Attempted Escape
“Ofcharles,” Aunt Lydia announces. No one I know. The woman is brought forward; she walks as if she’s really concentrating on it, one foot, the other foot, she’s definitely drugged. There’s a groggy off-centre smile on her mouth. One side of her face contracts, an uncoordinated wink, aimed at the camera. They’ll never show it, of course, this isn’t live. The two Salvagers tie her hands, behind her back.
From behind me there’s a sound of retching.
That’s why we don’t get breakfast.
“Janine, most likely,” Ofglen whispers.
I’ve seen it before, the white bag placed over the head, the woman helped up onto the high stool as if she’s being helped up the steps of a bus, steadied there, the noose adjusted delicately around the neck, like a vestment, the stool kicked away. I’ve heard the long sigh go up, from around me, the sigh like air coming out of an air mattress, I’ve seen Aunt Lydia place her hand over the mike, to stifle the other sounds coming from behind her, I’ve leaned forward to touch the rope in front of me, in time with the others, both hands on it, the
rope hairy, sticky with tar in the hot sun, then placed my hand on my heart to show my unity with the Salvagers and my consent, and my complicity in the death of this woman. I have seen the kicking feet and the two in black who now seize hold of them and drag downwards with all their weight. I don’t want to see it any more. I look at the grass instead. I describe the rope.
