By Roger Jon Ellory
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The mercy of remembrance. As if the Almighty says: Here, son, you done got yourself in one hell of a mess right now… You ain't stayin' long, an' that'd be the truth… You take a good look over all that's been an'gone, and you try an' figure out for yourself how you got yourself arrived where you are now… You take that time now, son, you take that time and make some sense of it before you have to answer up to me… Maybe. Maybe not. I have never believed myself to be anything other than a soul. A man is not an animal, not a physical thing, and where I go now I don't know.
We believe such small things, but believing them makes them important, and sometimes they have to be enough, carrying such things and believing perhaps that they will in some way carry us. Mr. Timmons also believes I didn't kill Nathan Verney in North Carolina on some cool night in 1970. He believes this, but he would never say it. It is not Mr. Timmons' job to question such things, for there is the way of the law, the way of justice, the Federal and Circuit and State and Appellate Courts, and there are tall grave men with heavy books who look into such things in detail, and they make the laws, they are the law, and who is Mr.
West raped a black girl, found out she got pregnant, so he went back down there and cut her throat and buried her in a field. No-one ever found her, or so he said, and I listened to the story with a sense of wonder and curiosity. Seemed everyone had invented their own history for Mr. West. To me, well, to me he was just a mean, sadistic son- of-a-bitch who got his revs beating on some poor bastard who couldn't beat back. Few years before I came here someone made a noise about him, some kid called Frank Rayburn.
Candlemoth by Roger Jon Ellory