Sliced and Diced Page 10

  The courthouse had been built in 1802, two hundred and fifty years ago, and had survived two world wars and an attempted bombing two years ago by terrorists protesting the culling—they'd only succeeded in blowing themselves up, four more people the courts didn't have to worry about. The wooden panelling on the walls of the courtroom was a dark mahogany and made the room feel solemn and yet strangely warm. It felt right that my fate would be decided in a room as old and as grand as this one.

  “Marin Brown,” the Bailiff called. I heard my name through a wall of nervous fuzz in my ears.

  I walked down the stairs and stood in the wooden box, where the Bailiff told me to stand, my legs wobbling under me. I wasn't sure how I'd manage to stand throughout the ordeal. Judge Farris sat on my right, looking down his nose at me. His white wig looked like it dated back to when the court had first been built; it probably itched like hell. His eyes were dark and cold. He probably only had another five years to go before he too was culled. The thought gave me some comfort, but not much. My bladder wanted to go, but I would have to hold it till the end, there would be no recess.

  The Judge banged his gavel a few times, calling the court to order. The wood hitting wood reverberated through my brain and made the hair on my arms stand up. I spotted my brother and sister sitting in the front row. They would speak on my behalf during the proceedings. It was up to them, and the few people who had read my work to convince the judge that my life should be spared. There would be no lawyer to defend me; the few left were too expensive for a poor writer. I would have to argue my own case, fight for my own survival.

  The judge looked over the rim of his glasses and stared down at me from his judgemental height. His beaked nose reminded me of a Dickensian character. I couldn't decide if he looked more like Martin Chuzzlewit or Fagin.

  “Stand up properly, young lady,” Judge Farris said. His voice was hard. “This court has been called to order, and you will stand to attention throughout the proceedings. If you sit at any time I will make my ruling immediately, and it will not be favourable. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, sir,” I choked. My tongue was too thick for my mouth. My brother's neighbours, who were often spectators at trials and had seen Judge Farris in action, had told me that the Judge felt that standing to attention was a point of respect, and failure to do so was to demonstrate contempt. He'd once made a pregnant woman stand for several hours before declaring that she had to have an abortion. It had been her third child, and unless she was prepared to have one of her other children culled, she would have to get rid of her latest addition. He had also declared that if she didn't start practising safe sex, she, too, would be culled.

  “Would those who are here to speak for this woman stand?” Judge Farris instructed. My sister, brother, a few fellow writers, and a couple people I didn't know, stood. Together, they didn't even fill up half of the front row. There had been a public announcement letting people know about my trial, the usual notification that went out for all trials, asking anybody who knew me to show up and speak on my behalf. Notifications, however, were only sent out the day before the trials.

  “Your testimony must be completely accurate. If you are found to commit perjury, your status will be called into question and you will find yourself in the dock. Is that clear?” The judge instructed.

  The witnesses for my defence nodded in unison. My stomach fell a few notches. Nobody would lie for me or exaggerate my usefulness—I wasn't worth dying for.

  “You,” the judge pointed at my brother, his short, cropped blond hair, calloused hands, and deep tan screamed that he spent many hours working the land, “step forward.” Jason took a few tentative steps closer. “Come closer,” the judge commanded. “Stand where I can see you properly.” Judge Farris leaned forward in his seat. “Who is this woman to you?” The judge asked.

  “She's my sister, Your Honour,” Jason replied.

  “Besides being your sister, is there a reason she should be allowed to continue to exist in our midst?”

  “Y... Yes, Your Honour,” Jason stammered. “She's a very talented writer, she helps my wife with our child, and she cooks really well, and she pays us rent when she can.”

  “Did you get permission to have this child?” The judge asked with a furrowed brow.

  “Y... Yes, Your Honour.” Jason's face turned white. The implication in the judge’s question was obvious. If he didn't have permission, his son's life would be forfeit.

  “And your sister stays with you?” Judge Farris raised his eyebrow.

  “Yes, Your Honour. She used to stay with our mother and looked after her, but when Mom was culled, my sister moved in with me and my wife. We needed help with our baby because our nanny was culled.”

  “Why was your nanny culled?”

  “She was classified as being poor breeding stock, but as you can see my sister is from very good breeding stock.”

  “Is she?” The judge looked over at me. I felt his eyes roving over every inch of me, judging me, looking for imperfections—they wouldn't be hard to find. My slightly crooked teeth and pale blue eyes, indicative of eventual bad eyesight, were painfully obvious. Even though I didn't need glasses, my eyesight was not perfect and the judge would most certainly use it against me. Then there was my broken nose too, which I'd broken when I was six while trying to prove that I could climb a tree just as well as Jason.

  “You may be seated.” My brother was dismissed. His testimony hadn't lasted as long as I thought it would. At this rate, my trial wouldn't even last an hour. I had a feeling the judge had already made up his mind.

  He then called up my sister, Iris, to testify. She looked every bit the teacher, but unlike me, her eyesight was perfect. She and Jason both had brown eyes, the same as our mother. I'd inherited our father’s blue eyes and poor eyesight. Her testimony was even shorter than my brother’s. He asked her only one question. “Does your sister make enough money from her writing to support herself or is she a burden on your brother and you?”

  My sister looked like a doe caught in the headlights.

  “She's not a burden, Your Honour,” Iris finally managed to say. “She pays her own way.”

  “Does she?” Judge Farris leaned further forward and eyed my sister over his glasses. Iris took a step backwards. Her lower lip shivered, usually a sign that she was about to cry.

  “Dismissed,” the judge said, and sounded bored. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. “Next,” he said without looking to see who would be speaking for me. I didn't recognise the man who stepped forward. He wore an old tweed jacket and looked like a university professor.

  “Have you read this woman's work?” the judge asked.

  “Yes,” the stranger said.

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Would you buy anything else she wrote?”

  “I think so, yes,” the stranger said looking at me and smiling. I tried to smile in return, but my face didn't cooperate.

  “Dismissed.” The judge then looked at the handful of people still standing. “Are the rest of you all here to give similar testimony?”

  They all nodded in reply.

  “So noted. I'll stipulate for the record that the remaining witnesses all stated the exact same thing as the previous witness.” The Judge banged his gavel when audience members started to chatter amongst themselves at his decision. The stenographer typed out his stipulation. His decision recorded for posterity. “Looks like I'll make my tea time after all.” The judge sounded pleased with himself.

  “May I object to that ruling, Your Honour?” I asked, my voice just above a whisper.

  “No, you may not.” Judge Farris banged his gavel again. “I'm ready to deliver my verdict.”

  “But I haven't had a chance to defend myself,” I said, my voice rising above the sound of the gavel.

  “I have made my decision and there's nothing you can say that will change your fate. You are a burden on your family. You are not prolific enough o
r good enough to compete with other high calibre writers. There is not room in our society for yet another mediocre author. I therefore sentence you to death. You will be sent from here to your place of execution. There will be no reprieve.” The Judge banged his gavel.

  My sister collapsed in a hysterical heap. My brother stared at me, his mouth open in shock.

  “Bailiff, take her away.” I heard the Judge’s words as though from a distance. My skin tingled on my face and I desperately needed to go to the toilet, but I refused to embarrass myself. I promised myself that I would be culled with some dignity.

  We'd all heard the stories of how some people carried on when they were led away, the hysteria. I would leave that to my sister. I squared my shoulders and allowed the bailiff to lead me out. There was a part of me that still clung to some small hope that the judge would change his mind, that he'd realised he'd made a mistake, but I knew those hopes were futile. The judge never changed his mind.

  I would be dead before sunset.

  There was a short queue waiting for the executioner in the holding cell. There were three trials every day, of which two, at least, ended with a death sentence. It didn't happen often that one of the judges allowed someone to carry on existing, especially Judge Farris.

  Another woman waiting to be culled sat in a corner, sobbing. She had paint splatters on her clothes. From the way she was dressed, she looked to be an artist. I sat down next to a man who stared at a spot on the wall opposite us. There was nothing remarkable about him. He was dressed in a simple, cheap suit. His shoes were cracked and looked more plastic than leather. He rocked himself slowly. The shock of where he was and what was about to happen to him was stamped on his face. I probably wore the same shocked look.

  Two men in uniform came into the holding cell. They headed straight for the woman in the corner and dragged her out. I heard her scream as they took her down the passage towards the chopping block. Next would be the man sitting next to me. I would be the last of the day. The executioner would take a break between each of us; apparently chopping people’s heads off is hard work. Two hours later, they came for him. He went quietly. He hadn't said a word while we waited and he was silent when they culled him.

  When they come for me, I try to stand, but my legs betray me. One of them helps me to stand and I thank him. My mother taught me to be courteous. I thank them again for helping me to walk, with some dignity, to the execution chamber.

  The chopping block is a huge piece of black granite with a hollowed out bit where I place my head. They tried to wash away some of the blood from the previous two victims, but they missed a few spots. The site of the blood makes the little bit of food I managed to get into my stomach before my trial travel back up my throat, I swallow it back down. I hate that I will die with the taste of bile on my tongue. It's rather rude that they didn't even give us a last meal.

  The executioner stands with his axe resting on his shoulder. The blade looks sharp enough. I hope he'll be able to do it with one blow. He looks strong enough. I kneel and place my head in the hollow. I'm grateful that they didn't allow any family members to attend. It's a private matter. It's just between me, the executioner, and whatever god I believe in. Only problem is I'm not sure any god exists.

  Well...I'm about to find out.

  The Violin

  It was the ninth and final night. Tonight the Black Man was supposed to show himself. She'd done everything the old woman had told her to do. She'd buried a picture, at the crossroads, of herself holding her Grandmother's violin. She'd buried it on the first night of the full moon. Magda had slaughtered a chicken and buried its heart with the photograph. She'd even bled on it while saying the words; those weird words that had felt strange on her tongue. The cut on her thumb still looked angry. It was healing slower than it should and would leave a nasty scar.

  On the first night, a giant, pitch black, dog had crossed the intersection. The poor thing had looked emaciated. On the second night she'd brought some food for the dog. It lay under a tree, waiting for her. It had growled when she approached, but stopped the moment she threw the raw steak at it. The dog sniffed it and then ate it without any complaints. She'd fed the dog every night since then. Tonight she'd brought raw chicken drumsticks. It no longer growled at her, but wagged its tail. At least something was happy to see her. No one else ever was.

  The violin felt alien in her hands. She'd carried it with her every night and it still didn't feel like it belonged to her, or that it was a part of her. Her grandmother had been a solo violinist for the London Philharmonic Orchestra. She'd travelled the world and had wanted Magda to follow in her footsteps, only Magda hadn't had the gift. She would practice till her fingers bled, but could never reach perfection. She was good, but not great. She had a job playing third chair in the orchestra at the Pretoria State Theatre, but the money she earned doing that only paid the rent for a tiny flat in one of the worst parts of town. To earn extra money she played at Burgundy’s Café in the Brooklyn Mall. The tips were only enough to pay for a cup of coffee. Her lack of talent made her desperate and the desperation clung to her like an old, wet, blanket. The stink of it kept everybody at bay.

  She felt the dog watching her as she placed the violin on her shoulder, her chin rested gently on top. Her fingers felt like thick sausages as she placed them on the strings. She held the bow gently in her left hand. Her arm felt like overcooked spaghetti and the sounds that escaped from the instrument sounded like she'd strangled a cat. With a howl of frustration, she stopped playing. The dog stared at her, its strange black eyes seemed to see right through her. Magda blinked and looked away. She couldn't even keep eye contact with a stray dog. How pathetic could she be, she chastised herself.

  Out of the corner of her eye she noticed a shimmer of movement. The air crackled with electricity. The dog no longer lay under the tree. It walked towards her. She stared, with unbelieving eyes as the dog walked on two legs. Its matted fur turned into a black suit. Her breath caught in her throat as the dog turned into a man. A tall, thin, black man, wearing a top hat. His skin wasn't the normal dark brown; it was as black as the night sky, and as smooth as a baby’s. He was ageless. His eyes were also completely black and she could barely see them in his face.

  Even though she'd gone to the trouble of summoning him, a part of her had not believed that he would show up. A part of her had thought that he was just an old-wives tale, that he wasn't real. That part of her was now completely destroyed. Sinking to her knees, she whispered a prayer.

  “God has no place here.” His voice sent shockwaves through her soul. “Give me the instrument.”

  Magda felt her eyes drifting up to him and her arms moved on their own, giving him her grandmother's violin. The hair on the back of her neck prickled and her heart thumped a scared and excited tune. It was really happening. He was really standing in front of her. She wanted to throw up, but managed to swallow the urge. He placed the instrument on his shoulder and cupped his chin on it. The bow glided over the strings, producing sounds that made her weep. She envied him, just as she envied every other talented violinist she'd ever heard. He played with passion and every note was perfect. He played the way she could only dream of playing. Time stood still and the moon stopped its passage across the sky.

  When he stopped playing, he handed the violin back to her.

  “You have seven years to make the most of the gift I'm giving you. Seven years to live your dream. At the end of those years, you must come here, to this very spot, at midnight, and play for me. You will give back the gift you have received this night. Do you understand?”

  Magda nodded.

  “If you are not here at the appointed time, I will come for you and your soul. Do you understand?”

  Magda nodded again, her voice unable to cooperate.

  And with the terms issued, he disappeared, swallowed up by the night.

  For the first time in her life the violin felt right in her hands. In the middle of the crossroads, she placed t
he violin on her shoulder and played it as she’d never played it before. For the first time the music she made sounded right to her ears. For the first time every note was played perfectly.

  She had seven years and was going to make the most of them. She also had seven years to figure out a way to trick the black man into extending his gift. As she walked home, playing her violin, an idea started to form. Just a ghost of an idea. She had time. And for now, her soul was still her own and it would stay that way, no matter what she had to do. She would find a way.

  Trapped

  Hey you! Yes, I'm talking to you. Don't pretend you don't see me. There is no way you could possibly miss a woman locked in a box in the middle of a field. You're not completely blind are you? Please don't just walk away. I need your help. Come a little closer. I won't hurt you. Can't you see I'm trapped in here?

  Okay, I can see from your expression that you think this is some sort of hoax. There are no hidden cameras. No one's going to jump out from behind a bush and scream “surprise”. Have a look around; it's just you and me. Yes, I feel it too. It feels like we're being watched, but I'm sure it's nothing. Please just get me out of this thing. Sorry! I shouldn't have yelled at you. I'm a little frustrated. Being locked in a box for a night and all day will do that to a girl. They've all gone. Packed up and left in the middle of the night like something was chasing them. Hopefully whatever was chasing them isn't here. Don't worry. I'm sure it's not.

  Those freaks from Dark's Carnival left in such a hurry they left this field scarred by their caravan wheels. It'll take the earth a while to recover from their destruction. And that godawful smell, in case you're wondering, is elephant and horse shit. It'll be dark soon and if I don't get out of here before then something terrible is going to happen to me. Don't pull that face. This is no joke. I'm being serious. Look, I'm still not sure how it happened or why she did this to me. I didn't insult her, or at least I don't think I did. Did I? Okay, so I might have told her that her tarot reading was the biggest load of crap. And maybe I did freak out a little, but if she'd told you the things she told me, you would also have freaked out. Anybody would. I'm not some homicidal demon stuck in human form. The woman is clearly off her rocker. Tarot readings are supposed to be fun. They're not supposed to be all gloom and doom, are they? I'd never had one before. Have you?