Metropolitan Lines Issue 2 - Brunel University

asked him what he did with all the
men, women, boys, girls and babies
that he provided him with? He did
not know. That part buried deep
within him still regretted it. He had
expected to be told to mind his own
business, but instead he was handed
a video tape. That night, so long
ago now, he had sat in his living
room and entered a world that he
had only thought might exist, a
world beyond his, beyond the
handshakes, suitcases of money, and
vans full of people driving off into
the distance. Until now he had been
separated from this world, cut off
from it, earthbound, unwilling to
step into the vessels that took the
expendable across the blackness to
their far-off destinations. By
pressing ‘play’ on his video recorder,
he had done just that, he had made
the journey alongside them to their
final destination.
Shadows scurried here and there
around him as he sat unable to tear
his eyes away from the television as
the images and colours changed,
slowly the blacks and browns gave
way to red and the screams gave
way to small, wet, sodden sounds.
Through cold, involuntary tears,
and against a background of white
noise and static that signaled the
end of the tape, he entered a world
which he would rather not have. In
the carved up faces of the young and
innocent Franco saw his own
reflected; what he had initially
reviled, he grew to like. Since then
he had seen many first-hand, and a
few times had even taken part. Over
time he could no longer hear the
small voice of protest.
Franco looked down at the little
boy sitting next to him. His face
stained with tears, his terrified eyes
locked on his mother’s, not knowing
was happening to him, pulling
helplessly against his bonds, not
understanding the world that he
was being introduced to. The little
boy looked up at Franco, tears
dripping freely from the corners of
both eyes. Brown eyes. Beautiful
eyes. His eyes.
From far, far away, Franco
thought he could hear a voice.
A little voice.
A protesting voice.
Mr Rollins switched on the
light, bathing Janine in harsh
brightness, and then the video
camera.
Janine’s eyes tracked him as he
put on a plastic tunic like the
surgeons wore in hospital. Taking a
syringe from the case, he
approached Janine and injected her
with a clear liquid in the arm. Janine
felt the tension drain from her and
her head loll forward as all her
muscular control faded. The man
took a roll of tape and secured her
lolling head back against the sofa
30
postgraduate fiction
headrest. Then ungagged her.
Janine could not move a muscle but
she could feel every touch.
Franco marvelled at this the
drug, Ketamine, that could do this.
Rollins stood back and fished out an
antique watch from his waistcoat
pocket. It glinted in the harsh light
as he stood there unblinking,
counting seconds: tick, tock, tick,
tock.
Streets away, an old man tugged
at his dog’s leash, pulling him away
from the small dried turd that he
was sniffing at. ‘C'mon, Pepe,
c'mon.’ A flash caught his eye and he
turned to look at a bright square of
light in the middle of the apartment
block in the distance. The old man
lingered, wondering why on earth
someone would want such a bright
light. Then it flickered as if someone
had passed in front of it and then
was bright again. The old man
shivered, despite the warmth, and
hurried home, away from that light.
Pierre watched the scary man
pick a shiny thing from his case and
walk to stand beside his mummy.
He stooped slightly and brought
the silver thing close to his mummy’s
face. He could see the end was really
sharp, he could see it was a knife.
Mummy had told him not to play
with knives because they were
dangerous and he could cut himself
with them and hurt himself.
Pierre’s and Janine’s eyes locked
for a moment and in them he saw
the look of love, helpless,
unconditional love, for the last time
in his life.
The man placed the edge of the
knife against his mummy’s ear with
the tenderness of a lover’s caress. He
paused a moment, closing his eyes,
Metropolitan Lines Summer 2008
Chicken Jack
Perry Bhandal