Marlon James - A Brief History of Seven Killings

— You expecting modesty in me own house? Or you seeing something you never see before?

— Ah, this is how rich people chuck it.

— Poor people wash them buddy by standpipe and you want to turn this into a class issue? How the bloodcloth you get in me house?

— Walk through the front door.

— How you—

— Enough with how. How you ask how so much?

— You rather why? Okay, make we talk ’bout why. Why the bloodcloth you in me house at… hold on… three in the morning? What we say ’bout you and me not to seen together in public?

— Never know that you bedroom public. How the mistress? Sound like she was doing good just a while ago. Real good.

— Man, what you want?

— You know what day today is?

— Hmmmm. Hmmmm. I going go with December third. That is the day that follow December second.

— Oi! Enough with your no manners, you better know who you talking to.

— No you better fucking remember who you talking to. Come into my house like some pussycloth house rat. You lucky Rawhide on leave tonight or you would be dead already, you hear me? Dead.

— Good thing for me then.

— I going back to bed. Leave the way you came.

— I was doing some thinking.

— Don’t hurt yourself.

— What?

— You were thinking.

— I need some money.

— You need some money.

— After tomorrow.

— Tomorrow’s already today.

— After later.

— I told you already that I don’t know what you talking about. I don’t know about it, I don’t endorse it, and I don’t even know you that well. Papa-Lo is the only man down there I know.

— Down there? Down there? Is down there you call it now? Artie Jennings never talked like you.

— You and Arthur talk good? ’Cause I have it on good authority that he not talking much these days.

The first runner-up steps into the room wearing the bedsheet.

— Peter, what is all the commotion? And oh my G—

— Jesus Christ, bitch, stop you screaming and go back to bed. Not every naigger is thief.

— Well, in this one case maybe your wife a little correct.

— Peter?

— Go to bed!

— What a slam. Me think the house just shake. Pum-pum lock off for the rest of the night?

— You learned about woman the same place you learned about gun? She slam the door so that we won’t think she still there listening. I said, SHE SLAM THE DOOR SO THAT WE WON’T THINK SHE STILL THERE LISTENING.

Now she gone.

— You’s a bad motherf—

— Shut yo mouth.

— This day done write down. Nothing you can change about it now, even if you did want—

— I tell you already. I don’t know what you talking about. And I certainly don’t know what you talking about needing money when you same Josey Wales fly to Miami only two weeks ago. But you know how I know you don’t need no fucking money? You fly up for just the day. Come back, what, seven o’clock?

— That was a little business.

— Nothing little about you. Or your other little trip, to the Bahamas. Every man who about him business in this country have a fucking secret.

— The Singer meeting with Papa-Lo and Shotta Sherrif same time.

— Tell me something I don’t know.

— Papa-Lo plan to meet up with Shotta Sherrif talk serious things where nobody can hear them. They both stop eating pork, by the way.

— Oh. That I didn’t know. What the fuck them two up to? Seriously, what could they possibly have to talk about? And what you mean they both stop eat pork? They turning Rasta? Is this the Singer doing? Is him getting them to talk?

— You really need help to answer that question?

— You talk too much fucking step with me, naigger boy.

— Boy in your fucking brief. The price gone up.

— Take that shit to CIA.

— Rasta don’t work for the CIA.

— And Josey Wales, I don’t fucking work for you. Take my foolish advice and use the door. And don’t come here again.

— Me taking the rum.

— Take two glass while you at it and teach yourself some fucking class.

— Haha. You is something else. Even the devil look ’pon you and go, You is something else.

The man leaves, not closing a single door.

There is another man I see around these dead lands who I don’t know. A dead man who died wrong, a fireman who would have gone in peace had he died in a fire. He is in the room as well, he came in with the man named Josey Wales. He walks around him, walks through him at times which Wales mistakes for a shiver. He tries to strike but goes right through him. I used to do that with the man who had me killed, tried to strike, punch, slap and cut and the most I ever did was make him shiver. The rage goes if not the memory. I would say you live with it but the irony is too bitter. I know his story too since he cries it every time. He’s crying it now, not seeing that I’m the only person in the room bearing witness. Running to the fire on Orange Street, him fireman number seven. A fire set in a two-story tenement, the flames a mad snake looping through the windows, five children already dead, two shot before the fire. He grabs the hose, knowing the water will only sputter, and runs through the gate. His cheek burns on the right and his temple explodes on the left. The second bullet hits him in the chest. The third grazes the neck of the fireman behind. Now he follows the man who sent him to be with people like me. Josey Wales leaves through the window. The fireman follows. The day is young but is already dead.

Y ou can’t really know how it feels, just knowing deep down that in a few minutes these men will rape you. God take you make fool, this Cassandra from Greek mythology in history class who nobody listens to, who can’t even hear herself. The men haven’t touched you yet but you’ve already blamed yourself, you stupid naïve little bitch this is how man in uniform rape a woman, when you still think they are there to take your cat out of a tree, like this is a Dick and Dora story. The first thing you realize is how fucked up this is, that word wait. And now that you’re waiting all you can think is how the hell did you trip and fall and land under some man? They haven’t raped you yet but you know they’re going to, the threat of it in the third time you catch one looking through the rearview mirror without smiling or laughing and his hand adjusting his crotch like he’s playing with, not fixing, himself.

It’s the slowness that gets you, the feeling that there is still time to do something, to get out, to run, to close your eyes and think of Treasure Beach. You have all the time in the world. Because when this happens it’s your fault. Why didn’t you get out? Why didn’t you leave? The policeman hears my mind and stomps the gas, raising the stakes. Why don’t you get out? Why don’t you leave? If you open the door and jump out, just grab your knees and roll until you stop. Then just run to the right, into the bush, over somebody’s fence, yes you’ll probably have broken something but adrenaline can get you far, very far, I also learned that in class. I might bruise a shoulder, I might break a wrist. The policeman drives through his fourth stoplight. Is kill you want kill we, the other one says and laughs.

I heard a story about a woman who went to the police to report a rape but they didn’t believe her so they raped her again. You are afraid and you can smell your sweat and you hope sweat doesn’t mean they think you were digging it. You cut your nails only two days ago because this glamour business is damn expensive and now, because you have no nails to scratch the sons of bitches, you hope that no scratch doesn’t mean you were digging it. But more than anything else, the one thing that makes you blame and judge yourself and acquit them even before this reaches a court of men who probably discipline their wives with a punch before leaving for court, is that you don’t have any panties on. Not only are you the slut your mother talked about but even she will look at you with that you-got-what-you-were-looking-for look. And I’m thinking oh really? Well who told you to be a woman when three gunman came calling? Your rape is your fault too. After a while you realize you’re shaking not from fear, but from fury. I take off my right heel, the one that’s still there, and grab the shoe tight. As soon as they open the door, one of those bastards will never see out of one eye again, I don’t care which. He can kick me, shoot me, rape me in the ass, he’s going to have to live with knowing that this pussy he had to pay for.