Hiram waiting for my return

CHAPTER FOUR

          I woke up to the sensation of Ben shaking my shoulder.  My head was aching.  It was the second hour of morning and the family were just preparing to go to the church service and on to work.  They each bid me "good luck" and thanked me for my visit.  Then they opened the door and quickly slipped out into the empty street.  I thought they must be late and in a hurry.

          I picked up my satchel and bicycle and blundered out into the morning air.  To my surprise a small stream of people were coming along the way and looking oddly at me as I stood in front of the open door.  I quickly closed it and stepped into the street, not wanting to draw attention to the house.  Then I began walking and pushing the bicycle along with them, in the direction of the central square, hoping to blend in.  My plan was to turn onto the first side street I came to and then sneak away along empty lanes.

          But at the next intersection there was an even greater flow of people and I was caught in a tide of souls, all heading in the one direction I wished to avoid.

          I was not yet awake enough to perceive my plight.  I was strolling along dreamily, trying to imagine the size of the square that could contain such rivers of people.  I was now hemmed in on every side and my bike was becoming an impediment, often knocking others or being rudely bumped.

          I realized that I had better get out of here fast, and so I tried to push my way over to a wall where I could stop while the masses flowed by.  I would feign some delay until they passed, then sneak away when the road was clear.

          But getting to that wall was not easy.  I knocked and jostled several people, tripped up a child and held up more traffic while helping the boy back to his feet.  His mother was angry with me and complained loudly.  Then, what was worse, I caught up a large fellow from behind with my front tire.  He turned and smacked me hard in the arm and called me a "foul dog."  Nor did the commotion go unnoticed.

          Finally, I made it to the doorway of a large building and crouched, pretending to examine my pedals.  Just as the crowd began thinning two officials with silver insignia flapping on their chests came up and hemmed me in, asking to see my card.

          Panic gripped me.  I nervously showed them the card from the messenger I had bludgeoned.  The shorter one grabbed it, pulling my neck forwards and staring at its embossed symbols.  Then he let it go.  But they both noticed the bloodstains on my shoulder as it happened.  The larger one clapped my arm in his and told me they had a complaint I must answer for.  The other took my bicycle and they led me along the back streets, now empty, to a lone door in a long and windowless two-story structure that stretched the whole block, no doubt some sort of police bureau.

          We went straight through the narrow building and came out at one corner of the square.  We stood at attention like the thousands in front of us.  Even though it’d been three years since my last service, it was all too familiar, the bullhorn lecture packed with empty slogans and schoolboy catechisms, jingles chanted back on cue.  We stood with the cheering crowd for a long half-hour, until it finished off with a prayer for the whiteness and brightness of the world.

          All the time my mind was intensely active, trying to grasp the implications of this sorry end.  For I was fully resigned to the nearness and certainty of my death.  I knew I would be tortured but was so lacking in any believable explanation that I didn't waste my few remaining moments trying to concoct one.

          When the ceremony was over my guards ushered me back into the building and led me along a dim corridor and up a dark flight of stairs.  The next hallway was lined with office doors, much like the old bureau I worked out of as a messenger.  "At least I’m not in the torture chamber yet," I thought.

          We entered a small conference room.  It contained a long table and six chairs.  The walls were featureless except for one high window, too high to use, and a framed, white sheet of paper below it, like some false window.  The room was empty.  One guard left, the tall one still holding my arm and sitting me down next to him on this side of the table, facing the light.  We sat in gloomy silence.

          After many minutes passed I noticed him staring at me quizzically.  The expression on his face looked positively pained.  He was probably wondering what I was doing in the crowds with my bicycle, and perhaps worried that I had some perfectly logical explanation which would put his arrest in a bad light.

          I was at the point of telling him to release me when the door opened.  A roundish, balding, middle-aged man stepped in and sat down across from us.  He was clearly my captor's superior, as the giant stood up and bowed to him and then elbowed me in the ribs to do the same.

          The official wasted no time, obviously a very busy man:

          "Well what were you doing obstructing traffic this morning?" he said, in a high-pitched, complaining voice.

          I could think of nothing to say and looked at him sheepishly.  The near prospect of death seemed to be making me bold.

          "What's your station?" he roared.  "Empty the mailbag."

          The guard did this for me.  His hands were shaking.  The balding official shuffled through the packages impatiently then leaned over the table and ripped the identification card from my neck.

          "So you’re from White Seat, eh, and getting here just in time for the morning service," he went on in a sarcastic tone.

          "Either your night vision is extraordinary or you've found some warm bed in our hospitable town in which to refresh yourself before proceeding to duty."

          I broke in at this point and told him I had a fall, pointing at the bloodstains and my head-wound.  "I spent the night at the side of the highway, not far from town, and walked my bike in this morning.  It was all I could do."

          I could see by his changed look that he didn’t like my explanation.  There was a hint of truth in it that foiled his nasty opinion.  Now there appeared a gleam in his eye.

          "If you spent the night outdoors your clothes would still be damp."

          "I slept under a tree," I replied, feeling sick and tired.

          "You know we have ways of finding out the truth," he said, growing impatient with me.  "Tell us who she is and it may go lightly for you."

          A fear now came over me.  They would employ torture until they found out my story.  I considered myself a dead man but wanted at all costs to protect my new friends.  I realized I had better change my tune and not anger the people about to tear into me.  So I covered my face with my hands as if full of grief and said in a pathetic, sobbing voice, "I have sinned, master, many times, against many women.  Now I am caught, with crimes upon my head."

          I buried my head in my arms and started sobbing, in hopes of bringing the interview to an end.  The official let me go on a few minutes, silently pondering my case.  Finally, he said in disgust, "take him to the basement."  By this I knew he meant the torture room.

          As the guard led me into the hall the official called out: "wait a minute."  We looked back.  He was peering at me intently, as if trying to see through me.  "Have his tags and the messenger lists brought to my office," he said, "and report back to me in a few hours, with his confession."

          My guard bowed again and drew me roughly by the arm down the corridor.  Just as we were about to turn the corner the official again yelled out: "and don't kill him.  We'll throw him to the dogs for his bad habits."

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