Doolols' entry for comp #2

[doolols]

Dead Mans Hour (1016 words)


The sunlight streamed through the barred windows, and forced itself through Sherwood's tight-shut eyes, waking him before the buzzer sounded. He lay, sleep-deprived, wishing for more rest, but keen to make the best of the day. For it was his last.

After breakfast in his cell, he sat on his bed, passive, waiting patiently for the door to slide noisily back, hammering into the end stop like it was trying to blast its way out of the frame. Cornwall was at his door before Sherwood had realised he was approaching. Sherwood took in the smart, charcoal-grey suit, perfect tie knot, and crisp white shirt.

"Mister Sherwood. I understand it is your last day with us. It seems you're going to another place to spend eternity." Jimmy Sherwood, lifer without, was unimpressed with the speech so far, and kept his impassive expression.

Cornwall continued. "I would just like to thank you for your time with us, and hope you've enjoyed it, and wish you a speedy journey onto your next abode." He turned to Beech, standing crisply to attention at his side. "Have there, by any chance, been any last minute pleas for clemency? Anyone want to prolong the life of this useless garbage?"

Beech made a big deal of checking through the papers on his clipboard, back and forth, back and forth. "Err... no, Mister Cornwall. I don't appear to have anything here."

"Such a pity. You never know, there's still time. Enjoy your last day, Sherwood. What remains of it."

Cornwall and his entourage marched off, and a few minutes later, the door slid back, and he was pushed with unnecessary force by armed warders to the exercise yard.

"Good luck, Sherwood," cried Corrigan, the only other inmate on the lifers wing. Sherwood, as always, ignored him. A slight hesitation in his pace prompted a jab in the back from a rifle-holding fist, and he continued his way, past empty cells, cold dark concrete walls, the only occupants a menagerie of the small and unpleasant creatures.

Once outside, the brightness of the sun forced his eyes shut, and caused him to look away. One of the guards, keys rattling, unshackled his wrists, and retired back several paces, just like he'd been instructed. No mistakes on final day.

When his eyes got used to the brightness, Sherwood looked around for the last time, sniffing the fresh air, taking in the dry, well-trodden dusty ground, the attentive wardens perched high up in guard towers, rifles held casually but purposefully.

He shuffled around the perimeter of the yard, hands thrust deep in pockets, lost in his own thoughts. This was the act he always performed for the guards. Nonchalent ease, uncaring, lost in thought. He was running the options, as Pete used to say. "When you're planning and doing a job, run the options. It'll keep you out of prison, believe me." Sherwood had always run the options, but getting stitched up by his accomplice hadn't been one of them.

He still ran the options, even though there weren't any. He'd done his time, he'd had his appeals, and there were no last-ditch efforts to save his worthless life. The finality of this day was beginning to hit.

The rest of his day was spent writing final letters, eating the meals that were noisily thrust through the letter-box sized aperture next to the door. That door which would open just once more.

The shadows on the walls crawled slowly from ceiling to floor of his cell, and across the floor, from left to right. Thus did he measure the passing of the time.  Darkness seeped in from outside at something around five o'clock at this time of year, and he watched the light fade.

At eleven o'clock, after he had dozed a little, he heard footsteps in the corridor outside. He stayed lying down, back to the open end of the cell, listening.

"So, Mister Sherwood. Guess what? I have some good news for you."

Shit. He almost moved then. He almost rolled off the bed, jumped to his feet, rushed to the bars, excitedly waiting for the news. But in the end, it was just a twitch. They would'nt have seen it. He was sure of that.

"Do you not want to know what the good news is? Do you not want to see the fax I've just received from the State Governor?" He heard the rustle of a piece of paper, otherwise there was silence.

"Don't you think that's strange, Mister Beech? The prisoner doesn't want to see the good news we have for him? Maybe we shouldn't give him this good news after all, especially since the prisoner doesn't seem interested."

Controlling himself, Sherwood turned on the bed, eyes still closed, and manoeuvred himself into a position so he could see his visitors. No expression. No comment.

"There, that's better. I'm so pleased, I'll read you this fax. Ahem. It's from the State Governor. Oh, I already said that, didn't I? 'Dear blah blah blah. I'm pleased to see that .. blah blah.' There's some stuff about figures, performance, plans, targets. Ah, here we are. 'I hope all goes well this evening. I trust it will pass off without a hitch. Blah blah, signed Governor Art Rawlins, Governor for the state of Florida.' That's nice, isn't it, Sherwood? The Governor himself wishes me, and by inference, you, all the best for tonight."

Sherwood expected a stupid game like this. Typical of Cornwall.

"Well, I suppose Id better leave you to it. I've got things to do, and I'm sure you have, too. Be seeing you." He turned to walk off, and then stopped. "By the way, Sherwood, it's eleven o'clock. Just an hour to go until your big moment. Do you know what this hour is called, Sherwood? Your final hour? It's called 'Dead Mans Hour.' Because, Mister Sherwood, you're as good as dead already. Enjoy the rest of your life." They disappeared, footsteps retreating into the gloom outside his field of view, and Sherwood faced the rest of his life, this Dead Man's Hour, thinking.
   
Gerald Hornsby (c) 2005

[Walker]

Good one Gerald. I was hoping right up until the end that he had a plan to escape or something. Maybe even seeing Cornwall get a kick in the head, that would have been nice too. Really well written with lots of tension. 

[JoyceCarter]

These are a pair of very strongly-drawn characters.  As Walker said, I really hoped Sherwood was about to do something.  I wanted there to be some sparks struck.  Thanks for the read.