Caryl Phillips - A Distant Shore

It is the sound of keys in the cell door that alerts Gabriel to the fact that he has fallen asleep. A tall, thin man ignores Gabriel and steps quickly into the cell. The night warder follows him. The man puts down a brown leather bag, and he kneels beside Said. Gabriel stares at this reed of a man, who now stands and turns to face the warder.

“He’s been gone for some time.” The night warder looks shocked, but the doctor is ready to leave. “I suppose we’ve got some paperwork to sort out, right?”

The night warder waits for the doctor to stride from the cell, and then he locks back the door. Gabriel clambers to his feet.

“Please, Mr. Collins, you cannot do this. You must take him away!”

The night warder does not trouble himself to look at Gabriel. He calmly escorts the doctor back in the direction of the television set, and Gabriel retreats to the furthest corner of the cell and huddles his body into a tight ball. He slides to the floor.

Eventually, the day warder arrives. He is a short, but powerfully built, man who looks as though at one time he might have enjoyed a career in professional sport. He stands by the door to the cell and looks contemptuously at Gabriel.

“So what’s the problem then? What are you wailing about? He’s dead. He ain’t gonna bite.”

The man in the cell next door starts to laugh.

“You should make him eat him. Fucking noisy cannibal.”

The warder steps to his right and looks into the neighbour’s cell.

“And you can shut it, you stupid little cretin.”

Obviously these few words are enough, for immediately there is silence. The warder steps back and looks at Gabriel, who now realises that the impossibly thin doctor is standing with this man.

The doctor peers into the cell, and then he simply instructs the warder to “open up.” Gabriel climbs slowly to his feet. The doctor whispers something to the day warder, who begins to peel off his jacket.

“Well, sonny, what’s with all the shouting? You losing it up here?” The day warder taps the side of his head.

Gabriel stares at the warder, and then slides back to the floor and curls himself into an even tighter ball. The warder shakes his head in disgust and turns to the doctor.

“You might have to help me get him up and onto the bunk.”

The doctor puts down his leather bag and he now slips out of his jacket. Unlike the warder, whose jacket lies in an untidy heap, the doctor folds his neatly and places it on top of his bag.

“What’s he in here for?”

“You don’t want to know.”

“He’s not an illegal then?”

“Oh, he’s that all right, but that’s only half the problem.”

The warder takes Gabriel’s legs while the doctor grabs his arms. Gabriel begins to kick out, but he is powerless in the grip of these two men.

“Which bunk?” asks the doctor, who is now struggling to keep control of Gabriel’s flailing arms.

“It doesn’t matter. Stick him on the bottom.”

Gabriel continues to kick and wrestle, but they easily lift their malnourished patient onto the bottom bunk and the warder reaches into his pocket and pulls out four strips of rubber. He passes two to the doctor, and they begin to strap Gabriel to the frame of the bed.

“This should hold the bugger in place,” says the warder. He gestures, with his head, towards Said. “What about him?”

The doctor pulls his final knot tight and then takes a step back. He begins to slip his jacket back on.

“They should be here for the body before too long. But who knows.”

A terrified Gabriel watches as the doctor opens his bag and pulls out a syringe and long needle.

“Don’t tell me,” says the warder. “Cutbacks, right?”

“There’s just not enough ambulances. In some boroughs they’re using private cars.”

The doctor sits on the edge of the narrow bed and focuses on Gabriel.

“This won’t hurt, but you’ll feel a slight scratch.”

Gabriel squirms as the needle comes closer to his arm, and then he flinches as it breaks his skin. Finally the doctor pulls out the needle, places it in a plastic pouch, and then gets to his feet. Gabriel watches as the man picks up his bag, steps around Said, and then leaves the cell without saying another word. The warder seems somewhat surprised by the abruptness of the doctor’s exit, and he hurries after him, first slamming and then locking the cell door.

Gabriel begins to feel warm. He wants to rub his nose, but his hands are tightly bound. He feels a low sigh leave his body, and then he cranes back his neck and looks at Said. Gabriel concentrates hard and stares at his friend, whose own eyes are firmly closed.

Gabriel watches from the cupboard and tries not to breathe. First they will shoot Gabriel’s ageing father. He looks at his father’s tired face, his confidence polluted by the ordeal of having to protect his family during the prolonged absence of his adult son. They laugh as they make the old man lie flat on the ground with his arms spread out to his sides as though they are wings. There are six soldiers dressed in khaki fatigues with red bandannas around their heads. Gabriel soon learns that they all have nicknames. “Cassius.” “Jacko.” “O. J.” “Brutus.” “Big Dog.” “Smokin’ Joe.” But, unlike Gabriel, they are young men. Boys. As the bullets hit Gabriel’s father he jumps, but he does not fly.

Now they line up the rest of the family. “Big Dog” kicks Gabriel’s father until he cries out in pain. He is still alive. “Big Dog” asks him if he will not beg for mercy, like a man? Does he not love his family enough to beg for their lives? Gabriel understands that this is sport. The boys are playing with his father, and then “Smokin’ Joe” puts his gun to the back of Gabriel’s father’s head. While the others continue to laugh and taunt his father, “Smokin’ Joe” casually pulls the trigger and the skull explodes. Small pieces of brain fly in all directions, and Gabriel’s mother and two sisters begin to scream. “Big Dog” shouts in a fake American accent, and admonishes “Smokin’ Joe” for spoiling the party.

“How can you do this, man? Nobody gave you the order to shoot.”

Gabriel’s mother and sisters throw themselves across the body of the dead man. Gabriel is used to the sound of gunfire. The brutality is familiar to him. He looks on without emotion for he knows what is to come. “Smokin’ Joe” raises his voice, and as he does so he appears to grow in stature.

“Fuck you, man. This is business. I don’t have time for no games.”

The shouting among the men becomes louder, and then “Brutus” quietly steps forward and drags Gabriel’s mother and two sisters from the father’s body, and he forces them to lie face down on the floor. “Brutus” unclips his pistol and pumps a single bullet into the back of both sisters. He turns to his colleagues, but nobody dares to offer a dissenting voice.

“Are you all happy now?” They look somewhat sheepishly at “Brutus.” Authority has been restored. “We are not here to argue.” “Brutus” points with his pistol towards the two bleeding girls. “You want your food, then turn them over and take it. But be quick.” “Brutus” knows that the men are not interested in the mother.

“Jacko” is the last to mount the younger sister, but by now “Brutus” is losing patience. He claps his hands. “Enough.” “Jacko” clambers to his feet, and rearranges himself. His colleagues look on and laugh as “Jacko” struggles to make himself appear decent. Gabriel can see that his youngest sister has a thin ribbon of blood running down the inside of her leg, which pools near her ankle. She also appears to have lost consciousness.

“Finish them off,” says “Brutus,” pointing to the sisters, “but you can leave the old woman. She is no use to anybody.”