Holy City: Chapter Three - Part Two
Fontan took her right index finger off the trigger of her M30 and put it to her forehead.
“Okay, I promise.” Not sure if she had any intention of keeping that promise. The prisoner took Fontan at her word and didn’t make her promise again or swear on her mother’s life or any of those other juvenile oaths.
“Yesterday was my fortieth birthday,” the man said as he promptly cut his chin with the razor. Blood poured from the cut. He took the green hand towel and placed it under his chin, pressing it tightly to his skin. “I think I might be ruining your partner’s towel.”
“Don’t worry.” Fontan mumbled more worried about Larkin than the towel.
Fontan’s eyes lit up. “How did you know the kit was his?”
“I assumed.” The prisoner said.
Fontan’s right finger returned to the trigger of her M30 as she eyed the prisoner suspiciously. Then she remembered Jannis’ reaction when she walked in. The prisoner must have overheard.
“I think the bleeding has stopped,” the prisoner announced. “My skin should be weathered from my time in the desert, but it always remains so sensitive.”
“That’s enough talk,” Fontan put a sudden stop to the conversation.
“The captain doesn’t want me talking to you.” She made up the last part. The captain never said anything about talking to the prisoner one way or the other. Fontan assumed it would have been the order if she had asked, it seems like that would be the sensible order, that always seemed like the order for a private, ‘shut up and don’t ask any questions.’
The prisoner finished shaving and washed the shaving cream and a little of the blood off his face into the basin. He picked up the scissors and made several attempts to cut his hair. Each time he tried to cut the back of his hair he was only able to get the ends of a few strands. With a tiny mirror and a tiny scissors, the task seemed impossible. After his fourth failed attempt, the prisoner set the scissors down.
“I’m sorry Pvt. Fontan, I know you told me to stop talking, but I don’t think I can cut my hair under these conditions. Would you be able to help me?”
Fontan’s throat developed a lump like a tumor. She swallowed hard. She would be alone in the cell with the prisoner. If the prisoner was a seasoned soldier or a spy, it would be a perfect opportunity for him to take advantage of Fontan’s inexperience.
Unlike some of the other soldiers in her unit, Fontan was a realist, she was under no illusion of how good of a soldier she really was. It wouldn’t matter that she was the one with the scissors, a skilled spy could disarm her in a matter of seconds. She would be a hostage and Larkin would have to make some quick decisions about how to handle the prisoner’s demands.
Fontan looked to Larkin sitting at the desk. He would probably just shoot the both of them. The tumor returned to Fontan’s throat.
Larkin got up from his chair. “The captain wants him to have a haircut. You go inside with the prisoner. I’ll stand guard.”
Fontan wordlessly shook her head back and forth, trying to dissuade Larkin. Larkin was unmoved.
“Go on. Let’s get this over with.”
Fontan couldn’t disobey the order no matter how cavalierly it was given. Disobeying an MP was even worse than disobeying the captain.
“Put everything back in the pouch.” Fontan pointed her M30 at the prisoner. “Everything. No tricks. I’m watching you and so is he.” Fontan gestured to Larkin.
Very deliberately, the prisoner put the items into the pouch, showing Fontan each item first like a magician who is about to conduct a trick. The bloody towel was last. “Should I put this in as well?” He asked.
Fontan hesitated. She didn’t want a bloody towel. She was about to tell the prisoner to keep it when Larkin spoke up.
“Yes.” Larkin was experienced enough to know a match between the prisoner with a towel and Fontan with a scissors wasn’t a fair fight. Fontan wouldn’t stand a chance.
The bloody towel went into the pouch and the prisoner slid it back under the bottom bars of the cell. Fontan quickly picked it up and laid everything out on a table. She went over the contents again and again, making sure everything was there. After a minute, Larkin told her to hurry up. Fontan was still worried that something was missing. The scissors was definitely there, the bloody towel she didn’t want, that was there, too. The shaving cream and the small mirror and the razor, they were all laid out on the table. Hadn’t she given the prisoner something else? Another instrument that could be used as a weapon. Fontan continued to go over the contents until Larkin placed a hand on her shoulder and removed Fontan’s M30 and then pushed her towards the cell.
Larkin moved to the door with the keys. The prisoner wasn’t sitting on the bed. Fontan wished he was sitting on the bed. He was standing, his back against the washbasin, watching the nervous private as she entered. Larkin pushed a chair in and locked the door. Fontan patted her pockets.
“I forgot my zip cuffs.”
“You don’t need to cuff him. I’m watching.”
Larkin handed Fontan the scissors through the bars of the cell. The prisoner was still against the washbasin, still watching and planning.
“If you try anything, I’ll shoot you.” Larkin said to the prisoner. The prisoner didn’t say anything back. His face was sharper and more intense now. Fontan felt like a fly that had just wandered into a spider web. She dragged the chair over to the prisoner.
“Sit down.” Fontan’s voice wasn’t as authoritative as Larkin’s. The prisoner sat down facing the window. Fontan stayed behind him with the scissors.
The first cut was a phantom cut. Fontan whiffed and didn’t take any hair. It was a test to see how the prisoner would react.
Only he didn’t react. At all. He sat calmly in his chair. His eyes were probably closed. Fontan was sure his eyes were closed. That’s what the evil villains do in the movies right before they attack. They close their eyes and listen and wait for their prey to make a mistake. Fontan didn’t like being the prey.
The second cut took an inch. Fontan went in for a third cut. Her trembling hands betrayed her. The scissors slipped and dropped to the floor, clinking against the concrete. The prisoner’s body tensed. Fontan’s body tensed. She didn’t look down at the scissors. She was watching the prisoner who in turn was staring straight ahead. The prisoner’s eyes were definitely open now.
Even though those eyes were staring straight ahead, Fontan felt they were focused on her, waiting for her to bend down, for her attention to be diverted, for her to make the mistake of looking away. Would Larkin really shoot them both? Yes, yes, he would, Fontan decided. He was an MP. MP’s send citizens to the camps, why would he be afraid of shooting a soldier who had screwed up.
“You dropped the scissors,” the prisoner said in a very even tone after it was clear that Fontan wasn’t bending down to pick them up.
Fontan still made no move towards the ground.
“I suggest you pick them up.”
Fontan studied the back of the prisoner’s head, the stringy hair that fell down to his shoulders. Her gaze moved to the man’s hands, which sat pleasantly in his lap. If only Larkin had allowed her to cuff the man she would have felt much more confident. If only the prisoner wasn’t so damn calm as he sat there. If only he wasn’t so calm about everything.
With her eyes trained on the prisoner’s resting hands, Fontan started to bend down. It wouldn’t take much for the man to reach her. Fontan’s face was now at hand level. One second, if even that, and they would be in a clinch and Fontan would be in a desperate fight for survival. Who was she kidding? There would be no fight for survival. She would be dead, killed by either the prisoner or by Larkin.
Fontan’s left hand groped the floor. She kept her right hand raised in a defensive posture. She kept her eyes on the prisoner. The scissors had to be down there somewhere, if she searched long enough she would find them.
Fontan hadn’t hit the scissors yet. She slowly moved her right hand down. She was searching with both hands, completely defenseless. Hurry up and find that scissors. Hurry. Up. Fontan’s hands danced.
Finally, her right pinky finger hit metal. Slowly, very slowly, aware she was now at her most precarious, Fontan manipulated the scissors with her fingers trying to raise it from the flat ground. The scissors slid. Fontan moved her left hand to help her right hand. She picked the scissors up and gradually rose from the floor, still watching the prisoner, waiting for the first sign of movement.
The prisoner’s hands were still resting in his lap. Fontan was behind him once again now holding the scissors like a knife.
“If it takes you that long to pick up the scissors, you should be extra careful not to drop them again.”
Fontan could hear Larkin snicker. Her ears burned from embarrassment, this man, this prisoner, this spy or deserter was having fun at her expense.
Fontan pulled hard on the prisoner’s hair grabbing a fistful and abruptly cutting a large swath. She took another fistful and another, now that she was back in control she was going to do this in record time.
Fontan had more experience cutting hair than one might expect. With no barber on the base, it was common practice for soldiers to do a quick cut of each other’s hair. This was usually done with a clippers instead of a scissors, but Fontan was familiar with the process. And after several minutes, she found her anger subsiding as she became involved in the task of trying to give the prisoner an adequate haircut. After five minutes, it was all over, Fontan backed away and the prisoner looked like a new man.
Fontan exited the cell and Larkin handed the prisoner a broom. “Clean up your mess.” The prisoner swept his hair into the corner of the cell. Larkin quickly took the broom back and locked the door once more. He walked by Fontan who was sitting at the desk checking the contents of her partner’s shaving kit once again, making sure all of the items were there. “I’ll be back at fourteen hundred with the captain.”
Next Chapter: Chapter Four
Previous Chapter: Chapter Three - Part One