Under Radar by Michael Tolkin Page A

hanged, perhaps because of the story, and he was desperate to keep the story alive. Why? His mystery is crawling inside of you, looking for a way over the wall.The story the hanged man told you is inside you like all of us are inside of this prison. And if you tell us that story, you will free yourself, and those who hear the story will also be free.”
    Tom asked, “How?”
    â€œWhat do you remember?”
    â€œAbout what?”
    â€œEverything. Tell us your life story. Tell us everything you know.”
    The need to help these men met the fear that he would fail them and be hated by them for the rest of his life in this prison. He had no memory of the hanged man, no memory of the fight. Tom wanted to throw up, but then the menacing sickness and fear he felt from this flashed in his soul like lightning, exposing the shape of the story. Then the fear subsided into confusion, and he lost sight of the thing the hanged man had placed there.
    â€œI need to sit down.”
    â€œDo you remember something?” someone asked.
    â€œMaybe. I saw something, but it disappeared.”
    Word of Tom’s recovery spread through the prison. The crowd outside his cell grew larger.
    A guard with epaulets and a chevron on his white sleeve asked Tom his name.
    â€œTom Levy.”
    â€œAnd do you need a doctor?”
    â€œNo,” said Tom. “I’m fine.”
    â€œWhy did you not speak for so long?”
    Tom looked the man in the eye and knew how to win some time for himself. He answered with a smile, “I had nothing to say.”
    The guard laughed, and then everyone laughed, not for long but in relief. There would be no investigation, no interruption, Tom would stay in the cell.
    The guard told the men to clear the corridor.
    I owe these men. They have protected me during my deep trance.
    In losing his body, he had gained the astral, with an immediacy so complete that for seven years he knew time as a single instant with no voluptuous surges advancing and retreating, so nothing to gauge position, so no reflection, so no memory. How to explain his triumphant return to the shattered world? Something rescued him, but what, or who?
    â€œI want to help you,” said Tom. “Where do I begin?”
    â€œTell us the story of your life.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œTo protect his message against its enemies, the hanged man wove his story into you. As you tell your own story, we will find that knot among the threads of your life. You might remember an ordinary moment, a moment of no obvious consequence to you, when without warning you will begin to tell a story you could not possibly have lived.”
    â€œThen I’ll start with the story of the murder, because nothing else in my life was ever so exciting or coherent,” said Tom.
    And so he did, as best as he could. He told them about the hotel, and the people there, and the sour mood of his week, and he told them about his daughters, how much he loved them, how beautiful and true they were, how he disdained to call them special, to give them any higher worth. He remembered Perri’s warm damp hand, and Alma’s cool grip, the night he walked with them, the night before the murder.
    He told his prison mates about the band, and about the singer’s tawdry pleasure in dancing with a four-year-old. He told them about Barry Seckler, and the trip to Nine Mile, and the struggle in the waterfall, and the blood. He told them about the last visit with his wife, and then he told them of the early days in the prison. He told them the story of Paul Farrar and his conspiracy of educated professionals.
    It was an interesting story, and he told it honestly. It was certainly filled with more drama than any of the stories he might have heard at his high school reunion, but every man around him could tell stories of violence. He saw how they listened with full attention, because their lives depended on him. He related each detail simply, trying