‘Or how he helped hang a man in the Red Walls,’ I said, not knowing why I said it; it seemed such an insignificant thing, viewed against the backdrop of his own death.
Jerry began to pace the room, like a prisoner in his own jail.
‘We’re safe enough here,’ he said. ‘We’ll just have to wait it out.’
‘But how long?’ Mary sobbed.
We had no answer to that.
Jerry said, ‘I guess it could be… days… maybe weeks, even.’ He looked at me for confirmation. I didn’t know. He said, ‘We could always lock ourselves in the cell; they couldn’t get at us there.’
‘Weeks…’ I said. ‘What about food? Supplies?’
‘Lord! I never thought of that. We’ll have to get some stuff in here.’
The thought of preparing for a seige was not appealing.
‘They may decide to evacuate…’
‘Yeah, and they may not. We’d better not take a chance… that chance. There’s a shop just down the front.’
‘I think, if we’re going out again, we’d better do it now. This is likely to get worse before it gets better… liable to spread until… well, I’ll go with you.’
‘No, you stay here with Mary.’
‘Nothing I’d like better than not going out there again. But Mary will be safe enough here, with the door barred, and the two of us can carry a lot more. There’s no sense in making more than one forage. And… we can watch each other’s backs.’
‘He’s right, Jerry. I’ll be okay here. Just… don’t be very long.’
‘You sure?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered. Jerry regarded her for a moment, then he nodded.
‘Let’s go,’ he said, and we went.
I stepped deliberately, as if my footfalls were ticking off the moments, punctuating the passage of time. Jerry preceded me through the deserted streets. The low sun blocked sharp patterns on the buildings, as clearly defined as the light in the whitewashed room, but my own shadow dragged reluctantly at my heels, as if cast from a different source — thrown from me by the glow of my fear. A low fog was clinging against the walls and a heavier fog came rolling out from a sidestreet, curling like a cat across Jerry’s boots. He stumbled, as if he’d tripped on the mist. He held his gun at his side, pointing down. I quickened my pace to catch him up and we moved on together. The walk was a hundred yards, no more. It seemed eternal. We met no one.
Mendoza’s Market was a dusty storeroom with shelves and glass-fronted counters stocked with tins of almost everything. The door wasn’t locked. Jerry stood just inside the entrance and shouted for Mendoza, who lived above. There was no response. We looked around the gloomy room.
Jerry said, ‘We should of made us up a shopping list. Well, grab one of these boxes and fill ‘er up with whatever takes your fancy; might as well dine to our taste.’
He began plucking tins from the shelves. I crossed to the other side of the room and began raiding the shelves myself, paying little attention to what I took, just tossing things into a big cardboard box. I didn’t expect we’d have much appetite. The box was quite heavy when it was full; I had to tuck the rifle under my arm and use both hands to lift it. Jerry had filled his box before I finished; he held it easily under one arm. We moved back through the cluttered room, the tins rattling in the boxes. At the door, I paused.
‘How about tobacco?’
‘Why, yes… we might feel the urge to do some smoking, at that. I think Mendoza keeps the tobacco in the counter at the back. Might grab a couple bottles of rum from back there, too; can’t do any harm to have some rum. Might help, even.’
‘I’ll get it,’ I said.
I lowered my box to the dusty floor and stepped to the back of the room. I saw a variety of tobacco, in all forms, in a glass display case. The rum bottles were on a shelf behind. I filled my pockets with tobacco and stepped around the end of the counter… and a white face loomed up from the shadows!
I tried to scream.
My vocal chords rebelled; they stiffened like frozen iron in my throat and only a strangled gasp came from me. I recoiled. The butt of the rifle struck the glass case, shattering it. I distinctly heard each splinter of glass fall out, the tinkling sounds echoed by the rattle of tins as Jerry shifted the box. He was shouting something from the door and I think I was shouting then, too; I know my mouth was open and a rushing filled my ears. I swung the rifle up before me, not aimed as a weapon but crossed against my breast like a crucifix against a vampire.
Jerry shouted again.
‘Move!’ He was advancing towards me along the shelves.
But then I slumped against the broken case, my vitality sucked from me in the deflation of sudden terror. Jerry was behind me, one hand on my shoulder; the other thrust the pistol past me. I could feel the big man tremble. I shook my head. It took great concentration, my skull was heavy, my neck limp. By then I’d realised there was no danger… horror, yes, but no danger. The face had not moved towards me; I had inclined my head towards it as I reached for the rum and the white face had seemed to rise, thrown from the dark shadows as if buoyant from a heavy sea.
The man was dead, spread-eagled behind the counter as if nailed there by his final convulsions.
Jerry let his breath out slowly.
I was hollow. My energy, my life force, my very bones seemed to have been sucked from me into the vacuum of fear. I was still shaking my head — an act of inertia. I had thought the man alive, reaching for me — and I had been unable to flee, had never thought to use the rifle… had waited for his touch…
‘Mendoza,’ Jerry said.
The hand that had been trembling on my shoulder was firm now, solid as a stone, but the hand that gripped the gun had begun to shake as he lowered it.
He moved me aside and leaned over the corpse. He did not touch it.
‘Looks like he might of died of natural causes,’ he said. ‘Heart attack, maybe… he wasn’t young..’
‘Yes, it looks that way.’
Jerry looked at me, face as white as Mendoza’s.
‘Isn’t it remarkable?’ he said. ‘Here and now… a man dying of natural causes… it makes you see that life goes on.’
He paused, wondering if his statement had been absurd… or profound.
‘I never killed anyone,’ he said. Nor had he yet. But the gun was in his hand… he would have; he might have to. He was peering into my face. He said, ‘Harland, do you think these… things… will go to heaven?’
I gaped dumbly at him and he flushed; the question had been genuine.
‘Yes,’ I said. I held no brief for the hereafter, but I said, ‘Yes.’
And he said, ‘I’d like to think so…’
Walking back down the front with the heavy boxes, we met a patrol coming from the other direction. When they saw us they spread out and their rifles came up. They looked terrified — as terrified as we must have looked.
‘Take it easy,’ Jerry snapped.
‘Don’t come too close. Just move on.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘There’s a dead man in Mendoza’s. We don’t know if he’s one of… them… but you’d better send someone to get the body.’
He didn’t look as if he understood.
‘To burn it,’ I said.
‘Oh. Yeah. You just move on.’
We moved on. The patrol turned, watching us. Then they went on in the other direction. When we had come to the jail, I looked back. The patrol had moved on down the street, past Mendoza’s and, as I looked, they turned to the right, inland… towards the compound. I hoped they wouldn’t forget to send a van for Mendoza’s body. I looked out at the harbour. There was some wood floating about, timber and planks, and an oily slick spreading slowly through the water. The swordfish still hung, neglected forever now, on the scales. The grey gunboats passed to and fro across the mouth of the harbour. How long? I wondered. How long would it be?