Blood And Honour (3) "What are you up to?," the younger one demanded as he excitedly grabbed me by the collar like he had been waiting his whole life for something like this to happen. "Steelcaps," I quickly explained calmly pointing to my boots. "Alright, spread ‘em," he demanded in an unsatisfied manner and began to scan my body with a hand-held scanner. I stood nervously still with my arms above my head and legs parted. The guard scanned my feet a thousand times, each time sourcing new stimulation from the buzzing produced by the scanner at my toes, before making his way slowly up my legs, over my torso and along my arms. A lump gathered in my throat as he made his way along my right arm heading unsuspectingly toward the transcript in my hand. He stopped short of the folder reaching the end of his stretch. The young guard was a particularly short and therefore annoying fellow. "You’re clear to go," he announced authoritatively shoving me abruptly with his index finger. "Not so fast," interjected his elder companion languidly sauntering toward me, "let’s just wait up a minute." "Just my luck," I exclaimed under my breath, "a stickler for protocol." My heart seized with fear for I knew that the silver hair on the second guards head was testament to a lifetime of experience. In his eyes I had violated his courtroom the day before with the other skins contempt and now he would be certain to pay back the favour. "Remove your boots," he commanded, "and walk through the metal detector once more." I had to act quickly to dupe this silver headed fox and so I handed him the transcript whilst removing my boots. A flush of annoyance effused the younger guards face at being showed up, as his superior picked up my boots and carefully inspected them inside and out. "Sorry about the odour," I remarked with derision as he grimaced at the fragrance of a years hard living. I never remove those boots and I mean never. I eat, sleep, shit and shower in ‘em. The stench, mingled with his apprentices amusement served to upset the old digger as he ordered the studded bootstraps removed from each boot. "You’re lucky that we don’t add carrying a regulated weapon to your list of other charges," he taunted making a mountain out of a molehill in triumph. "Whatever you reckon old man, that should add about another 15 minutes to my sentence," I replied whilst passing in and out of the metal detector in socks, this time without incident and then replacing my boots. "Thanks very much," I exclaimed mockingly as I yanked the courtroom transcripts back from the guards grip. He stared uneasily as I looked him square in the eye and began to laugh in hysterics, letting him know that I knew something he didn’t. "Oh you’re trouble alright," he replied uneasily as I passed him by and made my way to the front of the courtroom. I was inside and saw this as a good omen, surely my plan was now bound to work. I sat alongside my useless solicitor and pressed the transcripts close to my lips, thinking how ironic it was that these very pages marked with false words intended to be my demise, were in fact harbouring the one thing that would lead to my salvation. Perhaps I had been too honest in my first attempt at defending myself but I would be sure to be a little less vociferous and a little more remorseful in my next. The tone of the trial continued in a similar fashion to how it had concluded the previous day. As the judge sat there staring down upon me from the dock with contempt, freely uttering the words "reprehensible" and "misanthrope" in reference to my character, I removed the knife from the binding and clutched it tight in my grasp. His lack of respect for my good name was positively offensive, but I was just about to assert some authority and show him exactly what his station in life was, where he really belonged in the food chain of life. "All skinheads are guilty of crimes against humanity, like those whose ideals they mould themselves upon," the judge spouted in syllogistic slander, "and you Tristan Sweet are a clearly a skinhead in spite of what the defence alleges!" The pompous rhetoric fuelled my fire and I paused briefly for a moment before staring him square in the eye, my look of hate making him pause mid-sentence as though he possessed a vague presentiment of what was to come. In fact I’m certain that he had a premonition of what was coming, the whole courtroom did as I felt my body surge with hatred, and an uneasy silence filled the air. I leaped over the desk in front of me and charged to the dock. "You think you know what’s in my heart but you don’t know a damned thing," I screamed. "It’s blood and honour - that’s what it is," I continued raising the knife up above my head and plunging it deep into the dock with my right hand and pointing to my heart with my left. Just as Mason had pulled up short of plunging the knife deep into my chest, I had now elected to pay the judge the same courtesy. I clearly understood why Mason had done it, but it didn’t work for him and it sure as hell didn’t work for me. I hoped that by sparing his life he would have seen fit to spare mine. "If I wanted to kill someone, it’s simple. I can do it just like that," I affirmed with power as the judge sunk trembling into his plush leather seat. I was brutally seized by the guards and dragged from the court screaming in an admittedly ignominious fashion. I had made my point and thought that at the very least I would have earned myself a mistrial, another opportunity to start my defence afresh, but this was not to be. Instead the judge threw the book at me and I could understand why. It’s because I threaten his manhood, his potency, his honour, his court and the whole sick society he represents. Oh well as they say, "You live by the sword, you die by the sword." I made the same mistake as Mason and wish I’d stuck that knife deep into the judges chest where it belonged. And that my friend is how I find myself in your esteemed company. Separated from the ones that I love, the things which I believe in. Now I am nothing more than a martyr to them and will never be there for them again. It’s very difficult to be separated from the one thing you love and believe in - family. But just like them, now I must learn to survive in my present environment. Many of my friends from the past have disappeared and are now long gone but it those that survive that succeed - survival is the greatest measure of success.’ There was a long pause as Knighty ruminated over the convincing argument that had just been relayed with such vigour and emotion. He rocked gently backwards and forth on the hard cot, carefully formulating his judgement to the evidence presented. ‘Blood and Honour are fine sacraments to uphold but ultimately you are guilty my friend," he announced. ‘Guilty of stupidity that is. Whilst your sense of blood is pure and fine, your perception of honour is warped and tainted. You hate society and refuse to conform with her ideals, much to your own detriment. For all your insight, how is it you cannot see that you are part of the "sick society" you so ardently despise? How is it that you let your personal pride get in the way of a greater cause and cannot see that the only way to truly succeed in life is to embrace society firmly in your welcoming arms and love her? By loving society for all her faults and majesty you will learn to love yourself and so come to realise that you are society. You claim to be smarter than them so why haven’t you learned the rules by which we all play the game? Those that are laid down and enforced by our friend society. The golden rule is of course to think as you please but don’t always say what you think. You have violated this maxim flagrantly but such is the folly of youth I suppose. Nobody can be held accountable for that as youthful arrogance is one cross that we all must bear. I truly envy the young for it is they that have all the answers and ask so few questions. A few years in here will teach you that you are in fact stupid and become more stupid every year. You are now like a fine bottle of red wine that has been cellared to mature with your thoughts. When the time comes for your release you will either have fine flavour and body or will have festered and become rotten depending upon your constitution. I have no doubt that you did not intend to kill Mason for I understand all to well how quickly and inadvertently death can be delivered to a man. You have not been sentenced for the murder, you have been sentenced for your proceeding stupidity and there is little honour in flogging a proud dead horse in the name of a lost cause, even less than rotting in this God forsaken tomb. Mason may not be alive but it is you who is the real loser.’ ‘It is the wretched life before me that I embrace, just knowing that I can stand tall because I never sold out,’ Tristo replied in defence. ‘To conform and embrace society as you recommend is a fate worse than death. To become one of the masses and work 9 to 5 each day, going through the same old routine is not to succeed but merely to concede to the misery of life. Every breath I expire is living proof of my success.’ There was a pause in conversation as Knighty sat in the realisation that he was wasting his breath whereas Tristo was vexed with being found guilty a second time around. What irritated him most about the verdict was that it had not come from one of them, it had come from one of his own - a murderer. Trsito had found respect in Knighty’s words for although they did not suit his favour, they were considered and genuine. ‘So you too have blood on your hands my friend,’ Tristo lashed out. ‘For all your wisdom how is it that you came to live a life with the same stupid fate as I?’ Knighty furled his brow and responded, ‘I was once young, reckless and proud like you. The tides of time have worn me down and I have no pride left. There is no life within these walls, just existence, and after the ills I have inflicted I do not feel that I can ever have life again.’ ‘Why of course you can,’ replied Tristo with growing intrigue, ‘surely any wrong from the past can be righted if you act with honour from this time forward. Tell me your story and allow me to return the favour and now serve as your judge.’ Some-what reluctantly Knighty began to relate his whole sorry tale, ‘It basically all started from a single ill-conceived idea that avalanched into a nightmare. One night I was getting wasted with a couple of the boys. We too were bound by blood, fierce Maori warriors with honour in our hearts. As the night drifted on and our senses abandoned us, we collectively hatched the idea of robbing a petrol station for kicks. I was not particularly interested but my protests fell upon deaf ears, and because I was outweighed by two votes to one, I placed the commitment of blood above the temperance of honour. We chose to hold up this quiet little petrol station on the fringe of town, right on closing time when nobody was around. The robbery was going fine as I held the gun on the attendant while the boys cleaned out the cash register and cigarette display. Fine that is until a guy waltzed into the store without warning, apparently completely oblivious to our presence and what we were doing. "Hit the floor," I screamed to him as he walked down the isle browsing the shelves for grocery items as if I did not even exist. "I’m not going to ask again," I continued commandingly pointing my revolver straight at his head. To my dismay he just continued to make his way toward me, in a casual manner without even raising his eyes. It was as if he knew something that I didn’t like the old court guard in your story and I was not about to suffer the same fate. I became enraged with his apparent obstinance and trembled with a mixture of anger and nervousness as he approached. To this day I still don’t know what it was that made me do it but before I knew it I had pulled the trigger. It still doesn’t seem like it was me that did it but it couldn’t have been anyone else. It was so simple to pull that trigger, almost no effort at all. I can’t quite comprehend that a thing as complicated as a human life, requiring so much effort and nurturing for a lifetime, can be erased from existence with such ease. One second he was standing there in front of me and the next he was lying on the floor covered in blood. If only he had looked at me and seen the gun. Then things would have been different, I’m sure they would have been. It was only in gaol I found out that; well my lawyer told me that the fellow was indeed; well he was ...’ ‘Deaf,’ Tristo uttered aloud in a state of unexpected shock. ‘How did you ..?,’ Knighty stopped short as Tristo stared blankly in his direction, an evil look of terror filling his gleaming eyes. The pair gazed intently at one another in silence once more; Tristo paralysed with realisation and Knighty confounded with consternation. In an instant Tristo flew across the cell grabbing Knighty by the scruff of the neck. ‘You killed my brother you bastard,’ he screamed as he landed a blow to the side of Knighty’s head before lifting him up and throwing him to the ground again like a lifeless rag-doll. Kicks rained down upon his back as Knighty curled into a ball, shielding himself from the furious barrage that beset him. Perhaps he could have clawed his way to his feet and defended himself, but a feeling he was receiving his just desserts prevented him from such dishonour. ‘I’m so sorry,’ he gasped between sobs as his miserable life flashed before him. ‘Forgive me or do with me as you please.’ Kick by kick the harsh exterior that had so effectively protected Tristo’s sensitive core from the cold blows of a cruel and uncaring world was washed away with the tears of his cell-mate. The little boy revealed empathised with the whelp that crawled and writhed at his feet. There was no way in his heart that he could bring himself to mercilessly destroy such a wretched soul. At last Tristo ceased his attack and slumped down on his bed, burying his face deep into the pillow. For years he had avowed vengeance for his brothers death and now that he had come face to face with his murderer - he had failed. Knighty summoned his remaining strength and crawled to the edge of the bed upon which Tristo lay. ‘You are right to want to take my life Tristo. You do not know how many times I have wished to end it myself. If there is anything I could do to reverse what has happened I would do it in an instant, but the one your soul yearns for cannot be replaced. Take my life now for it is yours, do with it as you will.’ Tristo raised himself up slowly and placed his hand on Knighty’s head. ‘Thankyou brother but there is nothing any of us can do. I too have blood on my hands and just like Mason my brother cannot be returned. Please leave me in peace to the misery of my thoughts and rest easy knowing that in my heart you are forgiven. Go and sleep for tomorrow you have a big day ahead.’ Tristo’s face then returned to the refuge of his pillow. His mind was a raging tempest beneath a calm exterior as he lay awake in silence, thinking about the miserable family life he had endured and what might have been if Knighty had not pulled that trigger. Perhaps his father would not have turned to alcohol, possibly his mother would not have abandoned him to chance as a mere infant and maybe his brother would have been the one companion he had always yearned for, to look up to and rely upon as he made his uncertain passage through life? At last Knighty fell victim to repose and began to snore lightly. Tristo slunk to his feet and hovered over Knighty, smiling warmly as he beheld the peaceful look on the countenance below. Ironically and without warning tears began to pour across his cheeks and drop to the floor. ‘Go now and make peace with my brother,’ he mumbled to himself as he clamped a pillow over Knighty’s face. There was a muffled exclamation proceeded by a momentary struggle but Tristo held a firm resolve as he squeezed the life from the murderers body.
Copyright © 2002 Bradley Postma |