Personal Log 07 January 3307
07 Jan 2021Quriosyty
“Sometimes, the only way to get justice is to take it for yourself.”Following my return to Cemiess, my grandparents joined the families of other victims in seeking answers. Their efforts were instantly thwarted by bureaucratic red tape and soon thereafter by a complete denial that there was such a place. Whoever owned the mining settlement, whoever was responsible for what had happened there, had swiftly and efficiently buried any record of its existence and the events which took place. Officially there was no Dav’s Hope, it had never existed, nothing had happened there, and no one had died. My grandfather was furious and continued to pursue the matter regardless. Then three men visited our home late one autumn evening.
I was in my room when they arrived. I was vaguely aware of muffled voices coming from the living quarter and the sound of my grandmother in the kitchen; presumably preparing refreshments. She always prided herself on her hospitality. Shortly thereafter I heard grandfather’s raised voice. Then there was a crash, breaking china, and a scream followed by the sound of my grandmother crying. Alarmed, I rushed out to see what was happening but was brought to a halt by what I discovered. Concealing myself just outside the entrance to the living quarters, I peered round the corner. The scene I witnessed filled me with dread.
Grandmother was pinned to the wall by one of the men who was holding her in place with his hand pressed against her throat. A tray of broken cups was strewn at her feet; hot brown liquid soaking into the floor covering. I noticed that she was having to stand on tip-toes and, though she was weeping openly, her sobs had been reduced to little more than whimpers as she struggled to breathe against the crushing force of the man’s grip. Grandfather was being held down in his seat by another man, whose rough, strong hands pressed forcefully on his shoulders, forcing him down. I could see the powerful fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, it looked painful. In the expression on grandfather’s face I read a mixture of fear and anger.
The two men were huge and imposing; dressed in black suits, with military style haircuts and that hardened expression you find only on the faces of people you do not want to mess with. They exuded the air of those who might easily kill you as soon as look at you and each of them was looking toward the third man as they restrained my grandparents, awaiting further instructions.
The third man was obviously in charge, and he scared me more than the other two. He was thin, pale and dwarfish, and seemed deformed but without any visible malformation. He had an unpleasant smile and spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice. He radiated a lethal mixture of timidity and boldness. There was something oily and unctuous about his demeanour; reptilian in the way he moved. I never saw a man I so detested and if I ever saw the mark of evil on a man’s face, I saw it there on this man’s. And yet there was something more about him, something unnameable, which filled me with a sudden and uncontrollable sense of loathing, disgust and dread. It was this dread, gripping my heart like a vice, which prevented me from immediately rushing into the room. No one had seen me, so I remained hidden, paralysed with fear, helplessly watching the awful events unfold.
The pale man raised a hand in signal and my grandmother was lowered slowly to the floor. She dropped back down onto her heels and began to gasp desperately; gulping in huge lungful’s of air in between her sobs. The hand still held her throat however, pressing her against the wall, and the man attached to it smiled cruelly whilst flexing his fingers against her fragile, wrinkled skin. Grandfather relaxed visibly, but the man holding him did not. Conversely, I could see his fingers dig in even harder, as if he expected the older man to suddenly move or struggle.
“That’s better,” hissed the pale man, leaning toward my grandfather until their faces were mere centimetres apart. “Now we can talk like reasonable people.” He paused, waiting for my grandfather to respond, a thin smile curling the edges of his mouth and intensifying my feelings of dread. It was the smile I imagined a snake would have, just before it struck. My grandfather said nothing, though I could tell that he wanted to.
I can only vaguely remember what happened next. The pale man spoke to my grandfather for a long time but the words are hard to recall. I remember the almost sibilant hiss of his voice, the cruel curl of his obsequious smile and the growing look of resignation which spread across my grandfather’s face. His resolve had been broken and I knew, instinctively, by the time the pale man had finished speaking, from that moment on there would be no further enquiries into Dav’s Hope. Whatever had been explained to him during those few minutes had crushed any remaining fight in grandfather. The battle was won and the pale man was the victor.
The three men eventually left the house. I should have run to my grandparents, comforted them, cried with them. But I could not. As my grandfather rushed over to his wife, who had crumpled to the floor when finally released, I crept back to my room and hoped they would never know. They never mentioned it to me.
For a long time after that night I wondered why grandfather had let the three men into the house at all. It is easy, with the benefit of hindsight, to criticise peoples’ decisions and find fault with their actions. A long time later I concluded that they must have assumed the men were there to discuss Dav’s Hope. As it turned out they were, but not in the way grandfather had hoped.
Life at home became even more difficult for me. I was still angry and upset about my parent’s death, but added to that now was a terrible sense of betrayal that the only people left who could help get justice for them - had given up. Looking back, as I often do, I see now how it had been made impossible for them to continue with their enquiries, and once again I find myself regretting my feelings and behaviour towards them at that time.
Dav’s Hope was never mentioned again until the day that Lucy Minneux visited. Even that day it was only my grandmother who acknowledged her visit; who allowed her into our home, who sat with me whilst Lucy unburdened herself, who held my hand for comfort. Perhaps it was her penance, her apology.
Justice. I know that word. I tried it out. I wrote it down. I wrote it down several times and always it looked like a damn cold lie to me. Some say that there is no such thing as justice, and the best that we can hope for is revenge. But the question is where does seeking justice end and seeking vengeance begin? For me I think it began that awful autumn night. If two wrongs don't make a right, then neither does one. Revenge may seem petty by day, but on some nights she becomes Justice.
Somebody once said that no matter how much evil we see, it’s important for everyone to understand that there is much more light than darkness. That man had clearly never flown out into the universe. For me, justice, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder. Some see an innocent victim. Others will see evil incarnate getting exactly what's deserved. You see, the universe still has accounts to settle. And by my reckoning, the pale man was way overdrawn.
I am now alone in my quest for justice. And it takes a great deal of courage to stand alone even if you believe in something very strongly.