Between Parallel Mirrors

I had always assumed that a heart attack would be a matter of extreme and sudden pain. It turned out in my case at least, not to be so. There was simply a feeling of great pressure as if my chest was crushed in a vice, and then a slow fading away as my brain was starved of blood and oxygen.

I came to, seated on a very small, three legged stool in a glassed enclosure somewhat like a huge bell jar in what certainly seemed to be a very tiny oak panelled courtroom. Behind a huge desk was the greyly bewhiskered judge. The prosecutrix stood up and put the case against me. She was a most attractive young lady, short hair, short skirt, turned up nose. I had, she said, heard the Reverend Jeremiah Johns preach on the text “Go and sell all that thou hast and give to the poor, and thou shalt have treasure in Heaven; and come and follow Me.” I had failed to comply. I had not even given the mandated tithe of my earnings. I deserved death.

I was in full flow with a spur of the moment defence. This was not the first century BCE, I said, and the established church of this land preached no such draconian rule, which in any case Jesus had proposed as an optional action to achieve perfection, not a demanded one. The judge banged his gravel, interrupting me, put on a huge black Stetson hat and declared me guilty and handed down a death penalty. Thereupon he rang a bell, and I do not mean pressed a button but clanged a mighty brass school bell. Thereupon two overweight but burly men entered. One went to the wall and mightily turned a great iron handle that winched the bell jar enclosure up away from me. Each then took me firmly by an arm and marched me through the small door to the left of the judge’s bench into what I immediately deduced was the execution chamber. I was stood on a wooden section of the floor, blindfolded, felt a noose placed around my neck. I heard a handle creak rustily and I fell.

I landed in what was clearly another courtroom. This time I was again clearly in the dock, but seated in a high backed brown Windsor chair and enclosed only by a waist high barrier. The panelling and barrier were, so far as I could judge, of fine mahogany. The judge was younger, with flaming red hair and whiskers, the lady prosecutor looked to be the same person as before, but with her hair done differently in a bun, and much more smartly dressed.

The case she put against me conceded that I had committed no major crimes, but featured the fact that I had once picked up a five pound note in the street but not handed it in to the police station. Also, on several occasions I had failed to offer assistance to elderly pesons who patently wanted help crossing the street. My defence was that these were peccadilloes such as any man might commit, one set of accusations even concerned crimes of omission rather that commission that no law prescribes against. “Use every man after his desert, and who shall 'scape whipping?” I quoted, calling this back form my school days’ study of Hamlet, considering myself very clever. Again I was curtly interrupted. The gavel came down. The hat was this time a Hamburg, but also of midnight black. The sentence was again death. The same two burly men led me through the same door, This time there was in that small room an electric chair into which I was strapped, drenched with salt water and wired up. The jolt of electricity was more of a tickle than anything else, no burning sensation or writhing. I faded away oh so gently.

The courtroom I found myself in this time was panelled in light coloured wood, pine, maple or ash I thought. The dock had a high wooden wall and thick glass to preclude the implausible eventuality that I might attack the judge. I was sat in a luxurious, plum coloured armchair. The judge too was light coloured, Nordic with an accent to match and fair hair, blue eyes, hairs protruding from his nose. The prosecution was conducted, so far as I could tell, by the same woman as before, but she seemed to have aged a little and died her hair a lurid red. I had gone through life, she accused, despite my upbringing, many times neither saying “bless me”, nor crossing myself after sneezing, let alone doing both as was proper. My defence, naturally, was that the thing I stood accused of was no crime under any code but no more that a violation of superstitious custom. It was again brought to an abrupt end by the fall of the gavel. The hate was of course deepest black, but a flower strewn creation as might have graced the head of a grand lady at the races. The sentence – death. The same two warders virtually carried me to the same small room, where I was strapped to the gurney and the tubes were put it, taps turned. Euphoria washed over me as I departed that life, no discomfort.

I was rudely awaken by being shaken by a buxom woman in blue. “The accused is not supposed to doze off” she said accusingly. I found that I was lying flat out on a grey wooden bench in the body of the court. This time the room was gloomy, being panelled in, so far as was possible to make out, beautifully figured ebony. The judge was an old lady, dressed entirely in jet black lace, with tiny patches of pink skin peeping through it it in such places where it was unequivocally decent for it so to do. Her hair was medium grey, entombed in a pink hairnet. Before her on the table, ominously, was a plain circle of black silk. The ‘prosecutress’, as I had decided that I preferred to call her, seemed again to be the same person, but aged still a little further and with her greying hair in a bizarre Mohican. The case that she laid against me was that, on our wedding day I had surreptitiously crossed my fingers during my vows. Guilty as charged – although her supposition and accusation that I did so with the intent of breaking them was totally unjustified. I was merely requesting the unknown gods for blessing in my marriage.

“Rats” I thought,”this will be as before. Nothing I say will make any difference!”. So when it was demanded of me that I put my defence, as before not having been required to plead, I simply stated that the charge was true. “Thank goodness for a sensible defendant!” said the judge, “as you have pleaded guilty, I can by statute acquit you.” However, she went on to say, since this was National Confinement day, I could not be let go until tomorrow. I should have to stay in my cell until morn. However, since a last meal had been prepared against the contingency of conviction, I might as well enjoy it.

So the two burleys conduced me to my cell. Plain stone walls but huge. In the centre of it was a vast four poster bed which proved most comfortable. The not-last meal was devilled kidneys with fried Shiitake mushrooms and avocado – delicious, exactly what I would have chosen. Replete and very comfortable in the luxurious bed, I dozed off.

I was woken, despite her best efforts not to disturb me, by a very pretty nurse taking my pulse. Seeing me awake she informed me that the fitting of stents had gone to the great satisfaction of the surgeon. I should hereafter be well advised to avoid over-strenuous exercise while not stinting on milder versions of the same. Medication would be prescribed to be taken regularly for life. My prospects of reaching ripe old age were near normal. I should be discharged in three days.

Did I really dream all that?