A Cleansing of Souls Read online

  This was not Tom, she thought to herself, not the Tom that had occupied her mind night after night, day after day, when they were both so much younger.

  “Are you warm enough?”

  He nodded his bowed head, his wet hair hanging down, tangled and formless.

  “You still play your guitar then,” persevered Sandy, her eyes falling on the hard, black case. “You must be really good at it by now.”

  “Not bad.”

  “How come you’ve got it with you? Were you on your way somewhere? I haven’t kept you, have I?”

  “From what?”

  Tom looked around at her sharply; rage lingering in his eyes for a second.

  “From what?” he repeated, this time softly, almost pleadingly.

  His mind throbbed. There was a torment within it. All the bitter experiences of his short life came together as one. He saw only failure and misfortune. There was no such thing as redemption, only shame. Pain and longing scratched at the door to his heart, coming home to rest, creeping into his tired eyes. And sorrow floated out upon warm, warm tears. Once he had had begun to cry, he was unable to stop. His whole body shuddered in mute disappointment as anger and blighted innocence were wrenched from deep within him drop by drop by drop.

  Sandy just sat there watching him. She made no motion towards him and she said not a word. She took in for the first time the ragged nature of his clothes, the dirt on his hands and the smell of decay the lingering smell of decay in the air around him. And she understood that this was a private agony of which she had no part.

  So the intensity of the emotion under which Tom had gratefully bowed was lifted. His body stuttered as it broke free and his breath was returned to him once more.

  “Tom,” whispered Sandy, coming close to him now. “Tom, it’s all right. You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s all right. I’m sorry.”

  He shook and shivered, tremulous before her. His clothes were still damp upon him, as if freshly saturated with his own tears. Sandy put her arm across the back of the settee and pulled him gently towards her, holding him so close. She laid his head upon her and gently stroked his sodden hair.

  “Shh,” she said softly, “shh….”

  He mumbled something but the words meant nothing. She held him tighter now, closer. His aching limbs left him. They were no longer a part of him.

  And Sandy and Tom stayed like that for almost an hour, entwined in one another, until Sandy felt upon her now damp breast the rhythmic breath of sleep.

  “That’s it,” she whispered, “that’s it. You sleep now. Shh….shh…..”

  And the young man fell asleep in her arms.

  When Tom awoke the next morning, Sandy was gone.

  Compared to the alley where he had slept previously, the settee had been a silken heaven. He felt as if he had slept for years. He had not woken every ten minutes, heart pounding, intensely aware of every footstep, every noise and, more frighteningly, every silence. He had woken strangely content.

  When you’re asleep, life still rolls on. Things are dealt with, put into order within us sometimes while we’re asleep in a way that the conscious mind cannot even begin to contemplate. It was as if Tom had been lowered prostrate and shivering into dark waters and had emerged wrapped warm and tight in the clothes of another. Once again, the spectre of premature redemption peered its head into his wayward life and smiled seductively in his direction.

  Tom lay quite still on the settee and gazed at the ceiling. It was so comfortable in this room. Everything seemed so soft. And he was high up, perhaps on the fourth or fifth floor, high above the streets. Thoughts ventured onto the cluttered stage of his mind, exiting shortly after making their unbidden entrance. His road had been rough, very rough. It was time now for a break, to think like everybody else, to just relax, mate.

  There was a note on the coffee table. The handwriting was large and curly. Tom read it over twice. It read ‘I’ve gone to work. I’ll be back at about six. I’ll leave earlier if I can. Make yourself at home. You can have a bath if you want to. Please don’t leave before I get back. I’ll make you something to eat when I get in. Help yourself to anything in the cupboards. See you later.’ Sandy had signed her name and added her work number in case he needed it.

  Tom sat back on the settee, not sure what to do. She had left him alone in her flat. She didn’t know him, not really, hadn’t seen him for years. At school, they hadn’t even been friends, just classmates. Yet she had let him stay the night and now she was offering to cook him something to eat when she got home from work. It didn’t seem quite believable to him that someone could have that much trust. There are some beautiful people out there.

  So he wandered around the flat, quietly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He found the bathroom and carefully used the toilet. It could have been made of crystal such was his experience with the walls and trees that had been the backdrop for his relief the previous few weeks. He ran himself a bath and removed his clothes. They smelt strongly of the rain from the previous night. It was only once he had got into the hot bath and smothered himself in soap that he realised how filthy he had become. The water turned a dull grey colour through which Tom couldn’t even see his legs. He lay there for some time, just calm and silent. Eventually, he got out, rinsed the bath with the shower hose and wrapped a large peach towel about himself. As he was doing so, the gratifying silence was pulled apart by the ringing of the telephone. He walked through cautiously to Sandy’s bedroom where the phone was, and picked it up.

  “Hello?” he said, warily.

  “Hi. It’s me. Sandy.”

  “Oh. Right. Okay. Good,” he said, much relieved. “You sound different on the phone.”

  “So do you. I was just seeing how you were.”

  “I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you left.”

  “Don’t worry,” replied Sandy, pausing now. “Are you okay with washing machines? You can wash your clothes if you like.” He didn’t reply, thrown as he was by the question. “Or you can wait until I get in,” she added.

  Tom was thinking furiously now. Long term plans or minute by minute. Decisions were being made for him again. What to do? Dreams, freedom, warmth, security, loneliness, cold, backward step, any step, go, stay, find Michael, stay, stay, stay. For the minute…

  “Tom, I don’t know what’s happening with you, and you don’t have to tell me, but I want you to know that you can trust me. If there’s any way I can help, I will. And don’t think you’re ‘putting me out’ or anything. To be honest, I’d like the company.”

  Stay, stay, stay…….

  “Thanks,” replied Tom softly. “I’ll see how it goes.”

  He thought of secret documents and of midnight meetings, single light bulbs and black coffee. He thought of the stars, the trees and of cold, cold alleys.

  “Well, I’d best be going, Tom. Just so long as you’re okay. I’ll see you about six.”

  Tom said goodbye and put the phone down. He wandered out of the bedroom, a towel still wrapped around him, and slumped down onto the settee, feeling weary again. From what he could remember, Sandy had been one of those girls at school whom he had despised, whom he had judged as short-sighted and narrow-minded. She had got top marks in every subject. When a volunteer was called for, hers had been the first hand in the air. And she had never got drunk with the others. She didn’t know what real life was about. He vaguely remembered her as having very few friends and that she was picked on by some of the other girls. But now, now she seemed different.

  She was old then, Tom.

  She is younger now. And you, well, you’re just the opposite.

  So Tom got up languorously from the settee, turned the television on and watched Sesame Street. And when that finished, he watched Mr Benn.

  Whilst Tom was sprawled on the settee indulging in the events along Festive Road, Michael was in the park, battered and dazed. The bruises were showing now on his face though the blood had since dried and was intermittently flaking off
. As he sat there on the bench, an earnest young man in a dark suit approached him.

  “You are in need of Love,” said the earnest young man, looking down upon him.

  “I am Love,” replied Michael, looking up.

  “There is one,” continued the earnest young man, “one who can give you all the love that you need. He will love you for who you are. He will forgive you your sins and he will deliver you unto Heaven. He will look upon you as his own and he will cherish you. Your sins were washed away when Jesus was nailed to the cross. He suffered so that you may not suffer. He died and was resurrected so that you too may join your father. Jesus will save you.”

  Michael looked deep into the eyes of the earnest young man and held his upturned palms before him.

  “I am Jesus,” he said, tears in his eyes.

  And the earnest young man left, affronted.

  Sandy arrived back at the flat just before six that evening. She opened the door to the lounge and found Tom on the settee, his eyes closed, the towel still wrapped around him. He had slept all afternoon. She looked at him as he lay there. He seemed such a lonely figure, so frightened. It was as if he had just fallen down to earth.

  Tom awoke to the sound of clanging and clattering in the kitchen. It was like a fanfare that announced the next stage of his reckless life. He was suddenly aware that the towel did little to fully cover him, so he began arranging it hastily, looking for his clothes.

  “I’m just doing some tea,” called Sandy, hearing the frantic rustling in the lounge. “Do you want coffee?”

  “Cheers.”

  “Your clothes are in the washing machine,” she called again. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  And these thoughts streamed through his mind: he could be on the run or undercover. He could be a poet, an artist, an author, anything. Was this a final chance to re-invent, to begin again? Re-focus, re-adjust and succeed. Don’t look inwards. Look outwards. Watch out. Be one step ahead. And in that moment, Tom felt he had finally worked out the rules of adulthood. He had become wise to the ways of the world. What did Michael know anyway?

  And thus was the contamination of the child was complete.

  And Little Norman? Well, he was nowhere to be found.

  Sandy took the TV magazine from the floor and placed it on the coffee table.

  “Tom,” she said, “you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but, well, I’ve been thinking. You seemed so scared yesterday when I met you. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is there anything I can do?”

  He felt an obligation to answer, so soft was her voice. Maybe it was his dwindling conscience.

  “Kind of.”

  “Oh.”

  “I can’t really say any more than that.”

  He looked at her coolly - as cool as you can look in a peach towel anyway.

  “Where have you been staying?” asked Sandy, trembling a little, though she knew not why.

  “Around. Just around.”

  “What do you plan to do?” asked Sandy. She didn’t want to press him too much. She just wanted to help him.

  “I don’t really plan. I just take things as they come.”

  “Are you going to go back to work?”

  “Fuck them. I wouldn’t go back there. I can’t anyway.”

  Sandy flinched as he swore.

  “Do your parents know where you are?” she continued, timid now.

  The mention of his mum and dad brought him down and hurt him. He didn’t answer, preferring instead to stare deep into the swirly blackness of his coffee.

  “Have you spoken to them, let them know where you are?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Do you still live with them?”

  “What is this?” said Tom angrily, still looking at his coffee. “What am I, five years old or something?” He paused and took in the unpleasantness in the air. “Look, I appreciated how you helped me yesterday, but show me where my clothes are and I’ll be out of your way.”

  Sandy didn’t know what to say.

  Tom looked at her and she held his gaze. She had the most beautiful eyes.

  “If you want me to go, I’ll go,” he said with some consideration, some awareness of the effect his words were having. He was flitting from one branch of his personality to another like a bird with a broken wing.

  It was the classic line, the classic test.

  Sandy put a hand on his bare shoulder.

  “Tom,” she said, “I thought I’d made it clear you could stay here. Try and see it from my point of view. If you’re staying here and you’re in some kind of trouble, I think it’s fair you let me help you with whatever’s wrong. That’s all. And you should let your parents know.”

  Tom coughed a couple of times.

  Sandy’s hand was still on his shoulder. He didn’t want her to move it.

  “I’ll phone my mum and dad in a minute.”

  “Tell them you’re staying with a friend,” said Sandy, smiling and removing her hand from his moist skin.

  “Okay.”

  “Only if you’re sure. The phone is in my room.”

  “I know. I answered it earlier.”

  “Oh yes.”

  There was a short silence before Sandy spoke again.

  “Pie and chips okay for dinner?” she asked.

  And Tom nodded, not even being able to bring himself to thank her.

  Pick a number, any number. That’s what Tom did and that’s what he dialled. He held the receiver face down on the bed for a minute or so before replacing it. He stayed in the bedroom for a further minute before going back into the lounge.

  “Any luck?” asked Sandy at the kitchen doorway.

  “No answer. They must’ve gone out.”

  “Oh.”

  “I’ll try again tomorrow. They don’t go out much, especially two nights running.” He thought for a second. “Then again, who knows?” he added.

  Sandy felt she had missed so much at school and at times regretted her scholarly diligence. Her textbooks had not prepared her for situations such as this. Things were happening that she didn’t quite understand. Was she mad, stupid, naïve? She didn’t know. Is this how people get into trouble, she thought, is this how it all starts?

  And as she was thinking these things, Tom played lightly on the Beautiful Guitar, softly, tentatively, almost as if he were caressing a faithful pet that he had ignored for too long.

  “That’s nice,” said Sandy. “What is it?”

  “Nothing really. Just a tune.”

  Tom played a song by Mississippi John Hurt, improvising some of the lyrics and leaving out some of the more difficult runs. As he sang, his voice developed an American twang that Sandy initially found a little amusing.

  Without prompting, Tom played two more songs, though his one-woman audience was barely able to distinguish between the three. Perhaps it was just one long song with some very odd words.

  After allowing the final note to hum meaningfully, Tom coughed and closed his eyes for a moment. He was tired now, and so was Sandy. She wandered off to bed and he slept on the settee, the Beautiful Guitar standing over him, still protecting him, though he knew it not.

  In that wonderful limbo between consciousness and sleep, Sandy had convinced herself that she needed Tom. As she slipped from reality to dreams and back again, it all seemed so clear. She believed in fate and this last twenty-four hours had surely been fate at its finest. A chance meeting on a rainy night – it couldn’t have been written better – DREAMLAND.

  Chapter 10

  Childhood and adolescence bring with them mistakes and inconsistencies, errors of judgement and of perception. Adolescence is in itself almost a physical affliction.

  There are some people who glide across life’s surface like a breeze. For them, there is no pain and there is no terror. For their path is a path ordained, a path bereft of the fear and intensity that ferments within our very hearts.

  And there are others.

  We struggle within life’s w
aters with hearts bursting. So hard we try, so hard. And we cry out as deeper we fall beneath the depths of our innate wonder. And as a seed, we sink and are embedded in the sands of our birth.

  And we grow mighty within and gentle without, surely as was intended.

  There are some people who glide across life’s surface like a breeze.

  And there are others.

  Us, mate.

  Us.

  Shortly after his seventeenth birthday, Michael had found himself in a room that smelled of sweat and urine. A room with a single window high out of reach, a room whose door could only be opened from the outside. That room was all he could remember from his seven-month stay. And, finally, he had emerged into the sunlight of a new dawn complete with a diagnosis, a supply of medication and a letter to his GP – truly a young man grown old.

  Whilst in that hospital so long ago, the only world Michael had been able to understand was that which came from within. When the body is trapped, the mind is prone to roam. And when the spiritual transcends the physical, well…

  Now he was alone once more. For a short while, he had enjoyed the company of another stranger that had happened by chance to wander across the plane of his world. But now he was alone. It seemed that fate had decreed that he must ever be alone, that his life be one of enduring pain. There were so many areas of his life over which he had no control. He was forever being pulled into life and thrown out again. Only in his mind was he truly free. There in that blissful arena could he dream, invert, rearrange and distort. There alone could he pursue that spark that would one day ignite his soul and allow it to burn forever.

  Sitting in the park, Michael closed his eyes and succumbed freely to glimpses of his past, a past that had never let him be, a past that had betrayed him, ensnared him, and tortured him. He saw in the void a young man face down on a bed screaming. He saw two pale hands seeping blood and he saw the metal fork on the table that oozed blood also. He saw darkness and light and emptiness. The scent of despair was in the air and the taste of hopelessness wavered upon his tongue. He thought of Jennifer and Laura of Laura and Jennifer. Ah, innocence, innocence, fetch me your soul, just your soul, and permit me to wrap myself in its beauty and its sweetness.