‘Get on your goddamn knees!’
Ben slowly lowered himself to the floor.
‘Now kiss the street,’ the voice said with a sudden, bitter harshness.
Ben instantly tipped forward, spreading out onto his stomach. ‘Now spread them,’ the voice demanded in a tone that now seemed less harsh, even slightly muffled, as if a handkerchief had been placed over it and pressed down. ‘Spread your arms over your head.’
Ben flattened himself facedown across the hard wooden floor, then drew his hands up and over his head, as if he were reaching for something just beyond the limits of his grasp. For an instant he lay motionlessly in the darkness, then he felt the man kick at his heels.
‘Spread your legs!’
Ben did as he was told.
‘Shit,’ the man said softly.
Ben felt a hand reach down, quickly unsnap his holster and jerk his pistol from it.
‘That’s better,’ the man said.
Ben said nothing, and for a time he simply lay flat against the floor. Then, suddenly, he felt the man’s body as it pressed its full weight onto his back.
‘You ain’t moving now,’ the man said mockingly.
‘Guess not,’ Ben said weakly.
The man laughed. ‘The thing is, you got a problem,’ he said menacingly. ‘What you might call a nigger problem. Know what I mean?’
Ben did not answer.
The barrel of the pistol bit into his flesh.
‘You hear me, mister?’ the man demanded.
‘Yeah.’
‘I said you got yourself a real bad nigger problem.’
Ben remained silent, waiting, until he felt the barrel pressing into him again. ‘What problem is that?’ he blurted.
‘That little nigger girl,’ the man replied immediately. ‘The dead one.’
‘What about her?’ Ben asked weakly.
‘What do you know about her?’
‘Nothing,’ Ben told him.
He felt a fist strike him on the back of the head.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ the voice hissed. ‘What do you know about that girl?’
Ben did not answer, and the fist struck him again.
‘Don’t fuck with me,’ the man repeated. ‘You do, you’re one dead nigger-lover.’
‘I don’t know anything,’ Ben said quietly. He could feel a haze moving down on him, descending like a curtain through the pain. ‘I don’t know anything,’ he repeated dully.
Once again the fist struck him, and he felt his head jerk to the left with the force of the blow.
‘Where was she?’ the man demanded, his voice now oddly changed, tense, urgent.
‘What?’ Ben asked puzzled.
‘Where was she?’ the man repeated, his voice almost frantic.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
For a moment the man said nothing, and in the darkness, Ben could almost hear his mind ticking desperately.
‘You hate niggers?’ the man asked finally.
Ben did not answer. He could feel a raw pain shooting up and down his back. Then a large hand grabbed the back of his head and pushed forward, shoving his face into the floor.
‘You hate niggers?’ the voice demanded.
Ben said nothing.
The barrel dug into his flesh.
‘Tell me you hate niggers,’ the voice said. ‘Tell me right now.’
Ben remained silent.
‘Right now,’ the voice said sharply. ‘Or you’re dead.’
Ben said nothing. He could feel the man’s fingers as they tugged at his hair, hear his shallow, angry breath, feel the weight of his body as it pressed down upon his back.
‘Tell me you hate niggers,’ the voice said. ‘Tell me that, right now.’
Ben did not speak. He could feel the barrel of the pistol as it circled around the back of his head, then pressed into his ear.
‘I’m gonna blow your fucking brains out,’ the man said.
Ben heard the pistol cock. He glanced up and saw a small yellowish light flow toward him from the front window. Mr Jeffries had turned his light on again. He took in a long breath, very deep, then tightly closed his eyes.
‘Bye bye,’ the man repeated mockingly.
Ben waited, his hands clenched, his eyes shut tight, his mouth now suddenly so dry, his thirst so extreme that it felt unquenchable.
For a moment there was only silence, and during those few seconds, Ben regretted that it was night, rather than morning, that there was no sunlight to penetrate his closed eyes, no birds for him to hear, no reassuring traffic or street chatter, but only this flat, absolute silence in a dark which was broken only by a sickly yellowish light.
Suddenly the weight lifted, and Ben realized that the body was no longer on him. Still, he did not move, did not open his eyes, did not reach for an impossible hope.
‘Move, just once, and you’re dead,’ the man said, almost wearily, as if the exertion of his attack had all but taken the final measure of his strength.
In an instant, he was gone, moving quickly down the long corridor to the kitchen, then out the back door and into the thick black night.
Ben could hear his feet as they padded swiftly away, then the soft beat of the screen door as it closed behind him. It was only then that he pulled himself up and walked slowly back to the kitchen. He closed the door and locked it, then turned on the small light in the backyard. At the far edge of the yard, he could see the rusty wire fence that bordered it. It was still weaving slightly from where the man had climbed over it, and Ben could see his own service revolver hanging awkwardly from one of its unsteady metal posts, its barrel carefully nosed upward toward the still thickly clouded sky.
Luther looked astonished when he opened the door and saw Ben staring at him evenly.
‘Good God, Ben,’ he yelped, ‘you got any idea what time it is?’
‘I need to see you, Captain,’ Ben said bluntly.
Luther’s eyes narrowed. ‘This better be important,’ he said. ‘I got a sick wife, and that knocking probably woke her up for the night.’
‘It’s important,’ Ben told him.
Luther stepped out onto the porch, carefully closing the door behind him. He wore a pair of bulky light-blue pajamas, and the shirt billowed out slightly as he walked down the steps, then out into the yard, his bare feet nearly covered by the wet, dewy grass.
‘All right, what is it?’
‘I got jumped tonight,’ Ben said.
‘Jumped?’
‘In my own house,’ Ben added significantly.
Luther chuckled. ‘Well, shit, Ben, a cop can run up on a burglar just like anybody else.’
‘This wasn’t a burglar.’
Luther eyed him carefully. ‘How do you know?’
‘He was waiting for me.’
‘Waiting for you?’
‘That’s right.’
