The door bursts open, taking the man completely by surprise, and almost at once the hooder claps the hood on him—they are superb at that, getting them right away. No amount of preparation on the man’s part, unless he kills himself. And how can he? There’s that explosive struggling. The sudden pinioning and muffling. The smell of the hood, and the brush of frayed eye holes. Pulled out in that hall, that moves forward like a ratchet one man’s spot at a time. That stops. Starts. Stops. Starts. That hall has a long gap in the wall at the top, and they can see the top of gallows in the yard. They can see the chopper rise there. See it drop. See it drip. See it streaked and dripping. That smell from the door, the hall’s full of it. The men struggle between their pairs of—helpers, as we called them. Cries, all of that tumult. Scraping feet. Now there’s that unrelievedly plain metal door in front of him. He looks down and smells that puddle spreading out from under the door into the hall and he recoils from it. He wants that his legs would shrivel and curl up to his body in the air rather than touch his feet to it. And the smell is right up in his hood.

When that door opens, there is only the empty space between him and the gallows. All there is is that. The yard is empty. The gallows, spattered. The chill basket. It must be shattering cold. His knees buckle and his helpers hold him up. When that board indents the fabric of his trouser knees he recoils again without a sound. Or with not more than that strangled sound. They lay him down. They strap him there and stand away. He lies there on that board, his head turned on his cheek.

And now she glides across his path. She’s tall and willowy, wears that loose, rough black thing. She’s stately and calm, and he watches her shadow loom past him and he convulses, makes sounds. He struggles on that thirsty plank. She leans over him with the dreamy eyes and lightly checks his bonds with lean fingers. He won’t hear the breath that darts swiftly in and out of her nose.

With a slam he is rammed forward, his head between the rails. His scream is all but lost in his mask. He is looking down through the mask into the sop basket. A balance is tipped—this is the part no one is ever told about—and the board spins him around face up and he sees at once that livid line and her, looming over with that well-eyed look. He sees her pull that lever. He sees the line streak down with a loud rattle.