Read Online The Guard by Peter Terrin - Free Book Online

round: the hems of our pants tapping against our polished shoes; the heavy material of our uniforms rustling and rubbing as our legs cross. Underfoot, now and then, the grating of a stone, stowaways smuggled into the building in the tread of expensive tires. Harry slows and stops. Frowning, he looks at me.
    “Do you hear other noises too?”
    “What do you mean?”
    “Whistling sounds. Have they been bothering you long?”
    I search his face for a clue, reading the lines and folds around his mouth, nose and eyes. I take my time, giving myself two seconds, three, four if necessary, to discover that he’s having me on. That he’s simply been slack and neglected to push the button back up, so that the float jams and the water keeps trickling. That he can hear it just as well as I can, the running water, and now I notice that the sound is as clear here, on the opposite side of the basement, as it was over there. As if the toilet has been moved behind my back to Garage 5. If I couldn’t see where I am with my own two eyes, I would swear I was standing next to the toilet.
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    In the end we completed the round, marching all the way back from Garage 5 in silence. I heard the whistling constantly, but didn’t ask Harry about it again.
    I push the toilet door wide open, ignoring what I experience as an increase in volume, ignoring what my ears tell me. I want certainty, confirmation. I mustn’t exclude the possibility that the never-ending exposure to almost constant silence has affected my hearing.
    I ask Harry to come in. With a shocked expression he joins me in the cubicle that isn’t really big enough for two people. I am already kneeling in front of the toilet bowl. I ask him to watch over my shoulder while I press the tip of my finger against the inside of the enamel where the water gushes down when you flush. To my great relief I see and feel the initially invisible trickle build up and find new paths on either side of my fingertip.
    “The toilet’s leaking,” says Harry.
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    I turn the key in the lock of the storeroom door through two full circles and see at a glance that the ammunition is all there with every box in place, just as they were eight hours ago. I count per shelf and do the multiplications in my head. Fifteen times three is forty-five boxes. Flat and rectangular, long sides against each other. The Winchester cowboy spurs his horse, never getting any closer to himself. I check each box separately, starting with the weight, although that of course can never be a valid criterion. Behind the flap, the cartridges stand in tight lines, immaculate and gleaming like polished jewels. Our most valuable possession.
    I like being in this room. I take my time. The room appears to have been created by chance in the lost space between three supporting elements, but now derives its importance from the function it has been given, the ammunition on the shelves, the food and bottled water against the wall opposite. Necessities for the protection of the building.
    I think of Harry and how he assigned a function to his life at an early age, deriving importance from it. The way he owns our modest uniform and how well it fits him. How he is driven by the goal of becoming an elite security guard. He has never been lost space in a dark corner of a basement where there is no longer so much as a breath of wind to disturb the accumulated dust.
    I count all of the cartridges in all of the boxes. Time has no hold over them, they are patient, they look exactly the same as the first time I counted them. Winchester, 9mm Luger (Parabellum). And like that first time, the final qualification reminds me of the Latin adage, Si vis pacem, para bellum . If you want peace, prepare for war.
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    At the door of our room I inform Harry of the results of my inspection. We pull out our Flock 28s. In turn, we silently count the contents of the cartridge clip. After I have given Harry a nod, he repeats the total from the storeroom out loud and says,