Liz Mistry - Last Request

I fast forward the first bits to get to the main event. It’s always the last bit that shows their mettle. I could watch them all again and again – makes binge watching take on a whole new meaning. I settle into my routine, whisky in hand, settled on the only comfy chair in the room and watch as the scene unfolds. My voiceover begins.

Time in captivity: six days, one hour and twenty-five minutes. Note how our captive has deteriorated.

The past days have not been kind to her. Her own fault, of course. If she’d been worthy, she’d have been allowed to proceed with her life. Observe as the shadowy figure enters from the gloom and hovers behind the specimen. It’s the captive’s reactions that are so intriguing. Her hands are tied and clasped in her lap, with rope binding her chest to the death chair, so her responses are restricted. However, take note of how her right leg judders up and down, up and down. As she nears the end, she holds her head high, stares at the blinking light, eyes dull, yet focused. A fascinating study of the human meeting his maker.

Note how the wounds across her chest have scabbed and crusted. Each one at a different stage of repair, each bearing testament to her valiant struggle to prove her worth. She lasted well. Tried so hard – harder perhaps than the rest. She has surpassed all the others before her – yet still she has failed. More than seventy cuts – one for each failure. So many opportunities, so many failures. If it wasn’t so necessary, I’d almost feel sorry for her. Note how she, unlike those who have gone before, has carried herself with dignity. Pride – spirit even. We’re in the home stretch. Watch and learn. Bear witness, for you are privileged to be party to this.

As the camera zooms in, focusing on the captive’s face before cutting away to sweep downwards, we see despair etched across her forehead in rivulets of blood and sweat. Visible as we pan down over her body are each of the punishments she has endured and yet, still, she is unable to justify her entitlement … or indeed her inability to fulfil her potential. One is bad enough, the two together are unforgivable.

Watch as the figure, like a bird of prey, circles the captive female, prodding her on the thigh with a live cattle prod. The captive’s response is sluggish, her groan half-hearted, a sure indication that her strength is dwindling. Alas, my dear audience, I feel her time with us will be short. However, pay attention to her final moments, as she is challenged for one last time. I guarantee, you will not regret your dedication.

‘Look at the camera. You have proven time and time again that your privilege is stronger than your brains. That you are lacking – undeserving of the opportunities that have been offered you at the expense of those more deserving. You have one last thing you can do. One last thing you can leave behind – a last chance, if you will – to redeem yourself in the eyes of those who matter to you. A chance to prove that there is more to you than unearned advantage.’

The detail we are privy to has never before been recorded. You, my dear audience, are witnessing history in the making. As we zoom in, we can focus on her open eyes with their pinprick pupils. Panning down, we see the pulse at her neck, weak and erratic. Ha! Observe her stare. I wonder if she too senses the importance of what is about to unfold. These last few special moments have a significance all of their own. Let them not be in vain as the captive is released to her death aware that her last request is recorded for posterity. Closure at the end of a long struggle which so nearly ends in victory.

‘Are you ready to relinquish your privilege and admit your shortcomings?’

Ouch! As the cattle prod engages with her thigh, she barely reacts – a single jolt of the head, no more.

Oh dear, don’t judge the figure, after all his hard work indulge him his enjoyment. It’s good to be happy in your work. After all, this is what all of this is about – a commitment, a dedication to your life choices.

‘You can do better than this? No? Show your audience some strength.’

Despite his plea, and the added incentive of the cattle prod, you can see our captive refuses to respond. Look at the way her mouth tightens. Her defiance is admirable, if ill placed. Let’s see if she can be tempted.

‘Right. The floor is yours. Your chance – your final chance – what is your last request? Make it count. This time you won’t get a re-take.’

Look how our figure moves into position behind our captive, lifting her almost lifeless head, making sure you, his captive audience, miss nothing.

The figure’s words ring out. ‘Your turn. Make it good – make it clear. You only have one shot at this. It’s your final-night production. What is your last request?’

See how her eyes flicker. Her mouth opens, her tongue flicks out, licking her lips. I’m sure you agree. Her final performance – her swan song has, to date, been inspirational. Let’s hope she makes it count. I can feel you willing her on, wishing her the strength to complete her last request. But only a gurgle of unintelligible words reaches our ears.

‘Noo … my … mmm …’

You can see how much she’s trying. How much she wants to do this. This is her legacy. Her final chance . I’m sure we’ve all got our fingers crossed that she doesn’t stumble at the last hurdle. She’s tried all the way along the trial – given a stellar, almost successful performance. Let’s give her a round of applause to spur her on. Come on now, don’t be mean. Applaud her efforts.

Sound-over: raucous applauding.

Our figure leads the clapping and the sound of our encouragement seems to have the desired effect. Our captive starts, and her eyes flicker again.

Come on, you can do this, lass. You can do this. You need to do this. You know you do.

‘My mum – love my mum – tell her – love her.’

Didn’t she do well? Her last request duly recorded. Now for the finale. Focus now. Watch as with all the gravitas fitting such an auspicious occasion, our figure lifts the hammer above her head.

Game over – last request denied.

Last request recorded and denied: Julie Katch 03.22.

Nikki stumbled to the front door and yanked it open, leaving Khalid’s father standing in her kitchen. She had a vague recollection of Sajid marching in and directing both her and Burhan into the front room. At some point he must have made tea, for she was cradling a comforting mug that smelled sugary enough to cause instant tooth decay. She took a tentative sip and looked over at the old man – Khalid’s dad. Sitting in her oversized favourite chair next to the fire, he looked to have shrunk in this short space of time and he was shivering. Sajid must have given him a fleece because Charlie’s leopard skin one was draped round his shoulders and Burhan was pinching it beneath his chin. She wanted to speak, but no words would come. What could she say? She was still trying to make sense of it. How could the bones under the Odeon car park belong to Khal? Plonking her mug on the coffee table, Nikki began plucking at the elastic band she wore round her wrist. It soothed her, calmed her, made her feel a little more in control.

Sitting beside her on the sofa, Saj angled his huge frame towards her, the slight frown across his forehead the only indication that he wanted answers from her. Nikki closed her eyes and sighed. Of course, he’d expect an explanation. Why wouldn’t he? They’d been partners for nearly three years and she’d never mentioned Khal to him. Not even once. She’d never told him she’d been married. Never told him about Charlie’s dad. Now that it appeared to be out in the open, he’d expect her to confide. But Nikki was determined to closet her emotions away. Nobody would ever know just how deep the scars from Khalid’s disappearance had gone. Few people would ever see the emotional wounds that stayed with her and she was not going to bare all to a work colleague – not even one who was a friend.