"The promise." Raju considers the question. Thinking is slow; it would be very useful, feeling this way, if it wasn't for that. These kinds of discussions with Francis would certainly go more smoothly. The fire wouldn't be as much of a problem that way. Or would it? The crackling he's hearing, that probably means it's still going. The noise sounds as strange and slow as he feels, as everything else feels. He turns his right hand away from the ground so he can see its palm, rubs its fingers slowly together. There's a burn there. He knows that it hurts to touch it. It doesn't matter. Something about the gesture helps him remember.
"He took my hand. I remember... there's a particular way it feels when someone squeezes your hand without all their fingers. I haven't felt it since. And the blood was wet. Give every person a weapon. A gun in every hand. The ones we had were wooden. All but his. Perfectly balanced, perfect replicas. I suppose the carpenter he recruited must have done very careful work. I never thought about it at the time."
He pauses to cough, and then doesn't start speaking again. He frowns at the ground. The smoke is making his eyes sting. He thinks he hasn't explained everything Francis needs to know, but he can't think where to go after that.
"When I helped you aim properly," he says at the ground, throat starting to rasp with the smoke but very calm, following the path of his thoughts wherever they might lead. "Do you remember that? That was a real rifle too, but I suppose I wasn't touching it. I was touching you. I thought that might be why. I liked that better. Oh, you wanted to know why I enlisted. That was my uncle. My father sent him into the police, to keep an eye on things. It wasn't the police that came in the end, but he knew what I needed to. So I suppose it worked out. They appoint certain officers as Special Officers, to do... a lot of things. Weapon shipments. Ammunition shipments. My uncle wasn't suited for it. He's a better friend to the other men than he is an officer. I'm a very good officer. I never stopped... ah... I don't know how to say it. But I never stopped. That's why I'm not like you."
He has to pause again, half-coughing, half reflexively trying to clear his throat. The smoke isn't connected to the flames. He notices that, now that the two have been in front of him for a while. That should be strange, shouldn't it? But no more than everything else. There's an odd tension in his chest and his stomach, and at the base of his throat. There's an odd tension in his muscles, as if he wants to move them, but he doesn't. He wonders if he's shaking, at least a little, if that's why all his limbs and his back feel that way. He doesn't feel cold. It doesn't matter as much as the distant knowledge that Francis is somewhere behind him, needing to know the things Raju couldn't ever tell, if he didn't feel this way.
"Is that all of it?" he asks, not demanding or needing it to be, only sounding curious, checking for anything that he's forgot. "Do you understand everything now?"
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"He took my hand. I remember... there's a particular way it feels when someone squeezes your hand without all their fingers. I haven't felt it since. And the blood was wet. Give every person a weapon. A gun in every hand. The ones we had were wooden. All but his. Perfectly balanced, perfect replicas. I suppose the carpenter he recruited must have done very careful work. I never thought about it at the time."
He pauses to cough, and then doesn't start speaking again. He frowns at the ground. The smoke is making his eyes sting. He thinks he hasn't explained everything Francis needs to know, but he can't think where to go after that.
"When I helped you aim properly," he says at the ground, throat starting to rasp with the smoke but very calm, following the path of his thoughts wherever they might lead. "Do you remember that? That was a real rifle too, but I suppose I wasn't touching it. I was touching you. I thought that might be why. I liked that better. Oh, you wanted to know why I enlisted. That was my uncle. My father sent him into the police, to keep an eye on things. It wasn't the police that came in the end, but he knew what I needed to. So I suppose it worked out. They appoint certain officers as Special Officers, to do... a lot of things. Weapon shipments. Ammunition shipments. My uncle wasn't suited for it. He's a better friend to the other men than he is an officer. I'm a very good officer. I never stopped... ah... I don't know how to say it. But I never stopped. That's why I'm not like you."
He has to pause again, half-coughing, half reflexively trying to clear his throat. The smoke isn't connected to the flames. He notices that, now that the two have been in front of him for a while. That should be strange, shouldn't it? But no more than everything else. There's an odd tension in his chest and his stomach, and at the base of his throat. There's an odd tension in his muscles, as if he wants to move them, but he doesn't. He wonders if he's shaking, at least a little, if that's why all his limbs and his back feel that way. He doesn't feel cold. It doesn't matter as much as the distant knowledge that Francis is somewhere behind him, needing to know the things Raju couldn't ever tell, if he didn't feel this way.
"Is that all of it?" he asks, not demanding or needing it to be, only sounding curious, checking for anything that he's forgot. "Do you understand everything now?"