The Room

 by Brett Rutherford

Easiest job in the world.
No marksman, he:
like a deer-hunt it was,
from the comfort
of an office, a blind
in which you sat and waited
for the prey to come by.

The peep-hole,
with its fish-eye lens
showed everything.
The far door would open.
The suspect was ushered in,
a cigarette in hand.
He would pace and pace
until the smoking butt
was about to burn his fingers.

If he was one of those
aristocrat class enemies
he would fling the butt
heedlessly to the tiled floor.
If he was a working man
he’d look for an ashtray
or a decent concealment
of his vile habit’s trash.

There, next to the chair,
was the ashtray. Who
could miss it? Use it,
fool. And now, sit down.
Some fools would go back
to their miserable pacing;
finding no clock to check,
a class enemy would reach
for the pocket watch
he used to own, a gesture
 the watcher had learned to recognize.

The chair, you fool! Sit down!
It is the only piece of furniture
in the wood-paneled room.
It beckons the suspect’s tired
feet, his aching back. With
nothing else to do but wait,
someone has been kind enough
to make the waiting bearable.

All would be straightened out.
The suspect would sigh and shrug.
You could almost hear his thoughts,
how he was taken by error.
A name spelled the same as his,
but certainly not him; the wrong
address when the Black Maria
bagged him and carried him here.
He had his Party membership
card close to his breast, at worst
it was a false accusation
that could be explained away,
a jilted lover, or some
professional jealousy.

The suspect might even
rehearse his innocence,
like an actor going over
a Shakespeare soliloquy.
He would mumble the lines
he would use on the magistrate.
No torture need come,
since he would tell them everything
they might need to know.

Each peep-hole check
showed the suspect tiring.
The chair, you fool!
Take a rest, now. Just sit.

There, he has done it.
Good thing it was not a woman,
just some fool in a greasy cardigan.
Now, softly, to slide
the wood panel aside.
There, as clear as day
the back of his head,
unshorn curls
in need of a haircut,
a dirty neck, collar
worn out and yellowed.

He raises the tool
of his daily trade:
the loaded revolver.
One click, one shot,
and all is over.
A moan, a gurgle,
and the seated fool
topples forward, face
to the clean tiles.

He pushes a button.
A bell rings. Men drag
the corpse away.
Then, the char-lady
comes in and does her work,
the blood, the bullet,
and bits of brain sopped up
in the Gorgon-head mop
on the end of the broomstick.

It was pay-day, and much
vodka awaited him. He’d joke
with the mop-lady and each
would lie about their labors:
he, a clerk; she, stenographer.
Their paths would never cross
except in bar and bedroom.
Some days they’d be tired
if there were many suspects
to process and tend to,
but the pay was the same.
Less or more, no matter.
The work goes on
and the Leader knows best.