would be spent rewinding segments his memory wouldn’t allow him to forget, those major incidences culminating in him having to spend the rest of his adult life inside a prison cell. He would think about the mental scars he’d wantonly acquired along with the warped psychosis automatically inherited when the ramifications of those indecencies inflicted on the innocent take affect. For long hours he would appear unperturbed, reflecting on the scathed elements of his past with the same tired indifference of an old detective constantly replaying the footage to a crime he knew he’d be unable to solve. Gradually, over time, he will begin to feel the life of his skin and bones break away and die. His heart losing belief in its strength to function. His face will grow ever more pallid, acquiring a residual diffidence born out of solitude and decay. The process happens like this; firstly the eyes become subverted, finding the edges of both cheekbones. Secondly the mouth becomes stiff and contorted from the solemn nature that inhabits one’s continuing prostration. The same prostration which bestows itself upon the prisoner’s need to express and communicate with others, reducing them to a motionless sack of blood and organs. Lastly, the cambered shoulders of the inmate pronounce themselves as having won the battle for dominance over the remainder of the spirit’s weary hope. A definitive conquering, symbolising the immanency of the end. Shoulders are where those condemned for their wicked ways are forced to bear the tension and listlessness famously known for attaching itself on to men who have nothing to do but think about time, and all that exists to sing and gallop around it.

  Prison life has an almost legendary habit of forcing even the most hardened of criminals to confront the part of themselves they may be most terrified of, the part which in many cases would have been responsible for their fatal incarceration. The endless hours of grief-filled rumination, the bottomless months of boredom all give imputes to those moments capable of filling the stomach with twisted, cit
ric knives. Insanity huddles up against the mind as the prisoner chops his way through past situations, irremediable and permanent. This in time increases, worsening to create a whole new kind of terror. After the first cold and unprovoked assault by a group of fierce inmates has been survived. After sleep has been sufficiently thwarted and insomnia has become a regularity. After the discreet bouts of shuffled masturbation have lost their embarrassment. After the longing for a woman’s touch and the smell of her skin have died. After the letters and visitors from the free world are of no more. After the first suicide attempt fails and a struggling conversation with a priest is followed by a much recommended study of the bible, with particular focus on Ecclesiastes 7:17, ‘Do not be a fool–why die before your time?’ Or similarly Mark 3:28-29 ‘Verily I say unto you, all sins shall be forgiven unto the sons of men, and blasphemies wherewith soever they shall blaspheme, but he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.’

  After all this has happened, the steel bones of the prison begin to scaffold the body of every prisoner contained within. But when one ordinary grey Monday afternoon three men came to sit opposite Robert Shah while he ate a meal of mashed potato, peas and boiled chicken, nothing could have conditioned him to withstand what was about to happen. There were no words. No warnings. There never is. The irregular clatter of cutlery filled the entire refectory. All around unhurried men took small feckless steps with white plastic trays held out in front of them, containing the rationed meals that appeared to be just as lifeless as their very consumers. The daily anecdotal cacophony of mouths eager to communicate while ravenously trying to appease their hunger could be heard over the afternoon’s happenings. The three men didn’t say anything to each other nor to Robert Shah. They ate unlike the other convicts, choosing instead to imitate him with the same torpor, partially looking up between gulps. All four shovelled food into the corners of their mouths, chewing in the same cyclic motion. In the eleven months Robert Shah had so far served inmates had only attacked him twice. Judging by the villainous composition and general brutality of this particular jail that was itself a result. In his cell he concluded both attacks were incited by men needing to show dominance. Both times he didn’t feel the need to retaliate. He had nothing to prove and nothing necessarily to live for. If he were killed it would simply mean the inevitable would have been actioned ahead of its time. He knew the injuries incurred by these attacks were minor in comparison to those he witnessed happening to others. On both occasions he was discharged from the prison’s infirmary after only a few hours and returned to his cell. Yet luck is named luck for a reason; within its context it will soon have to encounter the antithetical unlucky moment so as to exemplify its true definition. And so on that ordinary Monday afternoon, while Robert Shah was still scraping the last few peas off his plate, the three anonymous inmates discreetly manoeuvred a make-shift blade from the hands of one man into those of the allotted attacker. From under the table, away from the hungry mouths and eyes of the refectory, a single and expert blow swooped through the blind air known for infamously occupying the space beneath prison tables. Within seconds the crude weapon settled with tremendous agony inside the flesh of Robert Shah’s right thigh. The one that coincidently still bore the obtrusive scar of a hot iron plate, compliments of his cousin and the games they would play. Instantly, he fell to the ground emitting an irrepressible scream. The blood flowed quick and efficiently, escaping his body, owning the floor, his hands and clothes. Holding onto the gash his vision focused on the refectory lights, slowly retracting into a deeper blur, until at last he became safely enclosed in the catacombs of his own blessed unconsciousness. The bedlam that followed around him allowed his attackers to merge stealthily back into the rising panic without fear of arrest or accusation.