The white devil, p.1
The White Devil, page 1
Paul Hoffman
* * *
THE WHITE DEVIL
Contents
Prologue
PART I: Dallas Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
PART II: Malfi Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
PART III Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
PART IV: Washingtone Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
PART V: Peachtree Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
He Cannot Chuse But Hear
Acknowledgements
Thanks
About the Author
Paul Hoffman is the author of three previous novels, The Last Four Things (2011), The Left Hand of God (2010), The Beating of His Wings (2013), The Golden Age of Censorship (2007), a black comedy based on his experiences as a film censor and The Wisdom of Crocodiles (2000), which predicted the collapse of the world financial system.
By the same author
The Wisdom of Crocodiles
The Golden Age of Censorship
The Left Hand of God
The Last Four Things
The Beating of His Wings
Scorn
For my English teacher, the sculptor Faith Tolkien, whose skill, extreme patience, and moral imagination prevented me from becoming Thomas Cale.
‘Paralell yuniverses in wich everi possibul variant of histori is beink plaid out at wunce may or may not eggsist; the kase is unprooved. We ar going to haf to liv with thaet uncertainti.’
– Heorge Ellias, Scientifyk Amerikane
Welcome those of you from the Old World, and welcome to the New.
In what way new, you ask? There must, you say, be men and women here in this freshly minted continent and they must, some of them, be high and low, and good and bad, as in all the very many kinds of world that have ever existed and which still exist on the great globe. The poor and the weak are here, of course, as are the rich and powerful. But in the United Estates of the Americas all men are equal except for those who are not; everyone has the same chance of being rich and poor except for those who don’t. Everyone is free except for those who are not free; every man can look every other man in the eye, be he never so powerful – other than those who’d better not if they know what’s good for them. In other places the common people do as they are told by men who have power by virtue of their talent for getting born in the right place to the right mother and father, or to claims of greater wisdom born of an education that made them fit to lead the herd. But in the United Estates any man, rich or poor, can rule over the great experiment in demoscracy if he can get the vote of his fellow countrymen.
A vote? Let me explain. In the United Estates’ creation document it was written by the Founding Forebears that all those who could be called men were born equal, endowed by God with the right to choose their government by casting lots. A new chapter for mankind was being written. A new dawn was breaking. Laugh at the absurdity of the ignorant common man unleashed to rule not only himself but also his wiser and more thoughtful betters – and then allow this is a world that clearly deserved to be described as new, a world that is setting out on a great and terrifying experiment.
It is not, however, a world without its peculiar institutions.
Part I
* * *
DALLAS
‘Then the Lord said, Where have you come from? And Satan answered the Lord and said, From going to and fro in the earth, and walking up and down in it.’
It was just after midday and two men, one black, one white, were being taken through a courtyard to be hanged. As courtyards in prisons go it was large, and they had nearly a hundred yards to walk to reach the two separate scaffolds on which ropes, wet with rain from an earlier shower, dripped on to the trapdoors beneath.
Hands tied behind their backs, one five yards behind the other, the prisoners each had a guard on either side. Not to prevent escape, as such, but to control them in case the fear – which usually numbed the condemned – transformed into panic. They had approximately a hundred steps left to take in this life and a few more breaths than that. They had eaten the last meal, smiled for the last time; they would sleep no more: they would never wake up again. The black man was intensely alert. He looked at the warden’s vegetable patch – Bibb lettuce, six purple tomato plants and three varieties of snap beans bursting with juiciness. Was he affronted by their insolence, knowing that the last thing he would taste now would be the taste of terror? Perhaps he saw nothing at all. The white man following behind seemed not calm but indifferent. He blinked only occasionally. Then he tripped – just a little – and recovered quickly.
‘Mind yure step, Bechette,’ said one of the guards. ‘We gotta deliver you to the rope all crackerjack.’
The white prisoner turned his head slightly to one side and spoke for the first time that morning.
‘My name isn’t Bechette, I didn’t have anything to do with this murder, I wasn’t in the country when it happened.’
The older guard had heard many protestations of innocence – a few (a very few) turned out later to be true. Sometimes these performances were pretty convincing, but after so many years he thought he now could tell innocence from desperation. Of course, by the time he was involved in taking these men to the gallows it made no difference what he believed. But Bechette’s tone was one which he couldn’t place. Such a detached observation made no sense on such a terrible morning.
Halfway now. From one of the few windows overlooking the execution site a convict started to sing, a good voice but almost as high-pitched as that of a young girl.
Suummetiiimes I feeeeel like a feather in the air
Suummetyeeyeimes I feeeeela like a feeeather in the aaaair
The voice dropped a surprisingly long way: Lord, Lord, I know my time ain’t long.
Someone shouted:
‘Shut yure pie-hole!’
But the voice sang on as the walk continued.
Suummetiiimes I feeeeel like a muuutherless child
Suummetyeeyeimes I feeeeela like a muuuuuuuutherless child.
Bechette appeared not to hear the music at all. Despite, or perhaps because of the mournful beauty of the song, the black prisoner seemed only more agitated. But then he did something odd: he stepped aside to avoid treading in a puddle. At this a look of anguish crossed the face of his fellow prisoner, as if the simple act of a man wanting to avoid getting his feet wet had broken through the mask. He started to slow and the guards next to him tensed, moving closer to grab his arms.
‘Easy now, Bechette. Let’s do this quick, eh?’
Soon the first prisoner was at the foot of the first scaffold stairs. His guards were surprised to see the Hangman coming down the steps from the second scaffold with a deeply concerned look on his face. This was an agitated man, which in turn worried the guards, who looked to do this work in as routine a fashion as possible. But the Hangman ignored them and walked straight to the second set of guards as they headed for the second gallows.
‘Mr Bechette, is it?’
An ecstasy of hope from the bound man. Reprieve! Reprieve!
‘I must apologize to you, sir …’ No apologies. No reprieve begins with an apology! ‘… but the inclement weather has caused the trapdoor on the white scaffold to jam. I’m afraid you must hang on the black scaffold. I regret this, but there’s nothing that can be done. But be assured, Mr Bechette, that you will not hang using a Negro rope or a Negro hood. You have my word as a gentleman.’
Honour satisfied, he turned and walked over to the black scaffold and started up the steps, calling out behind him, ‘Bring up the coloured prisoner in twenty seconds.’
‘Feel right sorry for you, Bechette,’ said the young guard. ‘Shit, bein’ innocent an’ all, looks like if you didn’t have bad luck you wouldn’t have no kinda luck at all.’ It was his first hanging and he was anxious to show that he wasn’t bothered.
‘Now you shut yure pie-hole,’ said the older guard. ‘And keep it shut.’ He turned to the second prisoner. ‘Just wait here, Chief.’
& nbsp; … like mah soul is on fiiire …
By now the black prisoner was taking his last step on to the scaffold proper. His legs gave way, but the guards, experienced men, held him firm and eased him forward on to the trapdoor.
‘Please don’t let me fall.’
‘We won’t. It’ll be all right,’ said the older guard.
The Hangman, still not entirely over his exasperation at the morning’s impropriety, looked impatiently at the condemned man. ‘I can’t hang you, Cuffy, if ’n’ you won’t stand on your own two feet. Think of the trouble you’re causing. We all have our job to do – mine’s to hang you, yours to get hanged.’
… I’m heeeeaven bound …
Perhaps shocked at being spoken to in such an odd way on such an occasion, the prisoner straightened his legs and took the weight of his body. The older guard put his hands into the small of his back and gave him a gentle shove to position him on the badly drawn white circle that marked the centre of the trapdoor. The executioner stepped forward and reached up to the noose. Bechette watched, unmoved, as the black man lowered his head, a reflex, to make it easier for the noose to drop into place. His breaths came in quick gasps now, shallow and rasping.
‘Don’ hang me. I can’t die. I’m not ready to die. I don’ wanna die.’
The hood went over his head and muffled his words.
… Haaave no freeends …
At the signal the two guards quickly moved back from the condemned man. The Hangman stepped off the trapdoor and over to the lever. The condemned man called out what sounded like ‘Clover’, the executioner pulled the lever, the trapdoor opened and the prisoner fell like a stone for just under six feet – then in a snap of an instant stopped dead, the top of his head projecting just above the gallows floor.
Then there was only silence as the man shivered slightly, as if in a cold wind. And that was that.
Bechette now had fewer than five steps to take in this world – yet his expression was set like a stone. The two guards barely had to touch the unresisting prisoner for him to be on to the trapdoor and the faded white circle at its centre. The Hangman stepped forward with the noose and went to place it around Bechette’s neck. At the last, Bechette shied away like a horse refusing to be haltered.
‘Sir, this is no way to behave. Let us be dignified at such a time.’ Again the Hangman tried to loop the rope around Bechette’s neck and again Bechette twisted his head away. The Hangman signalled to the guards, who moved in and tried to hold him still. Bechette bucked and strained, groaning with the irrepressible frenzy for life.
Appalled, the Hangman stood back from the struggle, ‘You are only making things worse for yourself.’ An arguable claim, no doubt, but true or not it had no effect on Bechette. ‘Grab him, for God’s sake!’ cried out the older guard to the Hangman. ‘Grab him!’ His attempt to do so instantly failed as Bechette wildly threw him off. But the effort unbalanced Bechette and he staggered back into the appalled Hangman.
Barely sane, Bechette thought he was being attacked by the Hangman and, without looking, turned and shoulder-charged him with all the power that might be expected of a man trying to escape the embrace of Hell itself. The Hangman crashed into the wooden rail, hitting it with the great force of his excessive weight.
This caused the nails that held it in place to give way almost completely. On tiptoe, he waved his hands like some fleshy windmill, straining to keep his balance – but the nails renounced their twenty-year grip of the wood and with a great tearing sound launched the Hangman into the void. Half a dozen jailers scrambled on to the gallows and hauled Bechette to the floor, pinning him there.
Bound arm and knee, Bechette was taken back to his cell and heaved inside. It was just a little more than nine minutes since he’d left. For a few minutes, his body vibrated with the terror of this experience. And then he fell asleep.
1
Despite the depth of his sleep, there was no rest for Bechette. He was woken by a presence in the cell, but when he tried to stand he was painfully jerked back by a chain looped around his waist.
‘Sorry about that. I thought it best to be cautious.’ The speaker was dressed in an immaculate white suit – silk and cashmere. His face was at once amused and friendly. ‘Quite the helter-skelter, this business, Mr …?’ The man paused, watchful. Nothing. ‘Only I know it’s not Bechette … which, of course, is what you’ve been claiming all along.’ The prisoner gave away nothing; he did not flinch or seem relieved – which might be considered odd under the circumstances. ‘You see, all the fuss you caused up on the scaffold inspired the Federals to look into your case a little more carefully. I’m ashamed to say it didn’t need to be all that much more carefully. It only took a few hours to establish your innocence of the murder they’ – he gave a little grimace of contrition – ‘we … were going to hang you for.’
‘Apology accepted. I’ll be on my way.’
‘Unfortunately, there’s the matter of our late Hangman, Mr’ – he paused – ‘someone or other.’
‘He’s dead?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
A beat.
‘It was self-defence.’
‘I’m very much inclined to agree,’ said the man in white. ‘But it’s tricky.’
‘No, it isn’t.’
‘I can see why you might think so. From your prospective, it was self-defence.’
‘Fuck my perspective … it was self-defence.’
‘And yet Mr … whatever his name … was not in any sense attacking you. He was a legally convened officer of the court carrying out his duty. A Hangman at the command of a properly constituted court of law is not committing an act of violence of the kind that can be legally defended against.’
Another pause.
‘Who are you?’
‘Louis Van Owen, fourth governor of the great estate of Texas. At your service.’ A smile of a rather strange sort. ‘Possibly.’
‘If you’re the governor, that means you can pardon me.’
‘I can.’
‘And will you?’
‘Try to understand my position. Feelings are running high concerning poor … Mr Selo, that was the Hangman’s name. The prison guards are unhappy at any suggestion that someone who kills an estate official in the act of carrying out their sworn duty should go unpunished. My position is … complicated.’
The prisoner stared back and took his time.
‘So what can I do for you?’ he said at last.
‘I had a feeling you’d understand.’ Governor Van Owen laughed, a pleasant sound. ‘First of all, we need to be honest with one another. Unusually honest. This business is really all very extraordinary – so many unlikely chances all coming together at just the right moment. What are the odds? You condemned to death for a crime you didn’t commit. Me not taking the slightest interest in just another hanging. I hadn’t even heard of you until yesterday. Then the stunning drama on the scaffold – what a predicament! And lo and behold, not only do I now know who you are not, I miraculously discover who you are. What a run of bad luck you’ve had … quite the Calamity Jane.’ He laughed, as if encouraging the man in front of him to enjoy the joke. ‘How interesting life is!’ He waited and so very much enjoyed the moment. ‘Isn’t that so, Mr Thomas Cale?’
Thomas Cale [pron: ka.lε]
From the Vikipedia Albionis
Thomas Cale (b.769?; Modern Era b.1923?), also known as Vinegar Tom and the Sea-Green Undefeatable, has become the measure against which military leaders compare themselves, and military academies throughout the world teach his tactics.
Cale was raised by the military wing of the Redeemers at the Sanctuary, a training seminary for an extremist religious sect that believed they were called by God to destroy sinful humanity. Redeemer Altine Bosco (later Pope Bosco IV 782–784; ME 1937–9) believed Cale to be the promised Left Hand of God who would lead this apocalyptic slaughter. At the age of fifteen [citation needed] Cale escaped from the Redeemers and went to Memphis, where he was taken under the wing of the controversial politician and philosopher IdrisPukke. Eventually he became bodyguard to Arbell Materazzi – a largely ceremonial role. There were rumours of a sexual relationship between them, but the historian Aleixo de Menezes has shown conclusively that this is rooted in Redeemer verum falsum or ‘false truth’. Cale was recaptured by a Redeemer Army after they defeated the Materazzi at the Battle of Solsbury. Rehabilitated by Bosco, Cale led the Redeemer Seventh Army against the Laconics at Golan and inflicted the first recorded defeat upon them [citation needed], revealing himself, despite his age, to be a shrewd, ambitious and skilled military strategist.
