The Hangman

 The Hangman

by

Brent Towns

My trembling finger poked the sepia photograph. It was either the grog or the frigid Bourke night air causing the tremor. 

‘That’s me and him. November ten, eighteen eighty. The governor wanted a picture of us together the day before he hanged. Strange, isn’t it? A criminal hanging another criminal.’

The young woman beside me leaned in, the orange light from the flickering fire illuminating the picture enough for her to see. ‘Are you sure? It doesn’t look much like him.’

‘That’s him. His beard was longer, and his hair was all prettied up, but that is him.’

‘And you were the one who hung him?’

‘I hung men, flogged more. Ghastly.’ It was something you never forgot. I grabbed my bottle of whiskey. ‘You want a drink to warm your bones?’

‘Sure.’

I passed her the bottle after popping the cork. I staggered to my feet. 

‘Where are you going?’

‘Not far, Lassie.’

I disappeared into the darkness, leaving her alone. When I returned, I took my place beside her.

She held up the photograph. ‘Tell me more.’

‘He was a scoundrel and a murderer, Lass. That’s all you need to know. He got what was coming to him.’

‘Many saw him as a hero,’ the young woman suggested, raising an eyebrow.

My head tilted to one side. ‘Did you, Lass? Did you see that black-hearted Ned Kelly as a hero?’

‘I—’

I snatched the whiskey from her hand and took a long pull. Its bitter burn chased the cold away. Holding the bottle out, I offered her more. She shook her head. ‘No, I’ve had enough. I must leave tomorrow.’

As the liquor made its way down my gullet, the tremor in my hand began to subside. She passed the photograph back to me and I held it up. The image blurred. Blinking my eyes, it came back into focus. 

‘Tell me more,’ she requested once again.

I shook my head. ‘No. No more. I’ve told you all I’m willing.’

‘But the picture…’

A sudden urge came over me and I threw it into the fire. ‘Damn the picture.’

‘No,’ she gasped and leaned forward, plucking it from the greedy flames. She patted the burning tongues out and held it close to her chest like it was a prized possession.

Staring at her, I asked, ‘Who are you, Lass?’

‘My name is Kate.’

My laugh was dry. ‘He had a sister named Kate.’

‘So, I heard,’ she replied. Getting to her feet she said, ‘Goodbye, Elijah.’

Her words had a finality about them.

She faded beyond the firelight like an apparition, the photograph gone with her.

I turned in. I was tired and the burning in my guts was growing as the poison-laced whiskey started to bite.