Issue Three

“I have your word?” Richard went on,
needing that final seal of assurance that
he knew only the man could provide.
“You have my word,” the man said
simply and nodded.
“So how do we do this?” Richard said,
fidgeting in his chair. After six months of
every available vice, he had become
accustomed to the frenzied buzz of
activity that sin brought. Now it had
been drawn to a close, the silence and
stillness haunted him. It felt as if he was
present at his own wake, a time before
his execution.
“The Owner has requested a gunshot
but there are three over options
available to you that he is prepared to
accept.” The man paused and looked
over to Richard, waiting to see if he
wanted to hear the other choices.
“I’ll take the bullet,” Richard said as
gruffly as he could manage. Inwardly,
his stomach was beginning to
dissolve. A sudden bolt of fear ran
through him: he didn’t want to soil
himself in front of anyone, even if it was
only the man and The Owner.
“I want to be clean,” he blurted out and
the man’s eyes again shifted into warm,
kind orbs.
“I will provide the necessary tools to
provide you leave with dignity intact,
Mr. Keane,” he said quietly. Richard
nodded his thanks, wondering for a
moment how he knew he meant his
bodily functions and not some loftier,
religious ideal. He laughed in spite of
himself; no doubt The Owner had been
watching his behaviour over the last six
months and realised he was not a
religious man.
“So how long do I have?” Richard
asked, shuffling in his seat once
more. It reminded him of the first time
he’d sat inside an airplane, ignorant of
how to even lock the seatbelt straps
together. Eventually a man, a
businessman, had done it for him,
saving him the embarrassment of
having to ask one of the pretty
stewardesses. He had been twenty two
and his life was still a bright, open
thing. Two years until the mistakes and
the consequences.
“The Owner would like it be conducted
within the next hour, Mr. Keane. The
broadcast dictates it so.” A little of the
gentleness fell away from his eyes and
Richard again swallowed hard. Dying
time, a voice inside his head whispered.
“How does it feel for you?” Richard said
and was surprised how it came
out. He’d almost spat the words out at
the man.
“I can’t talk about my own situation,
Mr. Keane, as you well know,” he said,
not unkindly. Richard realised he was
trying not to antagonise him and to his
surprise, it worked.
LAST HOUSE ON VECTOR STREET