Seventeen

The thought of a criminal like Iskra with all his years in hand of grifting and whoring was galling to me. He could go sailing out each day with only the thought of improving his business; his every act premeditated against the law whereas I should dismiss any countenance of another appeal. My crime was of a different category. I gave myself the pleasure, indeed the right, to think of the alternative. Of my appeal as a stunning victory, a dismissal snatched from the jaws of defeat. The trouble then was to calm myself from the sudden onrushing joy that swept through my body and danced on every nerve. It even brought tears to my eyes. I had to bring my thoughts to heel for even contemplating this possibility. There were many hurdles to be ridden. In the final analysis the consummation of the Judge’s order would be no consolation. When I had succeeded in a curious settling down after the euphoria, I gained a good hour of peace as if I had returned from a hearty swim.. It was in these moments post exertion, that all the time you make suddenly shines clear before you. You can’t lose sight of anything that you don’t understand. I refused to see either judge or the holy man. Both made their way to my door together with a couple of squirming prison officers. They twist even more in the face of death. I was lying down and the morning rain had gone. We were in for a patch of sunlight. I could see the clouds scudding along a blue ridge and felt warm. I refused their plea. My lawyers dance was enough for me. It showed the whole crazy business for what it was. What was the use of putting it off. I was two cards down and the rope might still slip but it there might be a small trick yet, a candle lit small hope. I heard the knock on the door. I turned my face to the wall. They both murmured nonsense to me. I did not respond. One of the guards came over to shake me. I lay rigid and turned away. ‘Don’t beat him’ the judge said They departed as they had come, in murmurs. Then I did something I had not for quite a while, I thought of Mo. He had not written apart form that one cursory letter that attempted to explain his actions. ‘We were criminals before the law and before your actions that day,’ he wrote. He did not want to be associated, neither by sex nor deed with a condemned man. He might be ill now, or dead, slaughtered by my friends who found his betrayal too much to bear in the heat and nervous stench of the court room. He said he had to speak the truth.