Desmond Chapter Fourteen
1958
For a hippy this guy sure is nasty. But then Armstrong has always sensed, really, that the more peace and love someone showed on the outside, the more likely they were all hate and war on the inside. It was an attitude that had informed his world view, one that his Father had taught him as well. The power of weakness, the Old Man had called it. Using sympathy as a weapon. Don't fall for it, kid.
And so he hadn't. His whole life Armstrong had endeavoured to see through the illusions about people, to see them as they really where, and react accordingly. It had become an obsession, the question of: who is this person before me? Who are they, really?
And of course, once he knew the type of person he was dealing with, he would not hesitate to use any means necessary to resolve whatever problems that might lay between them. He was most certainly not afraid to fight and defend.
And yet now, standing in the centre of this brightly light concrete cell, standing here taking blow after blow from this dirty lice infested lowlife, he find himself unable to do that, to defend himself. He just takes the beating and does nothing, standing rigidly at attention while the guy punches and kicks him over and over. There are no cuffs on him; he isn't tied up. No one is holding a gun on him and he hasn't even been threatened.
It's just that the North has him. She holds him in her grip and commands him to be still, and he obeys. Just like that.
The hippy – a term Murray had inadverdantly used, but one that Armstrong had been informed of years earlier – the guy is breathing hard through his scraggly beard, wild eyes flaming red beneath thick eyebrows and a shag of greasy long hair. The guy is giving himself quite a workout, probably the first real exercise he's had in years. And even though his punches are fucking pussy weak, this beating has been going on for a long time now, and Armstrong can feel his body begin to wear away like a gradual erosion, the flesh on his skull first bruising, then swelling, then rupturing and splitting open, his teeth loosening and falling out of his mouth. His left eye has almost completely swollen shut, and at least three of his ribs have given away.
The whole time there is no real pain, just a feeling that he really can move any time he wants to. He can move; of course he can move if he wants to. There isn't really anything stopping him. So why doesn't he move? Because he doesn't want to move. And why doesn't he want to move?
Because the North has him.
Armstrong's memory of the North, of her appearance in the Garden, feels now like an echo of shifting substance deep within the cellars of his mind. There is a weight to it, pulling him downward, inwards. Sinking him deep into himself.
The way she'd said his name. She said it like a song that she had written. As though she had invented him. His name fell from her lips like ropes to bind him. Bind him to her forever.
The hippy turns away from Armstrong and leans over with his hands on his thighs, chest heaving as he struggles to regain control of his breathing. At the end of each breath there's this sort of tea kettle whistle from deep within the guy's lungs. Probably been hitting the grass too much lately. The guy's legs are shaking unsteadily and sweat drips from his brow onto the concrete floor. His wool parka is stained with sweat and Armstrong's blood, obscuring the mandala pattern woven into the garment. The tea kettle begins to lower its' din within the confined space of the cell.
Armstrong continues to stand stock still like a soldier at attention. Blood streams down his face and into his shirt. Another tooth has released itself inside of his mouth, but he doesn't spit it out. It'll fly out the next time the hippy hits him, probably. He finds it intriguing the extent to which he is able to analyze the situation, to use his critical faculties, while also under the North's control. During his time as an agent – during his entire life, really – Armstrong has had ample opportunity to see the nature of power as it is put into practice. But what is happening to him now is on another level entirely. The very disinterested nature of his own observations, the detachment both emotional and physical from the severity of his circumstances, seems to be a very part of the control he is under. The illusion of freedom. This thought seems to tickle its way up from his very subconscious, but no, he mustn't let himself believe that. It comes from the North. He doesn't want to be free. A slave dammit he doesn't want to be a slave don't let her don't-
The hippy looks up from his bent position and turns his head towards Armstrong. The guy's chest is still heaving but the wild look in his eye has gone away now, replaced by a sort of inquisitive stare. Slowly he straightens up and turns fully to face Armstrong. The pungent smell of his sweat lightly stings Armstrong's nose as he moves in closer. There is moment's anticipation in which Armstrong expects to get hit again, not that it'll make any difference really; he'll stand here still as a statue because he wants to, the North has him and he wants to be a free slave. He wants to free. Oh no, he thinks, not the poetry again. Anything but that weird poetry. Free poetry slave. Oh no.
But the hippy doesn't hit Armstrong again. Instead, after a few moments of regarding Armstrong, he opens his mouth and speaks.
“Echoes,” the hippy says, his voice a soft and luxuriant tenor that, well, echoes throughout the concrete cell, seeming to actually dim the arc sodium lights that gleam overhead. “She is echoing within you. Casting back and forth and creating her own momentum. In here.” The hippy points a single finger straight between Armstrong's eyes.
“She echoes with love in you. Her love needs to release from within. This is what I am trying to do. I have been trying to help you release her echoes from within, and now...” The hippy steps back with a crooked smile and his hands outstretched. “Now I believe that you are finally ready.”
With that, the hippy turns away from Armstrong and walks over to the cell door. He knocks once and a few seconds later the door is opened from the outside. A blank faced soldier at the door leans in and hands an object to the hippy.
And now, through this apparent fog of detachment, Armstrong begins to feel the first cold stirrings of unease within his chest. Another voice emerges from within, between the echoes, like a child crying to him from a great distance. A great distance within to hear this voice, causes Armstrong to tremble imperceptibly beneath his sheen of blood and rioted skin. The voice is hiding between the echoes.
And it is telling him to do the same.
The hippy turns back to face Armstrong while the soldier closes the door behind him. In his hand he is holding a .38 revolver. The hippy stares grimly at Armstrong while stepping forward. Anxious tension rises up through Armstrong's legs with every step closer. The voice within is screaming from so far away, so far away now, who are you? Are you my friend? Are you me? Am I alone?
The hippy steps up to Armstrong and raises the .38, pressing the muzzle against the same spot between his eyes where he had pointed with his finger. Hide, the other voice urges, between her echoes. She is bound to herself, to give you this chance. She is bound. The hippy thumbs back the hammer on the .38. Armstrong tries to move but he doesn't want to. He doesn't want to be moving away from this. Hide. Hide!
When the hippy pulls the trigger, the entire room is engulfed with light, a light of the same strange quality as the light that had exploded in the basement when he tried to shoot the North, only now the light is centering down onto Armstrong's head, centred onto him instead of the North. Is his head upside down? Is his head on fire? He doesn't know. But, yes, the poetry is back.
A poetry most terrible has returned.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN COMING SOON
PREVIOUS CHAPTERS: Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three
Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen