Eight thirty. Bill took one last draw of his cigarette before stubbing it out, slicked back his sweat damped hair and pulled his cap over his head. As he stood up, he straightened it and tugged at his uniform; completing it with a small pistol in his holster and tucking a baton into his belt.
        The night had finally come. The night Stanley Janiki would die. His last hour was slowly ticking away, already half gone. Stanley’s last night alive also signified Bill’s final execution. For sixteen years he had worked in this damned prison, watching evil men being walked or dragged in for hideous crimes, escorting them to the chair himself. Now that his retirement was due and the boys all grown up, he and Cathy could pack up and move to their dream home in San Francisco, with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge…
        A forty seven year old of Polish descent, Stanley Janiki had shot a farmer for killing his dog. The farmer had died instantly and Stanley had then stolen some of his livestock. Somehow he had managed to stay hidden for years. He had of course been sentenced to death for murder and had been on death row for seven months. He was probably crazy, he had shot someone for killing his pet, he was a merely a tramp roaming the country with no-one in the world but a mangy mongrel. Yet, Bill had always liked Stanley’s stories and witty humour.
        Stanley was caught when he broke into a big mansion in the country, apparently he had been doing this for years, stealing “the necessities that a man ought to have” yet to him this went beyond bread and water. A maid had screamed the place down when she’d opened a wardrobe to find the gruesome man who was filthy and smelt as bad as a farm animal. He got as far as the porch when the six foot gardener came running, hurling a shovel at his ankles- then Stanley had been the one screaming. The police were summoned, relieved to finally be rid of the Janiki chase and arrested him. He’d been in Edendale Prison of Alabama ever since.
        Standing straight in the humidity, Bill turned his head to look at the clock; eight thirty six. The side door opened and two other officers entered. They greeted him with a nod and the three of them made their way to the end cell.
        The inmates were silent as they peered through the bars at the three men walking past. Bill was first to Stanley’s cell and he tapped the metal bars with his baton as the other officer opened the rusting lock with a metal key. The door slid open with grinding metal.
        Stanley sat on the edge of the bed in his denim overalls, a cleanly shaved bald spot on his head for the sponge. He sat with his hands clasped in prayer, fingernails yellow with smoking habit and his head hanging. He was wearing a clean checked shirt with patches in the elbows, his denims were budged at the ankles revealing scars and scabs and tatty sandshoes. Yet for a prisoner he looked respectable enough.
        “It’s time to go Stan,” Bill said, brandishing the handcuffs.
        Stanley nodded and held out his wrinkled skinny arms. Bill clipped the metal round his wrists with a click.
        Stanley stood up slowly and peered round the room for the last time; his home for the last seven months. The only real shelter he’d had since he’d left home as a teenager. He’d been so poor he’d lived on the banks of the river and was in a disgusting state when the police had eventually found him.
        He grinned as he stepped out into the bright hallway, the two officers grabbed at his arms on either side. He laughed, revealing two rows of crooked, yellow teeth.
        “Easy there boys. You don’t think am gonna try to scarper now do ya? Not now I’ve got a date with Old Sparky! And it’s a hot one!” At this he howled with wheezy laughter. This even raised a smile on Bill’s face as he led them on down the hallway. The crazy bastard just wouldn’t stop.
        “So long fellas!” he called as they reached the end of the cell strip and headed towards the door. His voice echoed behind them.
        As they walked through the concrete hallways, Stanley didn’t stop.
        “Hey boss, I don’t think I ever told you propa’ about the day that bastard shot my dawg.”
        Bill turned. “I think we all know. You killed him”.
        “I met a pretty little thing in the woods just before my mutt got his brains bust. She seemed scared to talk to me but she eventually gave in,” and to that he gave a wink and licked his dry lips.
        “Shut your mouth and don’t be crude” the other officer said, but Stanley only giggled all the more.
        “Oh she was a sweet, pretty little thing. She said if I didn’t leave her alone she’d get her daddy.” Another wheezy giggle.
        Usually Stanley’s pointless jokes and rants would make Bill laugh at the idiot but there was something in Stanley’s words and laughter that made him shiver. What else happened that day? Who was that girl?
        They had reached the double doors that would take them to the room that contained the chair and Bill came to a halt. The officers stopped too, and Stanley all of a sudden went quiet.
        “Is we here boss?” he whispered. Bill nodded and the officers dropped his arms for a moment. Stanley’s face looked worried now and his hands began to shake in their metal cuffs. Bill stooped a little and looked into the man’s frightened face.
        “Now Stan, you knew this was gonna happen. Come on” He nodded to the other two who clamped Stanley’s arms again and he let out a horrifying scream and tried to dig his heels into the concrete but he was dragged helplessly forward as the double doors were pushed open.
        The vast room was extremely bright. There were four other officers standing waiting and around fifteen witnesses of local men and women. One man in the front with an angry scowl on his face sat with a tightening grip on his hat as he twisted in his hands. But Bill’s attention was diverted by the screaming man being dragged across the floor.
        It took four officers to get him into the chair; Old Sparky. Stanley was in the arms of his killer. They pinned his arms and legs into straps as the sack was put over his head and his nose emerged through the hole in the face. He stopped screaming and his breathing became louder in the silent room. The witnesses looked anxiously on.
        The sponge was soaked in the bucket, and carried over; dripping onto the wooden floor. It was placed on his head, and he was wired up. Bill stood for the final time in front of the criminal and announced the beginning of his death.
        The terrific crack of electricity being sparked up echoed throughout the vast room and the body fired into contorted energy and movement. Stanley cried out in agonising grunts as the electricity fired around his body causing spasms and his head to fall back again and again. Bill saw his hands gripping Old Sparky’s arms. After several minutes the body went limp and the chair was switched off. Stan’s head lolled forward.
        That was the end of Stan and Bill’s time. Bill watched the witnesses talk amongst one another and the room had suddenly become very noisy with chatter and the scraping of chairs. A young girl, no older than twenty had slipped into the room clutching a little boy of about four in her arms. One witness, the man from the front row, lingered near the chair, growling and finally spitting on the limp body.
        “You got him, and you got him good,” he nodded towards Bill. “Crazy bastard, killed my daddy and raped my sister”. He nodded to the other side of the room to the young girl. He beckoned for her to come over.
        She made her way through the sea of people, and as she came closer Bill could see her pale face, tired and gaunt looking, her eyes frightened as she glanced at Stan slumped in the chair. Her mousy brown hair limply hung down to her shoulders. The young man put his arm round his sister and gripped at her coat as he spoke.
        “You see Susan, little Johnny ain’t gonna remember his father for anything other than that,” and he pointed to the corpse.