In Purgs

By Andy Hamilton

The blind man hurls a lopsided stone into the lake, unsettling the one legged heron in the grey shallows. Beside him on the wooden mooring, the man-on-the-street sits cross-legged, head bowed, enveloped by his dark trench coat.

            “There’s rain coming,” says the blind man, in a salivating monotone. He takes a second stone from his trouser pocket and examines it forensically between his worn fingertips. “I said… rain coming.” He swings his arm wildly, the stone spiraling carelessly onto an upturned log before finding the water with an unsatisfactory plop. “You’d best put on your cap. There’s a rain coming. I can see it.”

            “You can see it?” spits the man-on-the-street. “You?”

            “I can see the light changing. And I feel the warmth going from the air.”

            “Ha,” says the man-on-the-street. “You have no eyes to see and no sense to understand. Look, I’m already wearing my cap. See?”

            The blind man turn away from the man-on-the-street. “I can see no cap,” he says in a hushed voice. “I am blind.”

The blind man sits on the edge of the mooring, dangling his naked feet just above the grasp of the dark waters. He takes a small notebook from his coat, scribbles on a page, and returns it quickly to his pocket. Crawling on all four, the man-on-the-street scuttles behind him, breathing heavily.

            “What did you write?” he asks, wafting wet air into the blind man’s ear.

            “Nothing. Nothing at all, just marking the time.”

            “Lie to me again and I’ll slit your throat,” growls the man-on-the-street.

            “I didn’t. I wont. I’m just marking the day and time. It’s evidence.”

            “Evidence? Evidence of what?”

            “Evidence that we are here. It’s a record, a document to mark our suffering.”

            “You’re a fool,” says the man-on-the-street. He slaps the blind man around the back of the head.

            “I just want justice. That’s all.”

            “Justice! Ha! There is no justice in Purgs. Not unless you’re ready to kill for it or to die for it. Are you ready to die?”

            The blind mind shakes his head and moves from the edge of the water.

The blind man kneels in the centre of the mooring, scratching at the wooden boards with a small rock. Fresh darkness has invaded from the lake. The man-on-the-street lies flat on his back, his eyes searching for companions in the new forming stars.

            “We could start a fire?” offers the blind man, his head rising from his labour.

            “The wood is too wet. It will not burn.”

            “What if we had matches and some petrol?”

            “That would help, certainly. Do you have matches and some petrol?”

            “No.”

            “Nor do I.”

            “Right. What will we do then?”

            “We will scrape with the rock,” snaps the man-on-the-street.

            The blind man returns to his work, swinging the rock in large, un-aimed spirals. He stops. “What will happen when we finish?”

            “Finish?”

            “When the scraping is done?

            “When the scraping is done, then we’ll be free.”

            “Free,” says the blind man. He elongates the word, allowing each letter to ring out in the heavy evening mist. “Free.” He gets to his feet. “But when the wood is gone, what will keep us dry?”

            “We will be free,” says the man-on-the-street.

The blind man huddles in the centre of the mooring. Great slabs of rain fall all about him as his rocks back and forth.

            “What’s the matter, dolt,” shouts the man-on-the-street.

            “I’m… I’m afraid of the dark,” says the blind man.

            “But you’re blind? It’s darkness all the time for you.”

            “I know,” cries the blind man. He begins to weep.

            “Stop it!” shouts the man-on-the-street, slapping him about the face and neck. “Stop it, stop it now.” He punches him hard in the kidneys.

              “Oooh,” says the blind man, all the air leaving his body.

            “See what I did,” says the man-on-the-street. “See what I did for you.”

            “I’m dying,” says the blind man, gasping for air.

The blind man stands on a wooden ladder on the edge of the mooring. He holds his hand in a half solute above his eyebrows, shielding his face from the rising sun.

            “What do you see now, blind man,” mocks the man-on-the-street.

            “I can see water. Nothing but cold, dark water.”

            “Humm,” says the man-on-the-street. “You know, four people once managed all the water on this lake. Four people, and I knew all of them.”

            “You knew them. But then maybe they could help, maybe there’s a way.”

            “There is no way,” snaps the man-on-the-street. “Unless you’re ready to kill or to die.”

            “You’re right. I’m sorry,” says the blind man. “I forgot myself. I’ve been…” He descends the ladder slowly, heavy feet labouring over each wet step. The blind man flops on to the mooring, his hands clasped on either side of his head. “How long have we been here?” he asks. “How long have we been in Purgs?”

            The man-on-the-street does not answer.

           

The blind man stands in the centre of the wooden mooring. Hands on his hips, he breathes in great gulps of fresh, cold air. In the shallows below, the heron has returned to its nest.

-ENDS-

Nasturtium

By Andy Hamilton 

He walks to the window slowly, dragging polished shoes across the cold tile floor.

         “It’s been so…” he offers, working the blinds with his knotted fingers, “unexpected. More like April than November really. Not a bad day for it, as days go.”

         A shaft of white light enters the room.

         “You’d enjoy the Nasturtiums this year,” he says, shielding his eyes against the sunshine. “They’ve been sending out waves of new buds. It’s like they haven’t realised it’s winter. They’re fierce this year, or foolish. I can’t tell. But you’d like them.”

         He turns slowly, opens his mouth and closes it again.

         “Mary won’t be coming,” he blurts. “She can’t. She’s so busy and I think she’s… well, you know how busy she is. You understand, I’ll tell her you understand.”

         With slow, deliberate footsteps he walks to the bedside. Creaking, he bends and kisses her on the forehead and then, after a moments, on the lips.

         “I miss you,” he whispers.

         He rights himself and pauses thoughtfully before making his way to the door. A thin smile forms on his lips.

         “You would have loved those nasturtiums.”

After Rubicon

By Andy Hamilton 

         “Off... Off!”

         She looks ahead blankly. Silently. His orders, barked from the far corner of the room, do not penetrate her numb shock.

          “Turn it off,” he shouts.

         “What?” she replies at last.

         “Turn. The TV. Off.” His words are slow and cold. “You heard them," he continues. “We have twenty minutes, that’s it. So just turn it off.”

         “But there might be more... Something we could do... something...,” she says in a sudden flurry. “Or maybe the Russians or the Chinese might do something?”

         “Nobody is gonna to do anything. You know that. Just turn it off.”

         She looks at him for a long, silent moment, lifts herself from the couch and walking to the large television in the corner of the room. A red box in the corner of the screen is flashing 18.54, 18.53, 18.52… She presses the large square button on the side of the television and holds it as fire and light flashes across the screen. There a click, and the image shrinks slowly to a single dot, that lingers for a moment in the centre of the screen and then dissolves.

         All is silent.

         “I can’t believe this is happening,” she says as she half-runs, half-falls back to the couch.

         “It’s those fucking governments,” he spits, from his seat in the opposite corner. “Those bastards. They God-dam think they’re God or something.”

         “Oh stop it. Just... I don’t want to hear anymore. What does it matter anymore?”

Her face is plunged deep into a damp cushion. He stands over her, his eyes searching the room wildly. Looking for something… anything. The room is filled with muffled screams.

         “What about them?” she says, nodding towards the sitting room door. “We should wake them. We should let them know.”

         “Wake them? No. Why should we? No. That wouldn’t do any good.”

         “They deserve to know. They are part of this world. They deserve something.”
          “Let them be... the deserve to be spared all of this.”

         She tries to stand but he grabs her tightly on both shoulders.

         “You want them to come to you,” he says. “You want them to put their hands around your neck and tell you that they’re scared. You want to comfort them.”

         “And what’s wrong with that?” she shouts. “They are my children. What is wrong with loving my own children…”

         She stands up quickly, breaking his failing grip.

         “They don’t deserve this,” he pleads. “Just let them sleep.” His hand goes to his forehead. “Oh God,” he says. “We don’t deserve this.”

A minute later he is lying flat on the sitting room floor, this arms outstretch, his body formed into the shape of a crucifix. She is pacing the room.

         “Water!” she shouts, and jumps over his motionless body.
         Quietness takes him. Lying on the hard floor, staring at the whiteness of the ceiling, his mind empties. He can see brown fields and scorched mountains, grey cities with no people in them. He is the world, and the world is utterly empty.

         A noise enters his dream. He springs up suddenly, gasping for air. The bathroom, the shower, the children.

         “What are you doing?” he shouts, pulling back the shower curtain. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

         “Water,” she says. She gulps down mouthfuls of the off-white liquid. “Water. If we can get enough water, maybe we can get through this. Maybe we can…”

         “We’re not getting through this,” he says through gritted teeth.

         “If we drink enough water me might be okay. Maybe we can…”

         “We’re not getting through this. Nobody is getting through this. Do you hear me?”

         She spits out a large mouthful of water. It lands on his chest, wetting his shirt and his trousers. She starts to cry.

They walk slowly to the bedroom door.

         “Ready?” he asks, reaching for her hand.

         “I’m ready.”

         He pushes the door gently open. The light from the hallway revealing two tiny children, their bodies pressed snugly together, in the centre of a large double bed. They remove their wet cloths and climb silently into the bed, one on either side of the sleeping children.

         “Good night,” she says, as she closes her eyes.

         He does not answer.