Blood And Honour (1)
Knighty sat in his usual position on the hard steel cot in the corner of the cell, hunched over and staring at the cracked concrete floor beneath his feet in the selfishness of deep and undisturbed contemplation. He had assumed this same station for fifteen years, three months and sixteen long days, and tomorrow his incarceration would come to an end with the fulfilment of his life-sentence. In all that time he had wished for freedom, and nothing else, but now that the moment was finally upon him, traces of doubt began to form and make him question what it was he really yearned for or even deserved. The unbearable thought occurred to him that he must face the world once more, a world that had driven him to kill, and would certainly come gunning for him to redress an imbalance in the scales of justice. Inside the secure sanctuary of these prison walls he was free. Free from the glare of the impending spotlight and public execution that would surely follow. Free from enduring the sufferance of a bitter mothers cold court room stare, a fathers taunts of retribution and a child�s cries for a lost brother who was never to return. Exposed again, would they possibly see the change that had taken place in him and the calm that had been substituted for a once troubled and violent soul? For it was true, Knighty was somewhat content on the inside. He had spent the last fifteen years replaying and paying for his murderous mistake and had experienced the full gamut of emotion during this time. Initial anger had turned to hate and then evolved from tears to indifference before he finally developed a make-shift sense of contentment that fell just short of forgiving himself. �I have found a certain tranquillity and hollow acceptance within myself,� he pondered, �but how can I ever truly be at peace with the universe until I make amends with those who I have wronged?� His eyes were accustomed to the dark and scoured the dim cell walls for answers, recognising individual bricks in the dark like the faces of old friends in the haze of a smoke filled bar, as his thoughts began to race at the speed of his heart. He shook his head in defeat with the recurring conclusion that once taken, a life lost could not be replaced. How he wished to exchange places with his victim so as to feel the momentary tang of physical pain rather than live a lifetime of mental anguish, each day reaping the dolorous dividend returned from five misspent minutes in the folly of his youth. He was sick of the sufferance and the only thing he could now do for his victim was to honour his memory by removing himself from the world he had once inhabited and avoid the possibility of crossing paths with relatives and family. This was one additional cross that he resolved they would never have to bear. There was nothing waiting for him on the outside anyway. His own family and friends had long since forsaken the mentioning his name as the burden of shame wearied their arms making his load at last too difficult to carry. They were now living new lives as best they could with his memory nothing more than an unpleasant restlessness dozing in the back of their minds, an uneasiness that they seldom cared to disturb. Knighty curled into a tight ball and covered himself with a thin woollen blanket in an attempt to stave off the convulsive shivering that denied him the possibility of repose. His modest bedding combined with the standard issue prison jumper he wore provided little resistance to the penetrating cold that chilled his bones to the core night after night. The bitter winter nights and the stale air expired by a hundred displaced souls had progressively stripped years away from his life in that dark prison, and though only thirty five years of age, he had the outward appearance of an old man. His once chocolate brown pallor was wan and sickly, his thinning jet black hair unkempt and greyed with the fruits of fretted reverie, and his frame was slight and frail from the consumptive malady afflicting him that even the best prison doctors were at a loss to diagnose. He was indeed a far removed spectacle from the fierce Maori warrior he had once been when he entered these uncaring walls in the prime of his youth. The characteristic silence of the early morning hours was progressively interrupted, by degrees, as the sound of approaching footsteps grew louder and roused Knighty�s interest from the depths of his contemplation. Three pairs of boots strode with deliberation along the corridor and paused momentarily outside his cell door. A curious silence proceeded the opening of the smaller trap door and a torch shone inside the cell. The bright light wandered slightingly across the floor and up the wall before resting upon Knighty�s screwed up face. Too languid to turn from the penetrating light, his eyelids squinted to protect his bashful eyes from the naked lamp assailing him. �We thought you might appreciate some company for your final night with us,� boomed a night-shift guard with apparent indignation for his ward. The sound of hand-cuffs clinking was proceeded by the main door flinging open and a new inmate was thrown to the ground, sprawling in a heap. He immediately roused himself in a flurry and inanely leaped at the door which slammed shut before any form of retribution could be exacted on his captors. �You stinking cowards,� the youthful voice screamed repeatedly in frenzied hysterics whilst banging his fists hard upon the cast iron door. �I�ll have you all for breakfast - you just wait and see!� The laughter of his two burly chaperones could be heard echoing down the halls as they continued their ramble with indifference to the idle threats cast toward them. Knightly now smiled in mild amusement at the spectacle before him. �Pull up a pew,� he said jovially in an attempt to make his new cell mate feel at home and gestured to the vacant cot opposite the one he occupied. The newcomer started as though unaware of Knighty�s presence until then and awkwardly felt his way through the foreign darkness to the vacant bed. �Thanks,� he hissed with the trepidation of a tomcat cornered by a cowardice of cur. Knighty gazed across the cell at the generous silhouette against the wall. The youth was indeed apparently much larger than his age would have suggested. His voice indicated that he was in his late teens yet he had the well developed masculine frame of a labourer that had toiled hard for many years in a field. Glimpses of moonlight through the small cell window momentarily illuminated the physiognomy of the new inmate revealing a face filled with hate. His steely blue eyes narrowed under strained thoughts and were set back in his head protected by high prominent cheekbones characteristic of ancient Viking nobility; his brow was furrowed reflecting the active state of his mind; his white and perfect teeth remained concealed behind paper thin lips that were locked tight together and ground away in a mixture of agitation and consternation; and his head was shaved so that not a blade of hair remained giving his head a round and frightful appearance. Knighty�s gaze pierced effortlessly through the darkness and he recognised a familiar intensity in his new companions eyes. A look that he had also once possessed upon entering those cell walls, yet one which was now latent like a skill that is no longer exercised. Although the sparkle in Knighty�s eyes had been dulled and glazed by the tears he cried on those dark and lonely nights, the lines surrounding his eyes gave him a sagacious appearance. �What�s your name?� questioned Knightly who began to feel the discomfort of a prolonged silence that filled the air. �Tristo,� was the curt response. �And what are you in for Tristo?� There was a pause as Tristo scoured his mind, as if deciding whether he cared to pursue the conversation at hand any further or not. �For blood and honour,� he replied enigmatically so as to confound instead of inform. Knighty chuckled erratically in bursts and coughs before amiably replying, �Blood and honour eh - well, well that certainly is a new one. In all my time inside I�ve never heard of anyone being locked away for overbearing romanticism. Things on the outside must be worse than I suspected.� �You couldn�t possibly understand what I�m talking about old man,� he replied angrily as if not taking kindly to derision from a lesser being, �the things I speak of would be foreign to your criminal ears.� �Oh now I see - you really must excuse my ignorance good sir. I suppose that there has been a terrible mistake, a mix up no less, and a fine gentleman such as yourself should not have to assume the convict rank of those you deign to reside with until the whole matter has been cleared up.� �Laugh at entrapped innocence - I expect little else from your perfidious kind; but know this that I am innocent and will proclaim it to the day I die,� Tristo retorted hysterically. The ardour with which he spoke ignited Knighty�s usually dormant curiosity for others. �Perhaps he really is innocent or in at least believes he is,� he thought. In his experience such passion could only be fuelled by truth, as rarely does a guilty man display such emotion with no cameras present. But justice is a precarious and subjective art form that is wide open to interpretation, and a sense of what is right in our hearts can often be diametrically opposed to that dictated by law. �So you say my friend but I have heard such proclamations before, and more often than not found them to be false and baseless. I have twelve hours to kill before I taste the tang of freedom once more, and sleep has abandoned me for nervous excitement, so please speak of your blood and your honour to help pass the time. I concede that I am ignorant so grant me this final request, and then perhaps I may see for myself how such noble ideas can result in so miserable a fate.� The prospect of a second trial for the convicted, albeit a trial of no consequence by ones peers, cannot be refused by a man wronged by society, particularly when that man has the rest of his life to while away. Such men warmly welcome every opportunity to clear their name, bit by bit, refining and improving upon their delivery with every rendition. �I will relate my tale and empower you as my judge old man, for with age comes wisdom and through experience comes sage. But be weary my friend and consider carefully what I say because through you judging me - I will also judge you.� Tristo leaned forward on the bed drawing himself closer to Knighty. His look was intense and wild as he fidgeted with his hands preparing to relate his whole sorry tale. �Well I don�t really know where to begin but I suppose the best place to start is at the beginning. It all started about three months ago when I was hanging around the Pines shopping centre with a few of the other skinheads. We overheard a local kid telling his friend about a 21st birthday party that was happening in Olivers Hill that night. "Free grog and plenty of swell chicks," he said so we were already half way there. Olivers Hill is the swell part of town where swanky houses litter the foothills like pebbles cover the beach. The million dollar mansions are stacked up on top of one another, each vying for the best vantage point across the bay, and each one more monstrous and visually obscene than the one right next door. It�s a modern day eyesore if you ask me, a real shrine to architectural vandalism if you know what I mean. Why the swells choose to live there I cannot understand because I wouldn�t live there for quids, you can give me the Pines any day. I love going across town to the Hill and raising a riot with the skins. Walking around that part of town with our shaved heads, leathers and steel capped head-kickers is always sure to generate some entertainment. People stop and stare but not for long - not if they know what�s good for �em. There is nothing like the feeling of power and invincibility when us skinheads march together in a pack, side by side like brothers to war. Perhaps I am being a tad melodramatic but that�s exactly how wars are initiated; when one foreign power marches into territory they have no claim to and seizes control. Feared and revered is what we are as the swells disperse before our eyes and cower within the sanctuary of their million dollar prisons where they belong. They think that living in an expensive suburb can insulate them from people like us. Well we�re here to tell them that they can�t and to let them know exactly how low they rate in the social food chain when we tip it upside down on its head. It does them good to have their comfort zone invaded by reality now and then. To have their foundations tested to see if the price tag they paid for their post code is well justified. My foundation is those that surround me, my brothers and my blood, which can always be relied upon. Everything else shifts like the sinking sands of the Simpson. We don�t even necessarily like each other but we trust each other and that�s much more important. We�ve got nothing but each other so if one of us suffers - we all suffer. That�s why we fight our battles together alongside one another, for purely selfish reasons I guess, because it�s a matter of self preservation. Without the skins who would love me and without me, who would love them? We stand and fall together as one, and now it sickens me to think how we have been torn apart through my incarceration. It�s a terrible thing to be separated from the things that you love - the very things you believe in. In any case I�m rambling again which I�m prone to do, but please grant me this grace for it�s bound to build a stronger case and leave lesser to chance, and so to return to the relation of my tale. I was all fired up to go to this party but the boys were not too inspired. "It�s too far to go," quibbled one and "Remember all the trouble we got into last time," griped another. "That�s right, it�s probably best that you stay here like the pussy�s that you are," I taunted trying to breath life back into the socially dead. "Maybe you should just kick back here in the good ol� Pines and play with one another like we do every other night, there�s much less chance of breaking a finger nail that way." But they could not be swayed with the mere lure of a good time or pressured with raillery and were resolved to stay within the bounds of their own comfort zone. All but Chook that is; good old Chooker you�ve got to love him. I have not known him for long but trust him like my oldest, dearest friend. I never need to watch my back when he�s around because I know that he watches it for me. And I look out for him too, even more so than for anyone else. There�s something about his gaunt food-forsaken frame and overly effeminate manner that makes me take him under my wing, because I just know that beyond all the bravado he spouts, he�s really just piss weak and in need of a little extra protection. So Chook and I hiked off together across town to Olivers Hill, with the promise of adventure in our hearts and the stench of cheap alcohol on our breath. We arrived at the base of the Hill just on dusk and the hip flask that had so loyally kept us company on our long journey had served its purpose, faithfully leading our senses astray before inevitably abandoning our side through the window of a parked Mercedes. We pushed on ardently, with new found vigour sourced through the absence of alcohol, yet this effort was in vain as it took us hours to successfully traverse the labyrinth of dead-ended courts and arrive at our destination on the summit of the Hill. We timidly paused for a moment at the base of a long illuminated driveway, coiled like a serpent with a great mansion at its head streaming beams of light into the black abyss of the night sky. "Lets go," I announced as we headed for the music and occasional laughter that lay beyond the entrance gates. I love the feeling of nervousness just before entering a room full of people you don�t know. A mixture of fear and anxiety that gnaws at my soul right through the stomach and lets me know that I�m alive. Some people curse nerves and wish that they did not exist - but not me. They keep me alert and on my toes, allaying any complaisance that could ultimately contribute to my demise. My heart skipped wildly in my chest as we entered the well manicured back yard. People were scattered about in small pockets of familiarity, eagerly chatting to one another completely oblivious to their surrounds. I immediately scoured the crowd for any familiar foe, and once satisfied that the coast was clear, proceeded to enter the house and acquaint myself with the parents of the host as I am always accustomed to do. I just love making parents love me. It�s a challenge made more difficult by my outward appearance, which I understand is only truly appreciated by a select few, but it is a valuable and necessary investment of my time. On many occasions this tactical manoeuvre has served to guarantee me indemnity from prosecution when the sparks start to fly, because after all, "I am a good bloke under that rough exterior." The night was proceeding well and I was in a particularly good mood. The barmy summer breeze swept across the moonlit bay and served to fuel my amiability. I was talking jovially with a couple of local swells from the Hill, who were actually quite down to earth for swells, and made the most of the well stocked bar that lay at my disposal. Chook was also having a ball, maybe too much so, as his source of enjoyment also proved to be the source of all my troubles. The number of blokes at the party heavily outweighed the women, as is always my poor fortune, and as usual the number of single and available girls could be counted on one hand. Wouldn�t you know that both of them gravitated toward Chook and his story stretching antics. It was quite a sight watching him turn it on as he held their attention firmly in his grasp, relaying tall tales of bravery and valour and honour. He gesticulated some sort of ridiculous fighting scene in an overly animated manner, on full display for his two little femme fatales and of course the twenty envious drakes that eyed him with enmity. As he was describing the final act where he finished off his adversary with one swift blow to the head, a large inebriated swell that found the whole scene too difficult to bear, at last strode across the party and shoved poor old Chook hard in the back. He sent the poor boy sprawling, a look of shock hijacking his characteristically good natured expression. Instinctively I reacted and returned the favour, walking directly up to the swell and giving him a solid push square in the chest. There was no time for reasoning or rationale - just instinct. He stumbled backwards and struggled to regain his composure. We both paused for a moment, just eyeing each other off before a confident smile illuminated his face. "So you want a go?," he boomed in an attempt to fire himself up. I just stood there staring; making no effort at all to respond to his line of questioning. Just looking coldly and sternly into his eyes whilst considering whether or not I wanted to take him on. It is always better not to fight, particularly when one is outnumbered heavily on foreign soil, that is the honest truth, but alcohol ensures that any sense of reason is silenced. Indeed all our senses abandon us bar one in these situations; the sense of survival, and our systems of operation ensures that this sense is well furnished with reason. I could have run as I had done many times before, which is always the most effective way to save ones skin, and now with the benefit of hindsight I certainly wish that I had. But as I watched the big swells friends assemble behind him and mount in number, all I could see was a challenge before me that could not be overlooked. There was an uncomfortable silence as I maintained my stare. Predictably the swell began to falter and babble within seconds. "Look mate what�s your problem," he continued. With these over educated, overtly cashed up idiots there is no point in making conversation and reasoning is pointless. They do not genuinely wish to resolve uncomfortable situations with words that have been created with their own fists, rather they hate uncomfortable silences and feel compelled to chatter, thereby settling nothing and only revealing their own insecurities. I just continued to stare him down watching him become all the more unsettled and uncomfortable as time slipped slowly by. The ball was in his court. He could have just walked away but he didn�t. Instead he chose to threaten and insult in an attempt to lure me into making a move. "You�re a dead man!," he prophesied. "What are you stupid or something?" I felt the adrenalin kicking in with the realisation of what had to be done. I had been here many times before and knew the routine to perfection. My dad schooled me in the art of fighting at a very early age through the bottom of an empty bottle. I don�t really hold it against him though, he had his share of grief after the death of my brother and my mother leaving us and everything. Besides, he contributed to making me what I am today for which I have no complaints. Practice is the best teacher and fighting skills cannot be taught in a gym pushing weights. The swell before me was much bigger and stronger than me but in a fight that counts for very little, it is always the smarter that prevails as he was about to learn. I broke out of my stare and approached him with my palms forward in a submissive position. "This is silly," I said, "two grown men fighting over nothing at all." I watched with delight as he was lulled into a false sense of security thinking that he had gained the upper hand. I stood there before him as agreeable as could be. "Now where�s that mate of mine Chook? Let�s all just talk things out, this is really quite silly," I said turning my back to him confidently.
Copyright © 2002 Bradley Postma |