No Last Words

This is the only chapter

If my calculations are correct, I have just over two hours left to live. The boredom is the worst part.

My name is Jacob Alverton and I think I'm nineteen years old. However, I'm not really sure, since Mother was illiterate and never remembered my birthday. Until just a few weeks ago I played quite a large role in the smuggling of spirits alongthis coast, a vocation which eventually landed me in this cell.

I'm not complaining, it's not a bad cell at all, no rats, no corpses, not too damp, a bit of light from the lanterns in the corridoor. No pillow on the bed, but you can't have everything.

I'm currently perched cross-legged on top of the blanket (which feels like it's made of sacking, by the way) trying to think up some activity to preoccupy myself with for the last few hours of my life. I've heard of men in my situation who've prayed or confessed their sins or reminisced their childhoods or simply sat and stared at the wall. Sleeping is also an option.

I'm trying a combination of those things, except maybe the praying. It wouldn't do me any good anyway. And the only problem with confesing my sins is that I'm not actually sure what sins I've comitted. I mean, being a part of the contraband, obviously, but is that really a sin? I was just the correspondant, I never got my hands dirty. I was just helping honest men to make a living to feed their families. I don't know what's right or wrong anymore.

I'm exhausted, and finding it hard to think straight. But I'll be damned if I spend my last hours napping.

The jail is positioned on top of the hill overlooking the town, so when the curch clock strikes I can hear it clearly, echoing up out of the valley. It's four o'clock in the morning. The hanging is at six. Mildy pleased that I had correctly judged how much time I have left, I pull the covers off the bed and wrap them around myself. There's a distinctly icy chill in the air tonight, and I've been sat in this same position since yesterday evening.

As always, my mind eventually turns to my father. Where is he? Is he well? Does he remember me at all? Does he still care for Mother, may she rest in peace? Does he even know she is dead? Is he perhaps dead himself?

Some of my first memories are of Mother's stories about Father. How brave he was, how couragious, how kind. He left shortly after my mother became pregnant with me, promising to return. He never did. Mother's deathbed wish was that I would meet him someday. Well, there's no chance of that now.

I sigh, and rest my chin on my palm. I try to picture Father in my mind. Mother had told me proudly that I looked very much like him, but that he had a large scar shaped like a bird of prey on his left cheek. I always found that detail particularly interesting, and asked to hear what had made the scar. Apparently, when he was a young boy Father had been beaten quite severly by his own father, and during one particularly harsh beating had fallen forward and knocked a lamp off its hook. The lamp had broken and splashed burning oil across his face. As a child, I thought this sounded interesting, if a little painful.

Outside the prison, the clock strikes five. One hour. Only one.

At least my companions got away free. I hope they're back and safe with their families right now. I'm pretty sure I know who tipped off the guard, too - that snake Johnson. I knew we never should have trusted him. I think back to that moment where it all fell apart, when the men and I heard that firm knock on the door of our safe-house, and the shout of "Open up, in the name of the law!"

The other men had just enough time to get down into the tunnel, but the soldiers broke the front door down before I could make my own escape. I kicked the trapdoor closed, knowing it was too late and that we'd all be discovered if it was left open. That left me standing by myself in the middle of the room, facing six heavily armed men. Just me and all the cargo.

I yawn. It must be nearly six. I'm proven right a few minutes later when I hear the jangling of keys in the old, rusty lock on my cell door. Suddenly it all falls into perspective: I'll be dead in a few minutes. My life will be over, ended. The realisation leaves me feeling breathless, but strangely free. It's all going to stop.

The door swings open, and a middle-aged man pops his head in. He gives me a sympathetic look.

"Time to go, lad." I nod numbly and stand, shaking off the blanket. He shackles my wrists and leads me down the corridoor, up the steps and into the sunlight of the courtyard.

It feels like all my senses are suddenly heightened, like I've never properly heard or seen or smelt before. I have to stop myself from sticking out my tongue to try and taste the air. It's a beautiful winter's morning, with a clear blue sky and a slight breeze. The sun has just risen. The birds are singing. I'm acutely aware that these are my last moments on Earth.

The middle-aged man leads me towards the scaffold, where the hangman is waiting. I stumble a little, having not walked properly for weeks. A jail cell is barely good enough for pacing.

"Ready, Mr. Alverton?" Asks the man escorting me. I turn to look at him, only to find that his question was not directed at me.

He is addressing the hangman. Who has turned to face us, placing the scar on his cheek on full display. Mother was right - it is shaped exactly like a bird of prey.

"Ready as ever, Mr. Jones." My father responds.

I am pulled up onto the wooden platform, and the hangman's hands brush the side of my face slightly as he places the noose over my head. He clearly doesn't recognise me.

"Any last words, young sir?" Mr. Jones asks me. I can't actually think of any, which is slightly disappointing. I just know that I'm going to die with my father beside me, and I want to be smiling when it happens.

"No sir, none." I reply. Mr. Jones looks surprised, but shrugs.

"Have it your way, then..." He mumbles, before giving the hangman a nod.

Father pulls the lever. I smile. And the floor disappears.