The First Fifteen Lives of Harry August

Chapter 55

A padded suit in a padded chair in a padded cell.

How had I worked in this place for so long and not found this room?

Bright light and an IV drip. The drip fed into a vein in my hand. My hand was strapped to the chair at the wrist. I wondered if anything would be achieved by trying to wrench the drip out of my skin. In the long run, probably not. There were straps along the length of my arm, stopping at the bend in my elbow. More straps across my legs, around my ankles, across my chest and even, to my annoyance, my forehead. It was designed to make death by anything other than an act of God impossible. I reflected that it was probably also the best my posture had been for a very long time and was thus innately uncomfortable.

Vincent sat in front of me and said nothing.

A phrase written on his face.

Not angry–just sad.

I wondered if, in another life, Vincent had been a primary school teacher. He would have excelled at the task.

Finally I said, “Assuming I refuse to eat or drink, how long do you think you can keep me alive with nutrients and force alone?”

He almost flinched, pained by the vulgarity of the task in hand. “In a few years’ time the IRA hunger strikers will live for over sixty days before death. I’m hoping, however, that we can find some better way of sustaining you than by putting a tube down your throat.”

My turn to flinch. Sixty days is a long time to be a prisoner with no thought of escape but a prolonged, painful death. Did I have the will to refuse food when dying of starvation? I didn’t know. I had never put it to the test. Could my mind reject life even when my body screamed for it. It depended, I concluded, on what that life was for, and worth.

Silence.

I couldn’t remember there ever being silence between us before this day, or at least a silence which was not one of shared excitement and contemplation. There seemed no need for communication, no need to spell out all the obvious things which polite society required were said. Indeed, it seemed to me that in that silence we said it all anyway, and almost at the exact instant I had run out of things I wished to say to Vincent in the imaginary conversation in my mind and begun back again on a loop of it, he raised his head and declared,

“I need to know your point of origin.”

The question stunned me, though it shouldn’t have.

“Why?” I asked, mouth suddenly dry.

“Not to kill you,” he blurted hastily, “Dear God, I would never do that, Harry, never, I swear. But I need you to know that I know it. I need you to realise that you could be aborted in the womb, not-born. I need you to know that, so that you will keep my secrets. I know you will never again be my friend, but the rest… is more important.”

I considered the implications, not for my own life–the threat against that was suddenly very clear–but for Vincent. He was younger than me, born later in the century, and therefore the idea that he could somehow be a threat to me, prevent me even being born, was impossible, unless he had assistance. Someone of an older generation, someone who would be alive in 1919, ready to poison my mother before I could be created. An ally in the Cronus Club? A collaborator in his dream, as I could no longer be?

He watched me, no doubt following the direction of my thoughts, then added, “I would rather not take the information by force, Harry. But if I must, I must.”

A snap back to the present, focus on reality. “You’ll torture me?” I asked. No point dancing around the words, and I was mildly pleased to see him flinch at the idea. Less pleased to see how readily he accepted it.

“Yes, if I must. Please don’t make me.”

“I’m not making you, Vincent; the decision is entirely yours. I’d like just to clear myself of any moral responsibility for that particular act before you do it.”

“You know everyone breaks, Harry. Everyone.”

A memory. Franklin Phearson, sobbing at his feet. Everyone breaks, and that was the truth of it. I would break as well. I would give up my point of origin.

Or I would lie and die.

“What will it be?” I asked airily and was surprised by the giddy lightness of my words. Recollections of Phearson tumbled beneath my thoughts like a quiet sea pulling back for the tsunami, and I rolled along with the waters, no longer in charge. “Are you thinking chemical? I should warn you, they tried antipsychotics on me before and it produces some unlikely effects. Psychological? No, probably not psychological. If I have only sixty or so days before my body is too weak to survive, and while I hate to overestimate my own mental fortitude, time is your enemy. Electrical would be best, but runs a risk to the heart–you do know about my heart, don’t you? Extreme cold, perhaps. Or extreme heat? Or a mixture of both. Sleep deprivation as standard but then again—”

“Stop it, Harry.”

“I’m just going through the process for you.”

He managed to meet my eyes, and I found it easy to meet his. I’d never seen him beg before.

(I’m a fucking good guy, Harry! I’m a fucking defender of democracy!)

“Just tell me, Harry. Tell me when you’re born and this won’t have to get any worse.”

(Christ, I’m not that guy, I’m just not, but you gotta understand, this is bigger than you or me.)

“I hope you don’t mind if I again query your use of the phrase ‘have to’.” I didn’t know who spoke but it sounded like me, albeit a little drunk. “You are under no compulsion to do any of this to me. It’s an entirely voluntary action on your part.”

“Everybody breaks, Harry.”

“I know. But you can’t afford to see how long it takes me, can you? So come on, Vincent,” I relished his English name, rolled it round my tongue. “You’d better get started.”

He hesitated, just a moment, then the begging was gone.

His eyes tightened.

(Make a difference, damn it! Make a difference!)

Franklin Phearson’s voice in my ear. Once upon a time he’d made the pain go away and stroked my hair, and I’d loved him for it like a child loves a long-lost mother, and I’d been broken and he’d been right. In his own inestimable, pointless way, he’d been right, and I’d died and that world, to me, might never have been if memory didn’t make it so.

With a half-shake of his head, Vincent stood to go.

“Not going to do it yourself?” I called after him. “Whatever happened to moral responsibility?”

“Think about it for a day,” he replied. “Just a day.”

And he left.