CONSEQUENCES

CONSEQUENCES

“Sir, I am not a bit hungry. I just want to go home”.

“Son, you best eat it now, you hear? It could be a long time afore...”

“Before what? I told you everything I know”.

The older man ignored the pleadings of his prisoner and continued dishing out the beans from the pot in his hand. The younger occupant of this rough hewn log cabin, his expensive, tailor made, business suit ragged and crumpled from being forced into the rear of the SUV that had abducted him from the basement car park of his business office, earlier that evening, began to beg.

“I just handled some paperwork. I’ve never known anything else about this operation. I’ve given you their names, their addresses. Please, I can’t tell you anything else; I don’t know anything more. Please...I’m just a lawyer.”

“ ‘The first thing we do is kill all the lawyers’, Henry V1”.

The younger man looked incredulously at this older man, this...this thug who was now quoting what? Shakespeare?

His captor, a slightly built man, unshaven and dressed in a nondescript, functional, sweat top and cargo pants, his military bearing exuding an air of controlled menace, sat at the table and started to eat his beans, ignoring the pleadings of his fellow diner. Having finished his meal, he picked up the enamel plate with both hands and proceeded to lick the tomato juice.

“Best bit. You gonna eat those beans, son?”

The young man shook his head, no. Without hesitation, the plate was dragged across and the second plate of beans hungrily devoured. Again, the licking of the plate completed the ritual, as the lawyer looked on, slightly disgusted by this lack of etiquette. As if reading his thoughts, the captor, looking up from his plate, held up a pinky and wriggled it, his contemptuous grin revealing sauce smeared teeth.

“One thing you learn in the military, son: you grabs chow at ever’ opportunity. It might just be your last meal”.

A potbelly stove was issuing heat efficiently but, otherwise, the single roomed cabin was sparsely furnished with no comfortable chairs and no bed of any kind. Pointing to the cell phone on the table, he explained.

“We just gotta wait ’til I hear from my partner. See if those names and addresses you gave us are good”.

“Then, you’ll let me go?”

The older man looked pityingly across at his captive.

“Son, you seem like an educated fella. You surely understand what consequences means?”

The lawyer looked questioningly at his interrogator.

“Of course”.

“Ain’t a damn thing we humans do that don’t have consequences. You agree?”

Unsure of where the conversation was leading, the young man nodded reluctantly.

“I guess I ain’t had the type o’ pampered upbringing or education that you’ve had. I am purely self taught, myself, but I’ve done a fair bit o’ reading and a lot o’ clever folks have had a thing or two to say ‘bout consequences. You ever hear tell of a fella name o’ Josiah Stamp at that fancy college you graduated from?”

“Who?”

Ignoring the question, and shaking his head at the lawyer’s ignorance, the older man continued.

“ ‘It is easy to dodge our responsibilities but we cannot dodge the consequences of dodging our responsibilities.’ That were one o’ his. I like that one. What about Robert Louis Stevenson? You’ve surely heard tell o’ him?”

The lawyer searched his befuddled brain.

“Treasure Island?”

“ ‘Sooner or later, everyone sits down to a banquet of consequences’. A banquet of consequences. Love that. You see, son, one bad decision can lead to a whole heap of repercussions and you made one real bad 'un when you agreed to take those double-crossing scum on as your clients...”

“But...”

“Save it, boy. It don’t do no good. Sure, you gave ‘em up soon enough but, the day you helped those fellas set up their trail of corporations, offshore accounts and the like, was the day you sold your soul to the devil and you surely don’t think you can do a deal with El Diablo and still end up in Heaven, do ya?”

“But...I had nothing to do with their actual operation...I keep telling you; I’m just a lawyer. I made sure I remained neutral...”

“ ‘Neutral men are the devil’s allies’, Edwin Hubbel Chapin. You made your bed, son, now you gots to lie in it. My advice...best prepare yourself. We all gonna die son. Best go out with a little dignity”.

Suddenly, the lawyer lunged desperately from the table in an effort to reach the door but the older man calmly stretched out a leg and tripped a fleeing foot, sending him sprawling, headlong, to the grimy floor.

“I ain’t hurt you none, yet, boy. Don’t give me a reason to start now”.

“I’m only thirty. I’m not ready to die...”. The captive began to weep, momentarily but soon stopped.

As he was dragged from the floor and made to sit down again at the table, he seemed, finally, to realise the hopelessness of his situation and a calmness descended over him. He was going to die. Today. He would never leave this cabin alive. As soon as the information he had given regarding his clients had been confirmed, this man was going to kill him. There was no point in protesting his naivety, his stupid greed; nothing he could say would make any difference. He breathed in deeply.

“Sir, if it’s not too late, I think I would like to have something to eat”.

The wily mercenary looked at his prisoner with a new understanding, acknowledging this dawning of reality; he had seen this reaction many times in those about to face death at his hands.

“That’s the way, boy. Now, let me see what I can rustle up”.

He made his way to the cardboard box filled with cans that sat on a work surface near to the stove. As he rummaged through the contents, his captive sat quietly, head down, at the table.

“Well, can’t say I can offer you much variety, son. It’s either beans...or beans”.

“Beans is fine, sir. Thank you”.

The older man tore off the peel back lid and dumped the beans into the pot that he had used previously, placing it on top of the stove to heat up.

“Tell you what though, there’s a tin o’ peaches. We can open them up for dessert, if you like”.

“Peaches? You mean the ones in syrup? That’d be nice. I haven’t had those for years. Thank you, sir”.

The ex-soldier placed the beans, heaped high on an enamel plate, in front of the prisoner.

“May I please have a fork, sir?”

The older man looked at his captive shrewdly, shaking his head, before fetching a spoon and placing it in front of the lawyer. He then watched as the beans were scooped up in great mouthfuls and gulped down. When the younger man had finished, he took the plate and copied the actions of the other man by licking the plate clean of the sweet, tomato juice, grinning as he did so. The older man could not suppress a smile.

“That’s the way, boy. Still want them peaches?”

The lawyer nodded and the captor rose and returned, once more, to the box of goods.

“Damn me, ain’t no flip lid”.

He held the can in front of his eyes, turning it upside down in frustration.

“You might just have to forego these little beauties, son”.

“Please. There must be a can opener, somewhere. You promised”.

The captor could sense a slight return of the prisoner’s former wheedling self so, reluctantly, began to rummage in the drawers before, eventually, locating a rusting can opener which he applied to the can of peaches, turning and twisting and grunting with the effort. Several times the can opener, blunt and aged, lost traction with the edge of the can’s surface, causing it to slip and the ex-soldier to curse loudly. Finally, sweating from the effort, he placed the can in front of the lawyer.

“You can damn well use the same spoon. God only knows how people managed to use those stupid contraptions, years ago”.

The lawyer prised open the jagged edge of the can and took a spoonful of juice, bringing it to his mouth, savouring the sweetness.

“Oh my, sir. That is so good. You sure you don’t want to share?”

As he spoke, he spooned a half of peach from the can to his mouth and the ex-soldier began to lick his lips with his tongue.

“Guess I’ll take half, boy”.

Fetching another enamel plate, he placed it in front of the lawyer. As he did so, his cell phone began to vibrate wildly.

“Yeah? Yeah. Okay. I said okay”.

Quietly, grimly, he placed the phone in a pocket of his pants. At the same time, he withdrew his handgun from his waistband and held it in his right hand as he sat across from the lawyer.

“Times up. Best finish those peaches, son”.

The lawyer looked up, understanding. Taking the can in his left hand, he began to dole peaches and juice onto his captor’s plate. As he looked into the black, ice cold eyes, devoid of sympathy in the passionless face that stared back at him, he knew that he was moments away from death.

“I’m... not... a criminal...”

“We’re all a part o’ the same conspiracy, son”.

“Thanks, at least, for my last supper”.

With his right hand, the lawyer hurled the plate of fruit and syrup at his captor’s face. At the same time, with his left, he thrust with the can at the older man’s throat, the jagged edge of the lid becoming embedded in the mercenary’s throat. Without hesitation, he sliced, left and right, and watched in horror as the blood spurted from the carotid artery, spraying everything with a deep, purple-like colour; life, itself, oozing from the killer’s being.

Amazed at his actions and stunned by his lack of remorse at this taking of another human’s life, he calmly took the gun from the older man’s grip and placed the barrel, unnecessarily, to the back of his head.

“ ‘Consequences are unpitying’, George Eliot”.

He squeezed the trigger.