Ian Rankin - Knots And Crosses

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Then why the hell did you join up?’

‘To get away from home. I didn’t get along with my father, you see. He preferred my kid brother. I felt out in the cold.’

‘I never had a brother.’

‘Neither did I, not in the proper sense. I had an adversary.’

I’m going to bring him out

don’t you dare

This isn’t telling us anything

keep going

‘What did your father do, Johnny?’

‘He was a hypnotist. He used to make people come on stage and do stupid things.’

‘You’re joking!’

‘It’s true. My brother was going to follow in his footsteps, but I wasn’t. So I got out. They weren’t exactly sad to see me go.’

Reeve chuckled.

‘If you put us into a sale, you’d have to say “slightly soiled” on the ticket, eh, Johnny?’

I laughed at that, laughed longer and louder than necessary, and we put an arm round one another and stayed that way, keeping warm.

We slept side by side, pissed and defecated in the presence of the other, tried to exercise together, played little mind games together, and endured together.

Reeve had a piece of string with him, and would wind it and unwind it, making up the knots we had been taught in training. This led me to explain the meaning of a Gordian knot to him. He waved a miniature reef knot at me.

‘Gordian knot, reef knot. Gordian reef. It sounds just like my name, doesn’t it?’

Again, there was something to laugh about.

We also played noughts and crosses, scratching the games onto the powdery walls of the cell with our fingernails. Reeve showed me a ploy which meant that the least you could achieve was a draw. We must have played about three-hundred games before then, with Reeve winning two-thirds of them. The trick was simple enough.

‘Your first O goes in the top left corner, and your second diagonally across from it. It’s an unbeatable position.’

‘What if your opponent puts his X diagonally opposite that first O?’

‘You can still win by going for the corners.’

Reeve seemed cheered by this. He danced round the cell, then stared at me, a leer on his face.

‘You’re just like the brother I never had, John.’ There and then he took my palm and nicked the flesh open with one of his fingernails, doing the same to his own hand. We touched palms, smearing a spot of blood backwards and forwards.

‘Blood brothers,’ said Gordon, smiling.

I smiled back at him, knowing that he had become too dependent on me already, and that if we were separated he would not be able to cope.

And then he knelt down in front of me and gave me another hug.

Gordon grew more restless. He did fifty press-ups in any one day which, considering our diet, was phenomenal. And he hummed little tunes to himself. The effects of my company seemed to be wearing off. He was drifting again. So I began to tell him stories.

I talked about my childhood first, and about my father’s tricks, but then I started to tell him proper stories, giving him the plots of my favourite books. The time came to tell him the story of Raskolnikov, that most moral of tales, Crime and Punishment. He listened enthralled, and I tried to spin it out as long as I could. I made bits up, invented whole dialogues and characters. And when I’d finished it, he said, ‘Tell me that one again.’

So I did.

‘Was it all inevitable, John?’ Reeve was pushing his fingers across the floor of the cell, seated on his haunches. I was lying on the mattress.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I think it was. Certainly, it’s written that way. The end of the book is there before the beginning’s hardly started.’

‘Yes, that’s the feeling I got.’

There was a long pause, then he cleared his throat.

‘What’s your idea of God, John? I’d really like to know.’

So I told him, and as I spoke, lacing my erroneous arguments with little stories from the Bible, Gordon Reeve lay down and stared up at me with eyes like the full moons of winter. He was concentrating like mad.

‘I can’t believe any of that,’ he said at last as I swallowed dry saliva. ‘I wish I could, but I can’t. I think Raskolnikov should have relaxed and enjoyed his freedom. He should have got himself a Browning and blown the lot of them away.’

I thought about that comment. There seemed to me a little justice in it, but a great deal against it also. Reeve was like a man trapped in limbo, believing in a lack of belief, but not necessarily lacking the belief to believe.

What’s all this shit?

Sshhhh.

And in between the games and the story-telling, he put his hand on my neck.

‘John, we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, really close friends? I’ve never had a close friend before.’ His breath was hot, despite the chill in the cell. ‘But we’re friends, aren’t we? I mean, I’ve taught you how to win at noughts and crosses, haven’t I?’ His eyes were no longer human. They were the eyes of a wolf. I had seen it coming, but there had been nothing I could do.

Not until now. But now I saw everything with the clear, hallucinogen eyes of one who has seen everything there is to see and more. I could see Gordon bring his face up to mine and slowly — so slowly that it might not have been happening at all — plant a breathy kiss on my cheek, trying to turn my head around so as to connect with the lips.

And I saw myself yield. No, no, this was not to happen! This was intolerable. This wasn’t what we’d been building up all these weeks, was it? And if it was, then I’d been a fool throughout.

‘Just a kiss,’ he was saying, ‘just one kiss, John. Hell, come on.’ And there were tears in his eyes, because he too could see that everything had gone haywire in an instant. He too could see that something was ending. But that didn’t stop him from edging his way behind me, making the two-backed beast. (Shakespeare. Let it go.) And I was trembling, but strangely immobile. I knew that this was beyond my ken, beyond my control. So I forced the tears up into my eyes, and my nose started to run.

‘Just a kiss.’

All the training, all the pushing towards that final lethal goal, it had all come to this moment. In the end, love was still behind everything.

‘John.’

And I could feel only pity for the two of us, stinking, besmirched, barren in our cell. I could feel only the frustration of the thing, the poor tears of a lifetime’s indignation. Gordon, Gordon, Gordon.

‘John …’

The cell-door burst open, as though it had never been locked.

A man stood there. English, not foreign, and of high rank. He looked in on the spectacle with some distaste; no doubt he had been listening to it all, if not watching it. He pointed to me.

‘Rebus,’ he said, ‘you’ve passed. You’re on our side now.’

I looked at his face. What did he mean? I knew full well what he meant.

‘You’ve passed the test, Rebus. Come on. Come with me. We’ll get you kitted up. You’re on our side now. The interrogation of your … friend … continues. You’ll be helping us with the interrogation from now on.’

Gordon jumped to his feet. He was directly behind me still. I could feel his breath on the back of my neck.

‘What do you mean?’ I said. My mouth and stomach were dry. Looking at this crisply starched officer, I became painfully aware of my own filth. But then it was all his fault. ‘This is a trick,’ I said. ‘It must be. I’m not going to tell you. I’m not going with you. I’ve not given away any information. I’ve not cracked. You can’t fail me now!’ I was shouting now, delirious. Yet I knew there was truth in what he was saying. He shook his head slowly.