Shooting in the Dark

dead lovers, these women. A tangle of arms and legs. I separate them and even within their paralyses they seem to cling to each other. Their mouths are gaping and their bodies are convulsed by uncoordinated muscular contractions. The blind woman is salivating copiously, sputum discharging on to the carpet.
    I truss Janet like a turkey, her hands and legs bound together behind her back. With a sharp knife from the kitchen I cut a strip from her skirt and use it to gag her. The finished result is somehow fashionable, everything neatly complementing each other. I don’t mind for myself, but I know women are keen to appear at their best even in the most extreme situations. Miriam, if she were here with us now, would be very happy with the work I have done on Janet. If there are photographs in the newspapers, it could even catch on. One of the top fashion designers will wrap it up as a revival of bondage chic.
    Using the rope between her hands and feet I lug her through to a small alcove in the sitting room where her baby is sleeping in a pram. They can be together there, out of the way.
    The blind woman I secure less rigorously. Her hands behind her back and her legs tied together at ankles and knees. There is no need for a gag. I lift her on to a couch.
     
    I found Doncaster prison interesting from a professional point of view. It was, of course, a flagship prison when it was opened. The idea of a privately run prison had not been discussed in the community and was introduced by a government that was already rife with corruption. It was soon, and rightly, christened Doncatraz.
    The initial teething problems are over now but the place is overcrowded and there have been at least ten suicides of inmates within the last five years. I saw much blood there and many of the prisoners looked little more than children.
     
    I look at the policeman’s radio. It crackles occasionally and coded messages are passed back and forth. There is no mention of this road or the Falco name. I know it is only a matter of time, but I have to wait for the blind woman to come round.
    I slashed my wrist as the prison officer approached my cell. He was very good, didn’t panic at all. He removed his tie and used it as a tourniquet. Not only did he save my life; I didn’t actually lose much blood. It was messy, of course, the blood spurting out with every beat of my heart. But it was not as bad as it looked.
    I feigned unconsciousness while they rushed me to the hospital. The same guard accompanied me all the way, stayed with me while they hooked me up to the transfusion equipment. I remember watching him in the chair with his sodden tie rolled up in his hands. I slept for several hours. A peaceful, dreamless sleep.
    No one stopped me. You don’t stand in the way of destiny.
     
    I walk over to the window and part the curtains so that I can see the street. All is quiet out there. My moment is approaching. I place my worries out of reach.
    I found Wells’ The Country of the Blind in the prison library and read it for the first time in my life. Perhaps I should have given fiction more of a chance, but I always preferred to read scientific, factual texts, or religion, or philosophy.
    The Country of the Blind is a satirical story about a man who accidentally falls into a secluded valley. The people who live there have all lost their sight and been blind for the last fifteen generations. As a result they have developed their own religion and creation myths and have lost all of the words for sight. They sleep by day and work by night.
    The central character, who can see, is called Nunez, and he expects that he will have an advantage over the people of the valley, that he will be their king. But every attempt on his part to show his superiority is met with failure. The blind people regard him as clumsy and insensitive and when he falls in love with one of their women they are reluctant to allow the marriage in case it corrupts their race.
    The solution, of course, is that he agrees to allow the blind surgeons to remove his eyes. If he goes ahead with the operation, everything will be his. His life in the valley will be a fulfilled and fulfilling experience because the valley is a kind of paradise containing ‘all that the heart of man could desire’.
    But rather than conform to that society by giving up his eyes, Nunez decides to attempt an impossible escape by scaling the sheer mountain walls. He chooses to die in a small cleft of rock almost a