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Keane no longer bore any viable sense of time, and he dared not waste the precious matches to see his wristwatch. Frankly, it made no difference. Time was simply a measurement to make mid-morning appointments or order young children off to bed. Only a measurement. Nothing more.
But the constant darkness made setting a regime arguably impossible. Therefore, he began to tailor a sense of time around the meals shoved through the steel door. He would pick thoroughly through the revolting offerings—eating only those bits least likely to make a painful reappearance—then pace around the cell’s perimeter for however long suited him. This pattern, however fragile and forced, at least gave him a timid semblance of sanity. In his brief, jolted staggering along the wall, his muscles were given a chance to stretch and relax. They were forced to work; something they had been frequently denied of late.
Not like his mind.
His mind was working constantly.
Every conversation returned with a new vengeance. Voices rose from the dirt as bile; bubbling upwards into the mouths of realisation. His life had not been one of divine structure. There had been countless occasions in which mere seconds of life became more terrifying than an eternity in Hell.
Keane’s fingers reached the end of the longest stretch of wall and he turned to follow the next.
Of course, by his own admission and in differentiation to Matteo’s ignorant beliefs, he would never consider himself a good man. In war he had seen men killed and been the killer. He had watched blood spill, only to be glad it was not his own. The path he had trodden in life had been shorter than some and longer than others.
“Did Ross have a history?” Matteo’s words cracked down upon his skull; shattering any prepared eulogy. Somewhere beneath the severed scraps, he was able to piece together a logical answer.
Yes, Ross had been depressed from time to time.
A bit more than usual for someone his age.
Someone so young.
His medical history, on the other hand, was as to be expected. There were no prior attempts to remove himself from the earth. On the contrary, his bill of health had been fairly spotless. Perhaps Ross’ breathing was slightly more forced, but it wasn’t worrisome. It wasn’t unusual. No one had ever seemed overly concerned with this fault.
Or had that been the problem?
Had Ross believed the indifference held so far as to include his perfections? Was that the fulcrum for the young man’s landslide?
‘It was my fault.’
Keane swung his hands through his hair as trembling fists, then slammed the fragile knuckles against the wall.
He had missed it.
Lawrence had told him, but, idiot that he was, he missed it.
‘It was my fault.’
Why would a boy—a young man—feel his life worthless so suddenly? He wouldn’t. Even with the trial looming heavily upon the future, the thought of betrayal would rarely make a human being so utterly desperate. Because that was what it was, wasn’t it? Desperation. Surely he would have understood that Keane would never have blamed him. Ross knew him too well for that. And, should the obvious escape his young, terrified mind, Lawrence would not forget.
She seldom forgot anything.
No, Ross wouldn’t stretch to such lengths unless he truly felt himself responsible for Keane’s misfortune.
So why would he commit suicide?
One answer.
‘Because it was my fault.
It was me.’