The day began at 07:30.
The other interviewers and I were led into a makeshift tent and instructed to wait for the call. We were given no food, and the only water we had was from the rain that had collected upon the canvas. It was rationed out, and all thirty of us received a few drops to see out the day.
The tent soon became a sweatbox, the heat riling the dormant animals within us. A hierarchy subsequently formed and we split into two packs. Weak against strong. I knew straight away that I had to prove myself.
Lenny was a slight man. Not short. But by no means tall. We had sat next to each other on the coach here, and he had opened up to me about his sick mother. I could tell he was easy pickings.
As I walked over he smiled. “Hello again,” he said.
I clenched my teeth and spat. “I heard you were talking shit behind my back”.
He blinked. “What? I don’t understand…”
Before he could finish his sentence I had beaten him into the ground, hitting him again and again until his groans had become silent.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the senior interviewers watching the scene, nodding their heads as if in contemplation. They had fashioned robes from the excess tent. The canvas fell shapeless over their bodies, swaddling them like khaki ghosts. I dared not face them, so retreated back into the corner where the women huddled.
It was four hours later that I was summoned: a hand on my shoulder, a bag placed over my head. But it did not wholly block out the light and I could see shadowy figures congregate around me, things so charged with meaning that their forms were dimmed and blurred. They never touched me, but by some strange impetus I felt compelled to move forwards, stumbling into the recesses of the tent.
No one followed. There was quiet. When I removed the bag, I could no longer trace the direction from where I came, for everything was concealed in shadow. My eyes ached like I had been watching the sun and I crouched and rested my head against the mud.
When I next looked up he was there.
“Tim Allen?” was all I could muster.
He smiled. “Hello David.”
“You know my name?”
His shirt was unbuttoned and exposed his torso. “I know a great deal more that you realise. I have been watching you. We all have.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Everything will become clear soon, my child.”
He took me by the hand and lifted me from the ground. He seemed barely to strain as he hoisted me into the cool air. My feet left the ground and we rise, Tim and I, I and Tim, in union. I become restored.
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bethlehem to be born?
