– For you, mate, he says.
I gulp. The words won’t come.
– When I thought it was me that was for the chop… well, I was planning to leave you all my stuff. You know, the tat Jacko sent. The Egyptian scroll thing, and the terrier. Even the rhino dropping.
I glance at the fibrous block, light as a piece of popcorn, like a home-made loaf sitting there squat on the shelf. That faint organic smell.
– Well, instead, he says, now that it’s you, going to – you know. Well, I thought you might like – well. A thing to say goodbye with.
I’m so moved I can’t speak for a moment, so I just take the blindfold, and hang it round my neck.
– I’ll… do it justice, I tell him. And the chess set…
But my voice wobbles and I have to cough. Enough said. He knows. Next thing, we’re hugging. A big heavy man’s hug, slapping each other’s back. It goes on for a while – and then we split apart, embarrassed. But we’re both smiling like a couple of idiots, glad that it happened. There’s some silence after that, as we blow our noses on bog paper and mull things over.
– Which would you prefer, says John. Being force-fed live tapeworms or having your whole face stuffed in a red-ant heap, eyes open?
– Well, it’s apples and oranges, that one, I reply, trying to sound cheery. But if I apply my mind to it, I’d have to say –
I was going to say the ant heap, but I break off in mid-flow. Because bam, it’s hit me like a whacking great sledgehammer between the eyes!
– Jesus! I yell. How could I have been so stupid? The rhino shit! A stool investigation! How could I have missed it?
In St Placid, Tilda holds her breath and bears televisual witness to the sombre but exciting scene being enacted on the upper deck of the Sea Hero and relayed live, complete with a little clock on the bottom left showing the minutes ticking by. There have been pictures of Harvey Kidd’s face everywhere lately. An éminence grise, is the caption in this morning’s paper. He chews the printed word, apparently; that’s why he’s grey. You wouldn’t think it to look at him, but he’s the one behind some of the Hoggs’ most daring economic atrocities. There was even a graph illustrating all his dealings on the stock exchange; he bought and sold –
Oh. It’s starting.
There’s a drum-roll, and on to the deck of the prison ship Sea Hero steps the Captain himself. He waves to the crowd, and then there’s another drum-roll, and Harvey Kidd’s daughter and ex-wife appear, both in mourning: the younger woman in a black trouser suit and dark glasses, her mother in a black dress and a veil. There’s a man with them; Tilda’s read about him too; he’s Gwynneth Kidd’s new husband, who’s come to give moral support. He’s in dark glasses and a sombre suit. Perhaps aware that he is only on the edge of the family, he stands a little back from the women, his hands clasped behind his back, his blond head sombrely bowed.
Tilda watches, entranced. She’s got some dim sum all ready to microwave but she’s glued to her chair. Another drum-roll and a door opens on to the deck. The prisoner appears, led by a chipmunk-faced guard.
Harvey Kidd, grey-faced, blinks in the light.
My head’s spinning. I can’t believe the size of the crowd, a throbbing packed mass, shoulder to shoulder. There must be thousands down there. As I raise my head to take in the spread of it, a massive jeer buckles out from the throng, a rushing throaty sound. They’re yelling and whistling and shrieking, their words cargoed with loathing, their tiny faraway faces distorted with hate.
No question about it; they want me dead.
– The sweet sound of democracy, murmurs Fishook. Justice must be seen to be done, Voyager. The customer’s demanding it, see?
Beyond the bunting and coloured smoke I see the giant Ferris wheel doing a slow, mocking turn, the tiny figures in its clinging pods straining to gawp.
Rigged to the far end of the longest jetty there’s a massive screen, showing flickering scenes from the crowd. My heart’s jumping about this way and that, a rogue organ come loose inside my chest. I can’t think straight. I can’t see straight, either, because when the screen suddenly fills with something moonlike and grey, with blobby craters and weird protuberances, I don’t get what it is. The jeering gets louder, angrier. Then something twists inside me and I realise. The grey thing is a human face. Mine.
– Smile, Handsome, says Fishook. You’re on TV.
In her tilting apartment, the Vanillo bottle by her side, Tilda Park sits rapt as Craig Devon continues his hushed live commentary: This is Harvey Kidd’s daughter Tiffany…
Tilda watches the big girl. She’s the shape of a lumbering caravan. She steps forward and offers her father a fumbling embrace.
It’s a poignant moment for her, of course. She’s one of many people who’ve had to take the difficult but brave decision to Hotline their own parents…
Tilda sips her Vanillo. Stares, trembling, as the camera zooms in on Tiffany Kidd who looks miserable and scared. She’s shaking, and there’s a pretzel stuck to her collar like a brooch. Her eyes are red from crying. Poor girl, thinks Tilda. It can’t have been easy.
– Tiffany, mumbles Harvey Kidd. He’s trying to smile, you can tell. But it isn’t working; his grey moon-face twitches and his eyes skid about not settling on anything.
And this is his ex-wife, Gwynneth Kidd…
The smaller of the two women takes Kidd’s hand. You can’t see her face because it’s covered by a veil. I’d do the same in her shoes, thinks Tilda. How else could you cope with the shame?
– Gwynneth, says Kidd. The name reverberates around the dock. – It was… kind of you to come. His voice wobbles.
– A pleasure, she musters. Her voice is wobbling too. It’s a ghastly moment – almost too intimate for television, really, if such a thing’s possible. Tilda gulps.
– Well, er. Goodbye, Gwynneth, says Kidd. His grey face is turning a shade paler and he’s sweating. – All the best.
Then Gwynneth backs off, to be consoled by her new blond husband. You can’t see his face very well behind the dark glasses, but he looks quite a catch. Familiar, somehow, too, thinks Tilda – but she can’t place him, and now the shot has changed back to Captain Fishook who is ushering the condemned traitor towards the raised platform by the prow. It’s a small space, the size of a boxing ring. The chair in the middle. When they reach the fenced entrance, Fishook takes Kidd’s arm, like the father leading the bride.
Quaking with a terrible anticipation, Tilda pours another Vanillo and takes a deep swig.
A hush descends, flattening itself like a thundercloud on a prairie as Harvey Kidd sleepwalks his way to the electric chair and sits. On the dockside, the crowd jostles to look at the giant screen which shows his face, blank with shock and fright. A fat woman has brought her own step-ladder and she’s bustling to erect it. Others have binoculars, and are trying to focus on the deck itself.
There’s no padding, of course, murmurs Craig Devon in the hushed whisper reserved for snooker commentary. We see here the functional arm-rests with clasps, and the straps there with leads emerging. Note too, the microphones at head height… Ah, as you see, Kidd is now reaching for his blindfold, hand-crafted, apparently, by his cabin-companion… now here comes the ship’s doctor, Manolis Pappadakis, originally from Greece…
Dr Pappas’ gentle voice seems to come from far away, but he’s right next to me.
– Now please, Voyager, we will roll up your sleeves and I can apply the jelly, he whispers. For conductivity.