Mulled Vine

“Beer, please.”

The bartender nodded, placed a mat in front of me, and soon after a tall glass of ice cold lager. I watched as the sides grew moist with condensation. It had been a long trip. London to Jo’burg, 4 hour wait, Jo’burg to Blantyre. Close to twenty long hours, many of which were unnecessary given that I almost flew over Malawi on the way down to South Africa. I hated business trips, especially when more time was spent travelling than doing business.

I picked up my glass and took a long satisfying drink. Aah, that was good. Nectar of the gods. I was still fuming about the incident at the airport. It was all so unnecessary, and had turned a bit ugly, but I was tired, and when that fat African dressed in Armani and excessive bling tried to force the queue I just lost it and told him to get in line like the rest of us. The bastard just looked at me coldly, and then at the immigration officials who were watching. He spoke to them, in Chichewa I guess, and they laughed, and just let him through! I was livid, but there was nothing to do – this was Africa and the veneer of civilisation does not run deep.

*

I heard the sultry swish of silk at my side before I saw her: a tall, slender beauty with dark chocolate skin and sensual curves. She turned to look at me and flashed me a smile. I smiled back but returned to my drink – I had been on enough business trips to recognise the local honey trap. She ordered a Martini but did not chat me up as expected. Out of the corner of my eye I could see a large cluster of diamonds on her wedding finger. Perhaps I had misjudged her.

“It’s been a beautiful day, hasn’t it?” I ventured.

She turned her lovely eyes to me, deep pools of enigmatic emerald that one could fall into forever. I thought about my wife and girls waiting for me back home, and the intense loneliness of such trips, and took the first step along journey I was later to regret.

“Can I buy you another drink?”

*

I woke feeling refreshed. The fan spun lazily overhead, creating a pleasing gentle breeze. I could still smell her perfume in my nostrils and my mind was instantly filled with memories of silken caresses, deep sighs and forbidden pleasures. But there was something else, something faintly metallic that jarred my senses. I turned to look at her but was met with the cold stare of death. Her throat had been cut, covering the bed and me with sickly blood, while next to my hand lay a bloodied razor. I cried out and leapt out of bed, staring at the brutal nightmare before me. Someone had come in to the room during the night and done this terrible thing. I had had a lot to drink, but I knew I had not done this. Yet a sickening wave of uncertainty hit my stomach.

*

The heat was sweltering in the little interview room. The police inspector looked at me.

“Mr Morden, if you are innocent, then why are your finger prints on the murder weapon?”

I started at him, incredulous, and shouted, “But that’s impossible. I didn’t do it! How many times do I have to tell you!”

He shrugged his shoulders and pressed the buzzer on the table.

“We hear that all the time.”

Two men came in.

“No, please,” I begged. “You have to listen to me. I want my phone call.”
He looked at me coldly.

“You will be appointed a lawyer. There will be no need for phone calls.”

*

Judge Isaiah Moloko looked at me sternly. “You will find that we do not take kindly to the abuse and murder of our women.”

I began to speak.

“Silence!” he commanded. “I have heard all the evidence and your defence. The time for words has now ended.” He paused and placed a black cloth on his head. “Andre Morden. You have been found guilty of 1st degree murder and are hereby sentenced to death by lethal injection.”

I had no more strength to protest and broke down weeping. Five thousand miles away two little girls were getting ready for bed and wondering when Daddy would be coming home.”

*

The guards escorted me from my cell along a filthy corridor to the execution room. Inside was a single chair with leather straps, and a steel trolley on which lay assorted vials and instruments. They tied me tightly to the chair.
In front of me was a large window, behind which I could see several rows of chairs, mostly occupied. One of the guards returned with a black cloth hood which he raised to place over my head. I waited, but nothing. I turned to look at him. He returned my gaze, smiling, then looked at the window. I followed his gaze and saw a familiar, fat African man pushing his way to the front row. He heaved himself into a seat, the sweat pouring from his forehead, then raised his eyes languidly to look at me and winked.

The room went dark and the last thing I heard was the clatter of instruments on the trolley and the soft wheezing, approaching breath of my executioner.