Posted by AlOmega on February 23, 2009 at 13:21:56:
“I didn’t much care for Tobago Cays,” Jillian rested her knitting on her lap and turned her head so she could better see her companion.
He was stretched out on a lounge chair mere inches away, muscles gleaming from a mix of sweat and suntan oil. She licked her lower lip when she stared at his abs. Not the proverbial ounce of fat on him, she decided, pronouncing him at a little more than eleven stone – about one hundred sixty pounds.
“In the Caribbean, right, Tobago Cays?” His voice was rich and melodic.
She nodded. “The Cays are beautiful, certainly, but they are basically deserted. No one lives there. Just a stop for tourists, snorkeling and drinking and …”
He raised a blond eyebrow and smiled, the sun glinting off his polished teeth. “I would love to be on a deserted island with you, Jillian.”
“We just met.” She blushed and picked up her yarn. Today she knitted with a worsted weight spun from an Angora goat - mohair the label read. A natural fiber, the yarn was “breathable” and slightly elastic, yet warm. She slipped the stitch from the left needle to the right, passing the previously slipped stitch. “I prefer working with cashmere,” she said to change the subject. “Expensive, especially if blended with the hair of baby alpacas and some merino wool. But it is soft to the touch. Or silk. I like the feel of that. I’ve worked with silk yarns a few times, blended with mercerized cotton to make it stronger. But this mohair, it was the only black skein in the ship’s stores. I forgot to pack yarn.”
“When you left for your cruise to Tobago Cays?”
“No, I had a cashmere skein with me then. Black, of course. But I worked all the way through that. I was in such a hurry to make this cruise on time that I didn’t pick one…”
“Andrew. Just call me Drew.”
“Drew,” she smiled sweetly.
“So you cruise often?”
A nod.
“So you just came from the Caribbean, Jillian? From Tobago Cays?”
She let out a sigh, apparently unable to get away from the subject of traveling. She considered leaving to escape it – just getting up and going to another deck. But he was too easy on her eyes. “A few weeks ago a s part of a cruise I’d booked with a group – a knitting circle from Honesdale. We were in Barbados or Martinique first. No Union Island, I think. Those Caribbean spots are all a blur. Took a charter catamaran from Union Island as part of the package to get to Tobago Cays.” She used her forearm to brush a strand of hair out of her eyes. “Oh, the colors were lovely, a veritable kaleidoscope of turquoise, green, and gold reefs, the sky and water so clear. Colors I’d knit a sweater with some day. But….. there was not a single village to be seen on the Cays…”
“Andrew. Drew.”
“Drew. St. Vincent and the Grenadines appealed to me more. I think my favorite stop on that particular cruise was the little islands south of Guadeloupe. Terra-de-Haut is only three miles long, but it’s an especially romantic spot, with a long lane shaded by bougainvilleas. Unfortunately, I was there with knitters, all women, and there wasn’t a single man under retirement age on that cruise.”
“Good think I bumped into you on this cruise. I’ll save you from boredom and bald guys.”
She patted his arm, finding it firm and muscular. “I did have a good time, Drew, in Terre-de-Haut. The highlights? An old cemetery with tombstones dating back centuries. The names you could read – barely – showed the island’s Norman history. Conch shells, they decorated the cemetery and were meant to honor the island’s sailors who were lost at sea.”
“Surely there were better things to occupy you than graveyards.”
“Death….the method of death – interests me,” she said almost too softly for him to hear. Louder: “I remember a charming little village with an art gallery and a superb restaurant in Terre-de-Bas. Illes des Saintes – “ She said this with an appealing, but failed attempt at a French lilt. “- was lovely. Eight islands. Volcanic dots, the guide called them. Pointe-a-Pitre had some excellent shops. The best fishermen in all of the West Indies are said to come from Illes des Saintes. I spent one morning just watching them haul in their blue nets - filets bleus. One late cloudless night I lay on the sand and looked up at the stars. There must have been a million, all sparkling like diamonds on a black velvet dress.”
“Have you packed such a dress on this cruise? You could wear it to dinner this evening with me.” Drew swung his legs around so he was sitting and looking directly at her. His gaze inches from the tips of her manicured toenails, up her shapely brown legs, and lingered on her flat stomach. Her string bikini left little to his imagination. His eyes traveled up further, resting again, then finally locked onto her unblemished face. “You will join me for dinner, won’t you, Jillian? I’d hate to dine alone on my vacation – the first real holiday I’ve taken in three years.”
She didn’t answer him right away, knitting several more stitches so she could get to the end of a row. She favored a mix of plain stitches in the Continental style, using circular needles.
“What are you making? A ski mask? It looks like a ski mask, but you’ve left no holes for the eyes or the mouth.”
“It’s something like a ski mask.” She finished another row then put the piece, yarn, and needles in her beach bag. She rose from the lawn chair and rolled her shoulders, working a kink out of her neck. Then she stepped to the railing and let the water spray her. “Drew, what time is dinner tonight?”
His smile reached his eyes, and he quickly joined her at the railing. Drew was tanned, even all over from hours of surfing in the sun. He’d explained that as a professional surfer he regularly “hung ten” up and down the coast of California, but also worked Hawaii one in a while. He wasn’t sure she was paying attention, and he intended to mention it all again at dinner and afterward - impress her about the size and ferocity of the waves he’d ridden. Maybe he’d show her one of the pictures he bought, tucked in his duffel for the wow factor.
“The first dinner service is at eighteen hundred, Jillian. So ….. you are joining me?”
“I’d be delighted.”
She wore a black satin dress with spaghetti straps. The material clung to her, stopping midway down her thighs. The black leather shoes she wore were toeless.
They had a table by a window and though it was set for four, they were alone for the early meal.
“She wouldn’t go eight stone,” Jillian looked at a reed-thin waitress threading her way between tables. “Nine stone, at least,” she said of a waitress who was considerably more voluptuous.
“So you travel a lot, Jillian?” Drew poured her a glass of wine – a Merlot from a Sydney winery.
“In the past few years, sure. I’ve had to – for work. The surfer was so easy to talk to. Too busy with work, she hadn’t enjoyed a man’s company in so many months.
“I travel for work, too, catching the best waves. California. Hawaii. You?”
“England, Australia, South Africa.” She rattled the countries off like items on a grocery list. “Japan, South Korea, India, Pakistan, Iran, Egypt, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon, Kuwait, and Bangladesh.”
“I’m impressed. And now with this cruise, Singapore and Malaysia. We dock in Penang tomorrow.” He waited until she nodded that the wine was suitable and he poured more. “So what sort of work takes you around the world?”
Her shoulders sagged for just an instance, accompanied by a sigh. She usually didn’t discuss what she did for a living, but he was so very easy to talk to. Besides, if she told him the truth, he’d either be repulsed and leave her alone or accept her profession and sin a second date. Either would be acceptable.
“I hang people.”
Drew had been sipping the wine, but now sputtered it up. “S-s-sorry. Did you say that you hang people?”
She ran her thumb around the lip of the wine glass. It hummed, showing that it was made of crystal. “Yes, I hang people.” Jillian took a swallow of the wine and held it to her mouth. The taste filled her senses. She studied him over the rim of the glass. He seemed honestly curious, though perhaps morbidly so. Earlier she’d put him at a little more than eleven stones. But he had broad shoulders and probably went an even dozen. All of it muscle. “Look, Drew, mine is a very old profession. The Persians invented it more than twenty-five hundred years ago – for male convicts. Women were strangled at the stake – for decorum I suppose. And the English embellished it, starting way back with the Saxons.”
He cocked his head.
“The English, for especially heinous crimes, sentenced a person to be hanged, drawn, and quartered. They were careful with the knot and length of rope so the criminal wasn’t completely asphyxiated. They needed to spare him for the worse ordeals. Barbaric. A simple hanging is the only way to go. You see, hanging is spectacular, visual, and should serve as a deterrent. It has none of the blood a beheading or firing squad would bring, and it is inexpensive and relatively painless…..if done properly.”
Drew shuddered, but gestured for her to go on.
“I first practiced my craft in the States, learning it from my father, he from his father. My dad taught me the history of it, too. In Britain, more than fifty-five hundred were hanged between 1800 and the mid 1960s. In the United States, about thirteen thousand men and five hundred women were hanged from the early 1600s to the mid 1990s. The first man ordered hanged by a proper court of law in the States was Jose Formi on December tenth in 1852. The second was William Shippard, hanged on July twenty-eighth at the Presido two years later. They said ten thousand came to watch that one. In 1859, Tipperary Bill – William Morris – was hanged. A little more than a year after that, James Whitford, John Devine (called The Chicken) killed James Crotty and was hanged in May 1878 for it. And….”
“You’ve quite the mind for details, Jillian.” His hand shaking slightly, Drew refilled her wine glass.
“But there isn’t enough work in the States anymore. Through the years fewer and fewer states allowed hanging. Delaware stopped the practice a few years back. New Hampshire permits it now only if a lethal injection can’t be administered. And Washington state - well, an inmate has to ask to be hanged, otherwise he gets the needle.”
“So it’s like being laid off, huh? Can’t hang folks in America.”
She giggled at that notion, and at the wine which was going to her head. Yes, Drew was definitely a dozen delicious stone. “Hanging is still the most prevalent form of execution in all the world. More than a hundred people were hanged in about a dozen countries in 2002. A year later only a few less. In 2004…”
“So you’ve been traveling the world just for work?”
She drained the glass and let him pour more. “For the past year I’ve been cruising to countries where they still hang people. Well, I had to fly into Botswana and Zimbabwe. And I passed on Iraq. Saddam ordered a lot of hangings, but I wanted no part of that. Some other Middle Eastern countries, I flew into them, too. Hard to cruise into a desert. Ah, all the places to go and people to kill.” She leaned back in the chair as the waitress – nine and a half stones – delivered their lobster tails. “It’s a respectable profession, Drew, hanging.”
He took a piece of lobster and dipped it in butter. “Probably more respectable than mine. People think surfers are bums.”
“Hang ten?” She giggled. “I’ve hanged a lot more than ten. I think I hanged eleven just last year alone.
Drew nearly choked on the lobster. He washed it down with a big swallow of wine and waved a hand. “Would you bring another bottle?”
A passing waiter, hefty for his short frame at fourteen stones, nodded.
“This bothers you, doesn’t it, Drew?” No second date, she sweetly pouted.
“N-n-no. I find it fascinating, Jillian. Truly.” He was quick to take another bite of lobster and finish the last of the wine. He kept his gaze on the table setting. A moment later, the waiter returned with a new bottle. Drew didn’t bother to sniff the cork. “Terribly fascinating, dear Jillian. D-d-do you throw the lever that sends them dropping through the gallows floor?”
She forked a small piece of the lobster and took a delicate bite. She closed her eyes and savored it, then took a second, this time dipping it in butter. How many people ordered lobster for a last meal, she wondered. “No, not at all, Drew. I couldn’t stomach that – actually flipping the switch so to speak.”
“But you said you hang people.” The wine had helped Drew, his hand wasn’t shaking any longer when he refilled both their glasses.
“I tie the knots and judge the length of rope. The rope is very important, whether you’re working with a short or a long drop.”
“Long drop?” He stuffed a large chunk of lobster in his mouth, followed by a forkful of baked potato dripping sour cream. He chewed quickly. “What’s a long drop?”
Jillian ate thoughtfully before answering. “In Britain, 1872, William Marwood introduced what is called the long drop when Frederick Horry was hanged at Lincoln Prison. He maintained it was a more humane way to kill someone. See, the short drop had been used almost exclusively prior to that year.” She took a few more nibbles, watching Drew, who seemed to be studying the pattern along the rim of his dish. “In a long drop, a convict’s neck is broken because he falls a certain distance and then is stopped suddenly with a sharp jerk. The scientific principal behind it is that the falling body accelerates with a force of gravity. However, the noose is restricting the head. So when the rope plays out and the body stops, the noose – the knot at the side of the neck – delivers a blow. That blow, in conjunction with the downward momentum ruptures the spinal cord. Instant unconsciousness results, followed by rapid death because the neck breaks. There’s a certain amount of physics involved.”
Drew had stopped eating.
“In later years, and I use this method now, a metal eyelet is slipped into the noose knot. It breaks the neck more assuredly. The knot is crucial, you know. More are simple slip knots. But the traditional noose, which is the one my father favored, has five to thirteen coils, and these slide down the rope. He told me he always tried for a dozen because thirteen was just a tad unlucky for him. But that many coils – you tended to strangle the convict instead of simply break his neck.” She pointed to her own neck under her left jaw. “I favor the coiled noose detailed in an old U. S. Army manual. The head snaps back so quickly and with so much power that the spinal cord is severed between the superior and the top of the vertebra, basically slicing the connector to the brain stem.”
Jillian finished her lobster tail, then the glass of wine. She felt warm and tingly and happy to have a dinner companion who seemed interested in her work. “In May, 2005 – oddly on a Friday the thirteenth – Shanmugam Murugesu was hanged by the long drop in Changi Prison in Singapore.” She had trouble with the name, the wine making her tongue unwieldy. “I hope to participate in a hanging or two in Singapore while we’re in port. But…you asked about the long drop and my work.”
“Yes.” Drew’s word sounded more like a croak. Another mouthful of wine helped. “I did ask you about this drop thing.”
She beamed. At the far end of the dining room a five-piece ensemble started playing a slow bluesy number. She swayed to the beat. “The long drop. It’s the method I prefer, but I yield to whatever is practiced in the country I’m working for. It’s all based on a person’s weight. Remember that man who brought the bottle? The short one with the love handles? I figure he’s two hundred pounds or fourteen stone. I’d use an eight-foot length for a drop. On the other hand, the little waitress over there? The one that looks like she might have an eating disorder? I’d put her at a hundred pounds tops, that’s a little less than eight stone. She’d need a longer rope, say … ten feet. The smaller the person, the longer the rope. You’d need a rope about nine and half feet long for me, one about eight feet, four inches for you. It’s all physics. If the rope’s too long, you risk decapitating the convict.”
“Physics.” Drew refilled their glassed and declined selecting something from the desert tray.
“The rope itself makes a lot of difference. I always have a nylon cord with me, just in case. But I like to use a nice manila hemp about an inch in diameter. I ask for it to be boiled, because that takes the elasticity out of it. I try to make sure it’s waxed or greased, coated with soap if that’s all that’s available. Makes the knot slide real easy.”
“Easy.” Drew gave Jillian the last of the wine. “Soap makes it easy.” He swallowed hard and cupped his hands around his goblet. “Physics.”
Jillian drank the wine a little too quickly, as she realized she’d revealed a little too much about her profession and feared Drew’s lobster was going to make another appearance on his plate. Time to leave.
“I’m sorry, Drew”
“For what?” He carfully sat the glass on the table and fussed with his napkin. “You shouldn’t be sorry. I asked.”
“and I told you I had places to go and people to kill. Not t he best dinner conversation.” She pushed away from the table and shakily stood. “I think I’ll get a cup of coffee and head back to my cabin, work on my knitting.”
He stood also, a little more sturdy on his feet than Jillian. “That ski mask you’re making – it really isn’t a ski mask is it.”
She shook her head and studied the tips of her leather shoes.
“It’s a hood, isn’t it? For whoever you’re going to hang next.”
“Perceptive, Drew the surfer.”
“I might be a bum, but I’m not a stupid one.”
She took a few steps and wobbled, and he came up to her side. “I’ll get you back to your cabin so you can get coffee and finish your project. We make port tomorrow and…”
“And, yes, I’ve someone to hang there. I’d like to give him that hood.”
The ensemble started an up-tempo jazzy piece as Drew and Jillian wended their way through the dining room, swaying from the wine and the gentle pitch of the deck, and a little bit from the music.
“Maybe I’ll see you in port tomorrow,” Jillian said.
Drew pulled his lips into a thin line. “Well…I…Jillian…I don’t think so.”
“Awww. I’ve turned off Mr. Twelve Stone.” She let out a great sigh. “Not the first time.”
They didn’t speak again until she pointed to her cabin door and fumbled for the key. Her fingers awkward, he opened the door for her.
“I’d ask you in for a drink,” she said. “But…”
“I think I’ve had too much already.” He looked past her and saw the almost-finished hood laid flat on her bed, the coil of nylon cord on top of her nightstand. “A lovely lady you are.”
She didn’t detect the sarcasm in his voice.
Jillian tipped her face up and he gave her a polite kiss on the cheek. She tottered inside, surprised and pleased that he followed her after a moment and closed the door. “You’re interested in that drink after all Drew?”
He shook his head and pulled her close for another kiss, his hands inching up her arms then circling her neck and squeezing until she fell unconscious. Then Drew slipped on a pair of gloves he’s kept in his pocket and put the partially finished hood over her head. He slid the cord around her neck and coiled it twelve times before tying a slip knot. She was slight enough that he could force her body out the window. And he was strong enough that he could absorb her weight when she dropped nine and a half feet. He thought he would hear her neck pop, but the wind and the water was too loud, and the couple arguing in the next cabin was noisy.
He tied the end of the rope to the window latch, satisfied that it would hold. If he hadn’t snapped her neck from the drop, she’d die within minutes of asphyxiation.
He knew a lot about hanging, too.
For the next several minutes he busied himself with wiping away all trace of his fingerprints. No one had seen him in the hall, so he’d get away with this one, too. A serial killer on vacation, Drew hadn’t intended to strike at anyone during the trip. Jillian proved too tempting, though.
“I must go on more cruises,” he said, as he glided out the door and down the empty corridor toward his own room. “This has been my best vacation ever.”
Drew felt a rush of excitement and accomplishment.
He’d just hanged his tenth…
AlOmega