Ross Thomas - The Seersucker Whipsaw

“You are under arrest,” the Corporal said. His voice held little conviction. He was a gaunt man with hollow cheeks and a forehead that sloped sharply backward and he seemed old for a corporal. His steel-rimmed glasses threatened to mist over in the heat.

“What is the meaning of this?” Akomolo said. He continued to shuffle the papers on his desk.

“You are under arrest; the military has taken over the government.”

“You are a fool.”

“You are under arrest!” This time the Corporal screamed it.

Akomolo picked up a pile of papers, opened the top right- hand drawer of his desk, and put them in carefully as if he wanted to remember exactly where they would be next Thursday morning.

They shot Chief Sunday Akomolo six times while he was going for his gun.

Akomolo had the revolver halfway out of the drawer when the bullets rammed him back into his chair and the chair, with him in it, was slammed against the wall and stopped there only because it couldn’t go any farther. The Corporal had fired his automatic three times. Three of the Privates had fired once. The other three held their Enfields on us.

Akomolo’s eyes were open and there was wonder in them, but he was already dead. The body slumped forward, rested briefly on the desk where it bled over some of the papers that it never got the chance to shuffle and tuck away, and then it fell to the floor. Anne gasped a little. It was the only sound the white folks made.

The Corporal jerked a thumb at one of the Privates who had fired a shot. The Private took a machete from his belt, went behind the desk, and leaned his rifle against the wall. He knelt down behind the desk and the machete flashed up and down several times. I didn’t count how many. It made a wet, smacking sound. He got up with a big grin on his face. His eyes were shining brightly, too brightly. He held Chief Akomolo’s head up and turned it this way and that so we could see it plainly. The Chief’s gold-rimmed glasses were still in place. Outside, we could hear the market women shouting and screaming because of the shots.

The Corporal gestured. “Outside,” he said. “All of you.”

We stood at the ledge of the balcony that ran around three sides of the courtyard. The market women shrieked at each other, pushed and shoved. A few fights broke out. The Corporal took Akomolo’s head from the Private and held it up high, moving it from side to side. Some blood dripped on his uniform. One drop smeared an eye-glass. He didn’t seem to notice.

“The tyrant is dead!” he screamed. The women didn’t hear him. They were too busy screaming themselves. So he yelled it again. Two of the Privates flanked him and grinned down at the crowd. Their grins looked a little mad. I put my arm around Anne and felt her shudder.

Some of the hangers-on from the cocktail party gathered on the fringe of the crowd of women. These were the insatiably curious. The circumspect had fled at the sound of the shots. I could hear engines being started and tires squeal as Chief Akomolo’s supporters remembered previous appointments.

The crowd grew quieter. “The tyrant is dead!” The Corporal bellowed again and moved the head around some more. This time they heard him and they went with the winner. They cheered. The Corporal lobbed the head down into the crowd. One woman caught it, lost it, and caught it again. It started to move from hand to hand, the gold-rimmed glasses askew on the face. Somewhere they fell off. Then the head disappeared and the women kicked it around some like a soccer ball. The Corporal rested his hands on the ledge and beamed down at the game.

The market women had a good time kicking the head around for five or six minutes, but they tired of that and surged towards the balcony where the Corporal struck his pose. They wanted something else to happen. The Corporal said a few words to the Privates who flanked him. They grinned, moved quickly to Anne, grabbed her by the arms, and jerked her over to the Corporal. I lunged after them, but two of the soldiers fastened onto my arms and pinned me against the wall. One of them put the muzzle of his rifle under my chin. I struggled some more and got rapped across the ear with its barrel. Shartelle smacked one of the other soldiers with a roundhouse left that sent the man sprawling, his rifle clattering to the floor. Shartelle was almost to Anne when the other soldiers caught him, threw him to the floor, and pounded their rifle butts into his back.

Anne fought all the way. She bit and she kicked and she cursed. The market women watched in silence as the two soldiers attempted to lift her up over the ledge. “Akomolo’s white witch!” the Corporal yelled and pointed at her. Anne screamed. The women shouted and laughed and held up their arms for her. Their faces formed a dark sea of hate and rage and lust.

The jeep, its horn blaring, roared into the courtyard followed by a Land Rover. The tough-looking Sergeant-Major who drove the jeep fired three shots in the air with a revolver. Sitting next to the sergeant was Major Chuku. The Privates let Anne go and she stumbled towards me. The pair of soldiers who held me let go and moved away. Shartelle groaned, got to his knees, and pulled himself up until he could half-sprawl on the ledge that ran around the balcony.

Major Chuku was in field uniform and carried a swagger stick. Soldiers in full field equipment jumped out of the Land Rover and formed a wedge behind the Major, their rifles at the ready. The Major used his swagger stick to beat his way through the crowd of women. The Sergeant used his feet and fists. They cleared a path and ran up the steps to where the Corporal and his soldiers huddled. The weapons that had killed Akomolo were abandoned on the floor. I held Anne as she shook uncontrollably. I leaned against the wall because I had to, and watched Chuku and his Sergeant-Major run up the stairs. It seemed to take them a long time. Shartelle was still half-lying on the ledge, one of his hands pressed against his back where the rifle butts had struck.

Major Chuku barely glanced at the Corporal and his soldiers.

“Is Miss Kidd all right, Mr. Upshaw?”

“We’re all fine, we’re all just great.”

“Has Mr. Shartelle been injured?”

“I don’t think he has any kidneys left.”

“Where is Akomolo?”

“In his study.”

The Major darted into the small office and came out just as quickly. He shook his head and pounded the swagger stick theatrically into his left palm. It must have meant that he was upset.

“I will offer a formal apology later, Mr. Upshaw. Now I must ask a question. Did they do this?” He made a vague swing of the stick at the six Privates and the Corporal who had been put into a stiff brace by the Sergeant-Major.

“They did it.”

The Major turned to the Sergeant. “Take them over to that wall — there.” He pointed with his stick. “And shoot them. Make the women watch.”

“Sah!” the Sergeant-Major barked and gave Chuku a snappy salute. The thin Corporal fell to his knees when he heard the news and then sprawled on the floor, screaming. The Sergeant kicked him up and shoved him down the stairs. The Corporal fell once more and got kicked up again by the Sergeant. Downstairs in the courtyard the Sergeant gave a brief command to the wedge of soldiers. Six of them detached themselves from the formation and herded the Corporal and his men over to the high wall that surrounded the compound. The women watched.

The Corporal and the Privates didn’t line up against the wall. They just huddled in a bunch. The Corporal was weeping. The Sergeant-Major gave a brief command to his men. They shot the Corporal and the six Privates in a bunch like that while the women watched. Some of the Sergeant’s troops had to fire more than once. The Sergeant then walked over and used his revolver to put a bullet into the head of each man, but they seemed already dead to me.