I believe Luke is lying face down in a thicket, a tangle of bracken, the brown fronds from last year under the green ones just unrolled, or ground hemlock perhaps, although it’s too early for the red berries. What is left of him: his hair, the bones, the plaid wool shirt, green and black, the leather belt, the workboots. I know exactly what he was wearing. I can see his clothes in my mind, bright as a lithograph or a full-colour advertisement, from an ancient magazine, though not his face, not so well. His face is beginning to fade, possibly because it wasn’t always the same: his face had different expressions, his clothes did not.
I pray that the hole, or two or three, there was more than one shot, they were close together, I pray that at least one hole is neatly, quickly, and finally through the skull, through the place where all the pictures were, so that there would have been only the one flash, of darkness or pain, dull I hope, like the word thud, only the one and then silence.
I believe this.
I also believe that Luke is sitting up, in a rectangle somewhere, grey cement, on a ledge or the edge of something, a bed or chair. God knows what he’s wearing. God knows what they’ve put him in. God isn’t the only one who knows, so maybe there could be some way of finding out. He hasn’t shaved for a year, though they cut his hair short, whenever they feel like it, for lice they say. I’ll have to revise that: if they cut the hair for lice, they’d cut the beard too. You’d think.
Anyway, they don’t do it well, the hair is ragged, the back of his neck is nicked, that’s hardly the worst, he looks ten years older, twenty, he’s bent like an old man, his eyes are pouched, small purple veins have burst in his cheeks, there’s a scar, no, a wound, it isn’t yet healed, the colour of tulips, near the stem end, down the left side of his face where the flesh split recently. The body is so easily damaged, so easily disposed of, water and chemicals is all it is, hardly more to it than a jellyfish, drying on sand.
He finds it painful to move his hands, painful to move. He doesn’t know what he’s accused of. A problem. There must be something, some accusation. Otherwise why are they keeping him, why isn’t he already dead? He must know something they want to know. I can’t imagine. I can’t imagine he hasn’t already said whatever it is. I would.
He is surrounded by a smell, his own, the smell of a cooped-up animal in
a dirty cage. I imagine him resting, because I can’t bear to imagine him at any other time, just as I can’t imagine anything below his collar, above his cuffs. I don’t want to think what they’ve done to his body. Does he have shoes? No, and the floor is cold and wet. Does he know I’m here, alive, that I’m thinking about him? I have to believe so. In reduced circumstances you have to believe all kinds of things. I believe in thought transference now, vibrations in the ether, that sort of junk. I never used to.
I also believe that they didn’t catch him or catch up with him after all, that he made it, reached the bank, swam the river, crossed the border, dragged himself up on the far shore, an island, teeth chattering; found his way to a nearby farmhouse, was allowed in, with suspicion at first, but then when they understood who he was, they were friendly, not the sort who would turn him in, perhaps they were Quakers, they will smuggle him inland, from house to house, the woman made him some hot coffee and gave him a set of her husband’s clothes. I picture the clothes. It comforts me to dress him warmly.
He made contact with the others, there must be a resistance, a government in exile. Someone must be out there, taking care of things. I believe in the resistance as I believe there can be no light without shadow; or rather, no shadow unless there is also light. There must be a resistance, or where do all the criminals come from, on the television?
Any day now there may be a message from him. It will come in the most unexpected way, from the least likely person, someone I never would have suspected. Under my plate, on the dinner tray? Slipped into my hand as I reach the tokens across the counter in All Flesh?
The message will say that I must have patience: sooner or later he will get me out, we will find her, wherever they’ve put her. She’ll remember us and we will be all three of us together. Meanwhile I must endure, keep myself safe for later. What has happened to me, what’s happening to me now won’t make any difference to him, he loves me anyway, he knows it isn’t my fault. The message will say that also. It’s this message, which may never arrive, that keeps me alive. I believe in the message.
The things I believe can’t all be true, though one of them must be. But I believe in all of them, all three versions of Luke, at one and the same time. This contradictory way of believing seems to me, right now, the only way I can believe anything. Whatever the truth is, I will be ready for it.
This also is a belief of mine. This also may be untrue.
One of the gravestones in the cemetery near the earliest church has an anchor on it and an hourglass, and the words: In Hope.
In Hope. Why did they put that above a dead person? Was it the corpse hoping, or those still alive?
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