Peter Terrin - The Guard

I wash my face, clean my teeth, rinse out my mouth, dress quickly and brush my uniform. Outside I wait at the bunkroom door. Harry and the guard must be near the entrance. I scan the sides of the basement, searching for a blur of movement. I can’t see their legs or feet anywhere. I can’t see the table anywhere either. After a while, I feel the seat of the chair. Cold.

I judge it better to stay here for the time being. It’s better for me to keep still and wait.

What reason could they have had for moving the table out of the bunkroom? And why do it when I was asleep?

The buzzing of the middle fluorescent light builds up. While I’m looking at it, the tube dies with a flash and a pop. A black hole drops into the middle of the basement as if that part of the ceiling has collapsed.

“I’ll replace that right away,” Harry says. “We’ve still got plenty of spares.” He is coming out of the storeroom. He pulls the door shut behind him and locks it. His jacket is folded neatly and draped over his forearm. He must have removed the key from the pocket of my pants while I was asleep. Ever since I’ve been stationed here, it has been my responsibility to inspect the storeroom twice a day, and especially the ammunition. That’s why I always have the key in my pocket.

114

As if he’s heading out for the evening or has just come back, that’s how his jacket is draped over his arm. The storeroom key disappears in his trouser pocket. He’s in a cheerful mood. It is so peculiar to see Harry emerging from the storeroom with his jacket draped over his arm that I don’t recognize him, even though it’s patently obvious it’s Harry. It’s as if I am now seeing him for the first time.

He’s hot, his shirt is wet with sweat. Not just under the arms, but around the neck and on the back too. An hour before washing it, I’ll rub liquid soap into those patches, the way I always do the collars. If you saturate the cotton with soap, you can hardly see or smell the sweat stains afterward.

Harry sits down on the chair, laying the jacket over his legs. Evidently he wants to calmly finish the count before withdrawing to the bunkroom. I sit down on the stool and pull the Flock 28 out of my holster, push in the magazine catch and let the cartridge clip slide out of the butt. I count in silence. Fifteen. I wait for Harry, for the result of his inspection. His Flock stays on his hip. When he makes no move to count his cartridges, I remember the table. Harry says the table is in the storeroom, it’s more use there. After a short silence in which I wait for an explanation, he says blandly that I won’t need to do any timing for a while. He taps his watch with a long fingernail. It won’t be necessary. He’s alluding to the guard’s long visits to the toilet, although the really long visits generally take place just after he wakes up. What’s more, I only time them in the day, when there are three of us.

We wait for the guard for a while, but then Harry tugs his tie loose and stands up. I say good night.

“Keep your eyes peeled,” he says.

“I will.”

“Maybe,” Harry says, “it would be better if you took up position outside the storeroom. Near the door. You never know with these guys. They’re slow, but they’re built like gorillas.”

115

A sledgehammer blow of his fist, which won’t let itself be stopped by a bit of compacted sawdust between two sheets of gray veneer. I constantly expect that first, pounding smash on the door. Almost an hour has passed in nerve-wracking silence.

The cylinder of the lock prevents me from looking in. I can’t see any light under the door.

A wild cat leaping up against the bars, spitting frothy saliva. I pass the pistol to my left hand to wipe the sweat off my palm. Long curving fangs clamped on the unyielding iron for hours. Forehead and face a bloody lump of raw meat. Caged beasts. Their nature.

An hour later I’m calmer. I lean back with my head against the wall so that I will pick up the least little vibration on the other side. I still have all the time in the world to get wound up. The guard is probably asleep.

It’s just a coincidence he’s not snoring tonight.

With my heart in my throat I slowly push the toilet door open. Empty. The seat is up. I return immediately.

I do two inspection rounds, each time hurrying back to the storeroom door. I seek out the gray rectangle from a great distance, my eyes homing in on it. I am attached by a line and slowly reeled in.

I cough, by chance, then deliberately. I cough and listen. It’s a small room and it’s quiet. If the guard is awake, he now knows I’m here. He’ll understand I’m on guard here and not at the bunkroom. I can hear him easily, even if he whispers.

I scratch with my nails. As if lightly tickling the door.

He knows I don’t want to wake anyone up.

Does he think, having just woken, that he’s heard a mouse? A mouse?

I clear my throat. I recognize my voice in the sound.

Is he sleeping on the table?

Is he sitting in the corner between the rations and the ammunition, on the concrete ledge? He has wrapped his arms around his legs. Is he thinking of his old dad, bent over in a mineshaft? Is he trying to grasp how long forty years is?

He thinks, I have to keep quiet.

He sits in a corner and waits for his time to come.

The convenience of only having one possibility. The advantage.

He thinks, this is my chance.

He thinks, if I keep quiet, sooner or later he’ll open the door and then I’ll grab the little runt by the throat and squeeze it tight before he can let out a peep.

116

He hangs his cap over his jacket on the hook on the wall. The door is wide open. He lingers by the foot of the bed. After twenty-four hours almost everything is back to how it was before. We sleep either side of midnight, the best hours. I’ve scrubbed the smell of the guard’s body out of the linen with my fists. I push my nose into the pillow and sniff. I want to keep smelling this all night: liquid soap, no matter how artificial or industrial the perfume. I’ll be able to drift off into a deep sleep again without any trouble. I’ll be able to dream calm dreams and wake up refreshed. It’s like the old days. The guard isn’t here. He has never been here. We’re guarding the building alone again. It’s the first time since he suddenly appeared. Harry spits on his hand. Twice. He’s angry, I feel that at once. It hurts, but of course his anger isn’t directed at me. “A few more days,” he growls in my ear. “When he’s hungry enough, he’ll start to talk. We can count on it.” He’s angry. I hold tight, but he’s angry about the guard and all the things he’s keeping secret. Harry laughs with anger, saying they can’t touch us. He is rough and presses down on me with all his weight, but that has nothing to do with me.

117

Harry slips in for the interrogation. He holds the Flock at the ready, close to his cheek, turns the key in the lock, opens the door no wider than necessary and shuffles in sideways, flicking the light on and immediately closing the door behind him.

After three days he no longer greets the guard.

No more, “You know what we want to hear.” Or, “Are you ready for some more?” Or, “Shall I undo the gag so you can get it off your chest?” Or, “Come on, man, don’t be shy.”

After three days Harry goes back to eating his meals outside, next to me.

The time Harry spends in the storeroom now passes in almost constant silence. As if he’s keeping vigil at a relative’s deathbed: a question of hours.

Now and then I jump from the sound of a blow striking home and Harry screaming that the guard has to stop, that he has to stop his little games, that it’s for his own good, begging him to once, just once, think of the resident, the client after all, who doesn’t know what’s hanging over his head, and what kind of gutless guard is he anyway? As long as he doesn’t think someone’s going to clean up after him. He can just lie there in his own filth. It’s either talk or stay lying there like that, it’s either stay lying there like that or eat and drink, and what’s it going to be?