The Guard Read Online Free

we’ve been here and how long it is since we’ve tasted sugar. I can’t think straight, my brain refuses to be distracted from the prospect ahead. I find the teaspoon, the only spoon we have, stained brown and seldom, if ever, used. I run back with it.
    “I fished some of the glass out.” He’s licked the pieces off or used his finger to remove the jam: they’re lying neatly together next to his feet like the well-gnawed bones of a roast chicken. “That’s all,” Harry says. “Just the glass.”
    Squatting opposite Harry once again, I ask, “How are we going to do this?” I mean, should we spoon the jam into another jar and save it for sandwiches? How much shall we eat a day? One spoonful, a spoonful each? They’re questions we need to consider, but I can’t put them into words right now because of the constant murmuring in my head.
    Harry carefully scoops up some of the pulp with the teaspoon and raises it to my lips, presumably as compensation for what he’s already enjoyed off the glass. The moment the strawberry jam is in my mouth, I forget the danger of glass splinters, push my tongue up against the roof of my mouth and gulp it down. My mouth falls open as if shocked into numbness, there’s too much taste, I have to get rid of some of it. Like an overheated dog, I pant strawberry and sugar. Euphoria is already ringing through my veins as Harry takessome for himself. He looks me straight in the eye. We know what the other is feeling.
    He scoops up another spoonful. Mine again.
    Almost as a ritual, united in a sacred silence, we eat it all. A spoonful for Harry, a spoonful for me. The enormous basement disappears in its own emptiness. We have no trouble fending off the question of how the driver got his hands on jam. The very last mouthfuls, scraped together, contain dust and dirt from the concrete floor, but the grit doesn’t spoil it at all. It goes down easily with the sugary jelly and is completely tasteless.
    12
    As if sitting around a campfire, we slump on our backsides and stare at the spot on the concrete, which now really has become a spot. Daydreaming. Moved to reverie by the pleasant glow of the sugar. Feeling mild about our situation, although it hasn’t changed. I am so sated that I keep my thoughts about the possibility of there being more jam in the cardboard box in Mrs. Privalova’s garage to myself for a good five minutes before confiding in Harry.
    “You think so?”
    We scramble to our feet.
    Wouldn’t it be fantastic to be able to eat bread with jam every day for a couple of weeks? After what’s just happened it doesn’t even seem like an insane longing.
    Harry folds back the lid of the box and starts pulling things out. I see the familiar tins of corned beef appear in the half-light, boxes of chicken stock cubes, flour, yeast. It’s still possible. As long as he’s bending over the box, it’s still possible. It will happen without any transition. Harry will straighten his back while casually handing me a jar and saying, “Here. Cherry.”
    Harry shakes his head.
    He runs his hand around the four corners one last time. “No razor blades again either,” he says.
    Rubbing and picking at our beards, which we trim fortnightly with a paring knife, we finally stroll back to the bottled water. We don’t say it out loud. If we say it out loud the chance of a second miracle will disappear in a flash. Or do we keep silent because we don’t want to admit to each other that we still have hope, completely irrational hope?
    We circle the bottled water, acting as if it’s about the water, as if we’re inspecting the new provisions. In full harmony with this pretense, we don’t let our disappointment show.
    Suddenly Harry’s face lights up. He asks whether I noticed. I’m staggered. Have I missed something? I’m about to inspect the water again, when Harry says, “The guard didn’t come.”
    13
    I nudge the float in the cistern. The water level rises and a few seconds later the