By Craig Cormick
Chchchchk! Chchchchk! Chchchchk! It's the feeling of a big lever being tightened. Slowly. Painfully. Screwing something into my head.
I open my eyes slowly. And I wish I hadn't. My head aches worse. Chchchchk! One more turn on the lever. One notch further into my brain. Something big and metallic.
I close my eyes. Then slowly open them. Very, very slowly. Bloody hell! No improvement. I try to move my head a little. But it won't move. Then I try to move my arms. Then my legs. Nothing. I look around. Carefully. Everything is dim and blurry. Like peering along a long dark tunnel towards the light of a distant candle. I close my eyes again and count to 10. Slowly.
One — two — three — what did I do to get this headache? — four — five — six — I can't remember doing anything very terrible — seven — eight — nine — and where the hell am I? — 10! I open my eyes. Really, really slowly. I can see a little better. I am lying in a bed. There are things hanging out of my limbs and torso. It looks like my veins and arteries have been pulled out. Then I see the straps. I am tied to the bed. What kind of torture is this? Where the hell am I?
I blink. My vision clears a little more. I can make out the foot of the bed. But it is dim. I can see the things running out of my limbs are attached to devices. Machines. A little further away I can see a glass window. I can see my reflection. Darkly. There is a large metal device bolted to my head. It looks like something is screwed into my brain. Something big and metallic! Chchchchk! Chchchchk! Chchchchk!
"JezuzClist", I say. My mouth doesn't move much. But at least I can talk. "Wodhappenntomee?" Sort of talk.
Then he speaks. From just out of my line of vision.
"Right question. But I'm the wrong person."
I try to turn my head a little. To see him. But it won't move. Bolted down tight. Then he takes a step forward. There is enough light from the rows of red buttons on the machines to make out his features.
He is a small fat man. With a small black beard and moustache. His hair is a little grey. And he's going bald. But he's combed a few strands of hair across the top. Wearing an expensive suit too. Black. Hmmmmm. He must be a lawyer. This is going to be bad.
"Whoareyoo? I ask. "Wodhappenntomee?" He smiles. A gold tooth sparkles. Like they do on TV. Ping! Bright lights.
Then he says, "You died!"
"Di-ed?"
"Well. Technically died", he says. "But they've resuscitated you." He smiles again. Ping! "Unfortunately."
I look him up and down. Really carefully. I don't like his tone of voice. Not at all.
"Wodoyoumean?"
He sighs and sits on the end of the bed. Almost on top of my legs. But I don't feel anything. "Let me explain it again", he says. "You were dead. Now you're not. Modern technology. Horrendous!"
I try to wiggle my toes. I can't see them. Can't be sure if they move. Or not.
"Di-ed?" I say again. "How?" I try to move my toes again.
He shrugs. He doesn't give a rat's arse how I died. Gotta be a lawyer. "Probably a car accident." He looks at me a moment to watch my reaction. "Or maybe a random shooting. That happens sometimes. Or maybe a meteorite fell. Hit you on the head. You know." He shrugs again.
I look around the room once more. Now I know where I am. It is a hospital room. They are tubes attached to my arms and legs. And they are connected to medical machines.
"How?" I ask again. More urgently.
He sighs again. "I'll look on your chart. If it will help." He stands up and walks to the foot of the bed. Walks really, really slowly. I can see he has an attitude problem. He reads the chart in the darkness. "Let me see. Ah, here we are. Yes. Traffic accident. You were a pedestrian. Hit by a truck. It was carrying religious icons."
"Wot?"
"You know. Plastic crucifixes. Glow in the dark hearts of Jesus. Bibles on CD. That sort of thing."
He drops the chart and looks at me. "Unsold merchandise", he says. And he raises one eyebrow. High. As if daring me to challenge what he was said.
But I don't say anything. I try to move my hand. Nothing. I can't even see it clearly. I look up at the glass window. Then I notice that he doesn't have any reflection. I can see myself and the room and the tubes and the machines, but I can't see him. Chchchchk! Chchchchk! Chchchchk!
I look at him carefully. Very, very carefully. He walks back and sits on the bed again. Right on top of my leg. Still no feeling.
"Whoareyoo?" I ask again. Maybe he is worse than a lawyer.
"Death!" he says. That smile. Ping! "But, please, call me Mr Death!"
"Death?"
"Mr Death!" And he holds out his wallet. Shows me his driver's licence. I squint at it. It's a truck driver's licence. It reads, 'Mr Death'. Then he pulls out a credit card. Same name. And then he leans forward and shows me a small lapel badge. It has a long-handled scythe on it. Then that bright smile again. Ping!
I try to move my leg. To pull it out from under him.
"Ithoughtyoowerementobegrimm", I say.
"Gotta keep with the times", he says. "Gotta stay on top of things."
I try to move my leg again. Then my hands. Arms. Thighs. Hips. Anything. Still no go.
"So — ledmegedthisstraight", I say. "Youare — death!"
"Mr Death!" And his smile slowly fades. Until he does look grim. Deadly grim.
"BudI'mnodead."
"No. I'm afraid not."
"Soyoogodagosomewherelz — right?"
"Not quite."
"BudI'mnodead! Look! I'malive!"
Maybe I could move my sphincter. I feel a twinge there when he stares at me.
"A mere technicality. You were dead. I was on my way here to collect you. But when I get here — you are alive. Very unfortunate."
That twinge again. Hmmmmm. Maybe this isn't a good time to be experimenting with my sphincter.
"Sowodareyoogonnado?"
"Well I have to take somebody?" Ping!
"BudI'mnotreadytodieyed. Whynotsumonelz?"
He sighs. Pulls out a small comb. Black plastic. Runs it across his scalp. Pats the few hairs down flat. "All right. I'll tell you what I can do", he says. "I can make you a swap. You can stay here. Alive! As you are now. But you must nominate somebody else. Anybody else. For me to take instead. Right now!"
"Anybodiadall?"
"Anybody."
I think hard. My head hurts too much to think hard. Chchchchk! I need a little bit more time to figure this out. To find some part of me that I can move. "Duzthisortofthinghappenalod?"
"Far too often. They keep bringing people back from the edge. And then I have to barter with them for somebody else's life."
I try lifting my chest a little. I'm breathing. So maybe I can inhale deeply and move it. I watch it rise. But it's hard to tell if I did it or one of the tubes is controlling it.
"I blame medical technology", he says. "No ethics. They don't consult with me about anything. It's a pity, because I normally get such a pleasure out of doing my business."
I look at him. "Sothizhappenzalod?"
"Think about it. How many times have you heard that Boris Yeltsin is near death? His doctors just keep bringing him back each time. And when they do, his political rivals in Chechnya keep dying in his place. But he's rorting the system. I'll get him in the end. Like I got Deng Xiaoping."
I don't know what to say. So I simply nod. But my head doesn't move.
"And as for Mother Theresa", he says. More of a whisper though. "Just between you and me, sudden recovery from death's door, pushes someone along in her place. Who would have thought it?"
"HowlonghaveIgodtodecidethiz?"
"Oh — a minute — or two." Ping! That smile.
"AndifIcandthinkofanyone?"
He just shrugs and picks up one of the tubes leading into my arms. "I wonder what's in this one?" he says. "Probably nothing important." Then he plucks it out. My finger jumps when he does that. I'm sure it did. I try to move it myself. No go.
"O-kay! O-kay!" I say. "Igedthepictcha. Ledmethinkaminute." Just let me think. Chchchchchk!
He reaches over and takes another tube. "This one looks much more interesting."
"Wait! Wait! Whadabout, wodshizname. InBosnia. Karadish! Orwodaboudthejeneral — Mladish?"
"Sorry. You can only choose one." He winds the tube around his fingers, getting ready to pull it.
"Eitherwilldoo. Nodifferensetomee."
"No difference? Are you sure??"
"Woddoyoomean?"
"I can see you're trying to make a moral choice. Very fine. Absolve yourself of blame for the decision. Try to make the world better by your choice. Extra points on the golden slate perhaps?"
"Whadgoldenslate?"
"Ah. I've said too much already!" Then he winds his fingers around the other end of the tube where it connects to the machines. "I wonder if I should pull on this from this end? Or the other end? Do you think it will make any difference?"
I think about that. Very quickly. It hurts my head. But I know what he's getting at. Killing one would really just consolidate the power base of the other. Probably trigger a new Balkan war. Hmmm. Wouldn't look good on the golden slate. This isn't going to be as easy as I thought.
"Okay", I say, "WodaboudBolBot?" I can't think of anybody more deserving than him.
"Who?"
"Bol-Bloody-Bot!"
"Oh, Pol Pot! It's not his real name. You've got to use real names." He straightens the tube, pulling on it slightly, testing it.
"Wellwodshisrealname?"
He looks around the room. As if considering the question. Then he says, very softly, "Saloth Sar."
"Himthen."
"Oh no. You've got to say it."
"SalowthSaar."
"Sorry. He's already dead." Pop. I heard the tube leap out. I felt my whole hand move. A quick clench. "He was Mother Theresa's choice."
He was playing games with me. The bastard! Chess for Ingmar Bergman. Something more sinister for me. Well, what did I expect? Of course he was going to be a bastard. He was Mr Death! I look down at my hand. It looks different. It has moved all right.
Then he glances at his watch and shakes his head a little. He probably doesn't even need a watch. Not really. He just wants to make me sweat a little.
"O-kay. O-kay. Iknow. Wodabout ... Wodabout ... " But I can't think of anybody. Not a single name. I try to think. Chchchchk! Chchchchk! There must be dozens of sonsofbitches out there whose death would benefit the world. But I can't think of any of them. The military leaders of Burma. The death squads in El Salvador. The killers in Rwanda. Dictators in exile. Murderers. Drug barons. Paedophiles. There has to be somebody. I try to concentrate. Try to open up my memory to the dark and evil deeds of humanity. Try to find the name of evil. Just one name!
"Yes?", he asks, fingering a very important looking wire that goes into a bandage somewhere over my chest.
"Wodabout ... Wodabout ... " I look up suddenly from my hand. "Iknow. ThadprickinBellgium. Whokidnabbedthozeyounggirlz."
"Ah yes. Very deserving. And do you happen to remember his name ...?"
"Shid!"
"Ah well." He jerks the wire out of my chest. Now I felt that. I definitely felt that. An alarm starts beeping on one of the machines. He reaches out and grabs another wire. This one goes into the back of my head somewhere. And my hand moves again. Clenches into a fist. And suddenly I have a name.
"Wait! Stob! Iknow!" He looks at me. Eyebrow raised high again. Beep — beep — beep in the background.
I say it slowly. "I-van — Mil-at!" The bogeyman of Belanglo. I should have thought of him straight off.
He nods a little. Then asks, "You sure about that?"
"Posidive." I'd had nightmares about him. I used to hitchhike up and down the Hume Highway. I dreamt he'd caught me one night and had taken me deep into the forest. Driven down the long dark winding tracks. Then there was just the bush. His large face looming over me. Dark rifle barrel pointing at my eyes. And I was paralysed with fear. Quite paralysed.
He stands up. "Well, I'll pop off now. Visit Mr Milat. I expect you'll read about it in the newspapers. Or rather you might get to see it on the TV. If they let you have one in here."
"Juzdaminute", I say. "Youmeanthadsit? Youleavemeandgoand — well — youjuzd ... kill — him?"
"Oh no", he says, smiling, the gold tooth flashing, "You kill him! He was your choice."
I feel my hand move again. Clench a little. Chchchchk! Chchchchk! Chchchchk! Beep — beep — beep!
"Mee?"
"Of course. But don't worry. I'll help you. A little. You only need to do this." He holds up one hand. And then slowly closes the fingers. Clenches them into a fist.
I look down at my own fist. Half closed. And I try to clench it tight. Like a vice. Try to clench it around Ivan Milat's life. Try to squeeze it shut slowly. Try to bend the fingers. But I can't do it.
I imagine his malignant life in my fist. I imagine squeezing it tightly. But I can't do it. Or Radovan Karadzic. Or that Belgian paedophile. Or any evil bastard. But my hand won't move. I can't do it.
Then I look up again. Look into his eyes. Closely. Such dark evil little eyes. The dark eyes from my nightmare. Belanglo black. As dark as the knowledge that it was all a game. The knowledge that I would never be able to close my fist upon someone else's life. And the knowledge that I would never be able to move my limbs again.
It feels that I'm suddenly peering down a long tunnel. Into the darkness. Like a dark bush road at night. Like a long gun barrel.
It hits me somewhere between the eyes. Deep in my mind. A final turn of the vice. Chchchchchchk! The alarm stops.
And Mr Death has stepped in close. Really, really close. Looming over me. Now looking tall and gaunt. And grim. Very, very grim. He's carefully wrapped his fingers around that wire going into my head. Closed his fist around it slowly. And he smiles and says, "Such a pleasure doing business ..."