No.
No, he had to keep fighting.
Suddenly filled with panic, he gripped the chair’s arms and tried to haul himself up, but all his strength was gone now. He tried again, and again, each time struggling more and more until he let out a faint, frustrated groan. All he could think was that he had to complete this one final journey. After that, he could die a satisfied man, but he couldn’t leave this particular task unfinished. Why, anything could happen if the process got out of hand. He gripped the chair tighter and prepared for the final push, for the moment when – despite his pain and fear – he’d force himself up.
And then he felt a hand on his.
He blinked a few times, and finally he saw Mary kneeling before him.
“It’s okay,” she said, with tears in her eyes but sounding so calm and soothing, “you can rest now, my darling. Other men can do your work.”
He opened his mouth to tell her that nobody else knew how the process worked, but he couldn’t get the words out. He could barely even move his lips.
“Hush now,” Mary continued. “I’ll be with you soon enough. Those bodies out there… they’ll find their way. You’ve brought them far enough already. Trust in the world.”
Her smile grew, and then she leaned forward and kissed him on the forehead, and then she was gone.
In that moment, Garrett knew that he was never going to get out of the chair again. He still gripped the sides, but slowly his hands weakened and he allowed himself to slump back, with the blade still running straight through his chest. He tried to take a deep breath, but found that he could not. He tried to open his mouth so that he could offer one final prayer, but this too was impossible. Looking at the window, he tried to imagine what was happening out there right now on the cart, but his thoughts were dissolving. As he slipped away, his last thought was that perhaps the Lord would show mercy in his final judgment. He thought he could smell Mary’s perfume.
I worked only for you, Lord, he thought. It was all for you.
His eyes remained open, even in death.
Twelve
For several minutes, Munver didn’t dare move.
With blood still running from his broken nose, he stood completely still and stared at the back of Garrett’s head. He half-expected the older, larger man to suddenly rip himself up from the chair, to then turn around and rush forward, to dole out a beating of unprecedented savagery. After all, Munver had tried to stand up to bullies before but he’d never had any luck. This time, pure anger had gotten the better of him and he’d been unable to contain his rage; a kind of red mist had clouded his judgment and he’d struck before he could think things through.
Now, as snow continued to fall outside, he was starting to consider the possibility that he’d taken the ultimate revenge.
He began to smile.
Then the smile grew, becoming a wide grin.
Finally, he began to laugh. Not just laugh: this was more of a cackle, the eruption of a long-suppressed frustration. The realization that he, Stuart Munver, had killed one of the pompous assholes who always sneered at him.
Crouching down, his cackle turned into a giggle but then stopped suddenly. How, he wondered, could he be sure that this wasn’t a ruse? He stared at the handle of the knife, still sticking out from the back of the chair. He had no idea how many times he’d stabbed Garrett, but evidently it had been enough times. Then again, he knew better than to assume success. Slowly, then, he began to crawl around to the side of the chair, while taking care to stay a good distance back, and then he looked up and saw Garrett’s dead face with glassy eyes staring straight forward and blood on his chin.
“Are you…”
Munver paused.
“Are you dead?” he asked finally.
He waited.
Garrett’s face didn’t move.
“If you’re not dead,” Munver continued, “you have to tell me. Do you hear? It’s not right to pretend. If you’re not dead, by law you have to admit that. No tricks.”
Again, he waited.
Again, Garrett didn’t move.
Munver paused, trying to think of a solution to his quandary, and then he reached out and grabbed the can that had earlier contained beans. He raised the can and took a moment to aim, and then he threw it forward. The can hit Garrett’s face and then fell away, but once again Garrett didn’t respond at all.
Slowly, cautiously, Munver crawled forward, until he was looking directly up at Garrett’s face. Then he sat up, and then – finally – he reached out and gave Garrett’s shoulder a shove, before pulling back slightly. He waited, and then he allowed himself to believe that he’d actually manage to kill the man who’d beaten him to a pulp. He smiled again, unable to hold back, and then he got to his feet and stepped behind the chair, before grabbing the knife’s handle and giving it a hard, angry twist.
“Enjoying that?” he sneered, leaning down and looking directly into Garrett’s face. “I hope you’re enjoying Hell, Mr. Garrett, because that’s where you’re gonna burn forever. You’re gonna suffer and scream, and while you’re doing that I’m gonna be getting rich. Do you understand? You lost, Mr. Garrett! You lost and I won, and do you know why? It’s because you’re too stupid!”
He twisted the knife yet again, before pulling it out and then stabbing the dead man several more times in the back.
“That’s right,” he continued through gritted teeth, still driving the knife into Garrett. “I bet that doesn’t feel too good, does it? I bet it feels humiliating. Well, it’s exactly what you deserve. You and all those other assholes!”
Once he’d finished twisting the knife, he stepped around the chair and stared down at Garrett’s face for a moment. Then he pulled his fist back and punched the dead man, hitting him several times until suddenly he caught the jaw at an awkward angle. Letting out a gasp of pain, he stepped back and clutched his injured fist, and then he reached down and began to loosen the front of his pants.
“I’ll show you,” he murmured, as his rage continued to grow. “No-one disrespects Stuart Munver. I’ll show you exactly what I think of you.”
After pulling his manhood out, he took aim for a moment and then he began to pee. At first his aim was awry and he shot straight past the chair, but he adjusted and finally he began to hit Garrett’s face. Sneering as he watched the pee splatter against the dead man’s cheek, Munver couldn’t hold back a faint smile as he realized that he was finally taking his revenge. Really, was Garrett that different to men like Walter Graft? They’d both given Munver dirty looks. This was just practice for when he finally got home and gained his revenge on Graft.
“You don’t look so smart now, do you?” he shouted triumphantly. “Who’s the boss? Who’s in charge? Me, that’s who! You’d better believe it!”
Running out of pee, he let the last dribbles fall onto the front of his pants and then he slipped his manhood away, and then he stared at Garrett for a moment. He wanted to degrade the man some more, but he couldn’t really think of anything worse than peeing on him so, finally, he stepped forward and grabbed Garrett’s hand, forcing the fingers open and then taking back the gold coin.
“This is mine,” he explained, “and I’m going to use it to go home and show everyone they were wrong about me. Angelica Graft’ll fall at my feet, she’ll beg me to marry her. I suppose I might, if I’m feeling generous. She’ll have to really beg, though. She’ll have to make me really believe that she means it. I’ll want her to be down on her knees for a while before I’m ready to accept what she’s saying.” He sniffed. “I’m a generous man, though,” he added after a moment. I’m willing to accept her apologies, provided they’re heartfelt, and then I suppose I’ll have to marry her. It’ll only be the right thing to do.”