'The day after tomorrow at the very latest,' he orders. 'And bring both the criminals here in a civilized manner. I don't want to see any shackles, or any handcuffs.' He sighs and begins to pull his shirt over his head.
III
It's eight-thirty in the morning. Once again, a key rattles in the lock at an odd time. With the guard in the doorway are two unfamiliar men, one, obviously some big-shot, in uniform, the other a fat slob in civvies with a pistol swelling his back pocket. Could this be the moment?
Robert rattles off the regulation response with Gabo's quickened breathing on the back of his neck.
'Bartoš, get ready to go!' The guard's voice sounds strange; it wavers, with a tinge of kindness in it. It fills him with a terrifying premonition.
'What about my things?'
'Did I say anything about things?'
They lead him down the stairs without even putting the cuffs on him. He doesn't know what to do, so he counts the floors as they pass them. As they approach ground level, his terror intensifies. The steps lead directly to the exit into the third courtyard. Maybe the gallows are down there ready for him. They will drag him on to the platform and some shit-faced strangler will push forward, probably this fat guy in civvies, and yell at him to prepare himself. It's only now that he can imagine what it will be like. He can't stop visualizing a pair of huge, hairy, sadistic hands fingering his throat. He can bite them, at least, kick the bloody sadist in the balls, and then they'll jump on him as
they have so often before, only this time will be the last time. There are always enough of them to overpower him, and then nothing in the world could prevent those disgusting hands from tying the noose around his neck.
Sweat pours down his forehead, and the back of his shirt is soaked. Aren't they even going to offer him a last breakfast? Won't they let him smoke his last cigarette?
They walk past the exit to the courtyard and trudge down the stairs into the basement. If they were to shove him into a bunker he'd go quietly. Anything would be better than the rope. That would put an end to everything. They go past a row of bolted doors until they come to one that's open. Inside, a guard with a simian forehead brings him civvies, and he is ordered to change. Then they herd him down some more corridors to the barber's shop where a man in a white smock sticks a paper cloth under his collar, soaps his face and passes a razor over it a couple of times. At one point, his chin is in a tight grip; the barber would only have to make a quick slice and that would be it. . But he doesn't. The barber rinses his face off and even sprays it with some kind of perfumed shit, and then they can go.
Why hasn't he ever wondered about how they would play the last dirty trick? He might have realized that these bastards would have their pleasure spoiled if they had to watch a jailbird swinging in shit-filled sweatpants and a vomit-stained windcheater; that's why they're decking him out like he's going to a wedding. Finally, at the end of the corridor, they put the cuffs on him. A grille slides back and he finds himself in the first courtyard where two policemen and a yellow-and-white prison van stand ready. The policemen escort him to the wagon, but before they can shove him inside, someone in civvies rushes up gesticulating wildly and says something to the fat man. Then the fat man goes over to the driver and sends him and his rabbit hutch on wheels to hell.
So they just leave him standing there and it's more than he can take, so he turns to one of the escorts and asks him where they're taking him. He knows he won't get an answer, but even to be yelled at would be some comfort.
But nothing happens. They remain silent, deaf to his questions, and that terrifies him even more. If they were to start beating him now, he might not even have the strength to defend himself. He'd just howl like a dog drowning in a flooded river.
Then a black limousine pulls up. The fat man gets in beside the driver, he's put in the back seat between the two escorts and they drive off. The gate opens, and soon they're on the open road.
He hasn't a clue where they're taking him. Why are they wasting petrol? Maybe the gallows are somewhere else. Or maybe one of those sadistic bloody hangmen didn't feel like coming all the way out here, so they sent this limo to pick him up. They're giving him a last ride instead of a last meal. If this is going to be his last ride, this is also his last chance to make a run for it. If he could only get out of the car, he'd manage the rest.
The idea blinds him like a flash of lightning, and he has to hold his breath in order not to shout. He knows he mustn't move or make a sound, otherwise they'll get scared and handcuff him to the escorts. So he pretends to fall asleep, while from under his half-closed lids he watches the cars coming from the opposite direction and the roofs of houses and church steeples passing by. They're doing at least ninety. It will be enough to mangle them all to mincemeat. But he has nothing to lose.
Mentally, he rehearses the movement several times until he's sure he can pull it off. They are just coming out of a wood and approaching a small town. He hopes that this is not their destination. He can't put it off any longer. He mustn't be too choosy. He can't afford to hesitate, or they'll get him to a place from which no prisoner has ever escaped.
They drive through the town, then into the countryside again. It's straight out of a film, farm ponds sparkling in the sun, surrounded by trees. It's quiet in the car. No one speaks; the escorts merely glance at him occasionally. The car roars down a hill, through a wooded area. Below that, he can see that the road curves to the left, but it's not a sharp turn; the driver probably won't even brake. All he has to do is choose the right moment. Sunlight flashes
through the trees. A huge lorry is bearing down on them. His throat has gone dry. What hope does he have? At this speed? He reminds himself he has nothing to lose. He flings himself forward and with all his might, like a football player lunging to head the ball into the goal, he head-butts the driver from behind. He hears a cry of pain, some cursing, someone pulls him back but then lets go, there's more shouting and he hits the floor, his hands helpless, but he braces himself with his legs, feels the car leave the road, feels the first impact and then he too shouts, with fear or joy, the car flips over, a crushing impact. Darkness suddenly cloaks his eyes as he hears the shattering of glass and cries of terror and pain.
He tries to lift his head. A reddish, spinning light penetrates the darkness, and he can see the vague outline of things, people, which become more distinct: a twisted door has been punched in on its frame and has pinned one of the escorts to the seat. The dead eyes of the second escort stare up at him from a bloody face. With his hands still cuffed behind his back, he manages to raise himself and shift to an opening between the frame and the door. He sees the driver draped bloodily over the lifeless body of the fat man, but he hasn't time to think about it. He squeezes through the opening and is out of the car and taking his first free step. He feels a piercing pain in his left leg. Surely the fucking leg can't have taken the impact, not now when he needs it most. A car is coming down the road. It will probably stop. They mustn't see him with the cuffs on, so he tries to run. It's almost impossible. There's a pain in his abdomen, his leg is probably wrecked. Fiery wheels spin before his eyes, blood streams down his face, his face is probably messed up too and he can't even wipe it, but at least he's moving, not like those motherfuckers, he's moving, gradually dragging himself into the trees, and he even tries to run, groaning with pain under his breath, but he's running.