A Cleansing of Souls Page 15

  All around the room there were dolls on shelves and cuddly toys slumped against one another, sweet, simple and innocent; there were posters on the wall of babies in funny situations, of animals all dressed up, and of the latest pop sensation – four boys in vests. It was a child’s room. And on the low table beside Laura’s bed, there was a grinning frog; its grin so wide and so happy that you almost had to laugh yourself. Held firmly between its shiny green hands there was a sign bearing the advice – ‘SMILE: GOD LOVES YOU!’

  Laura had always believed in the grinning frog. He had always cheered her up and given her hope. Sometimes, she would talk to him and she would feel better. Other times, all she needed to do was to look at him and things would not seem so bad after all. She knew with a certainty derived from innocence and faith that God did indeed love her. But if ever there was a time that she felt he didn’t, she knew the grinning frog would be there for her.

  So Laura’s bedroom was bright and warm and cosy. It was the bedroom of a little girl. A child’s own room is the sanctuary to which they are able to retreat when they have been chastised and demeaned by the adult world. It is their most secret of gardens, a place of dreams.

  When you lay upon her in this room, your body so absurdly large upon hers, did you drag the colourful quilt across you in a moment of shame? Did you whisper any words into her small ears or did you just go ahead and do it? Afterwards, did you dress in front of her or did you scuttle out half naked, dripping, burning? And did she scream or just lie there silent, waiting for the grinning frog to save her?

  Christine picked her daughter up in her arms and held her to her heart. She just had to hold her. She kissed her forehead and she smoothed her hair. And Laura, eyes closed though still awake, shivered. She just shivered.

  One Sunday every month, Sandy visited her parents for dinner. This particular Sunday, the day after the party, she asked Tom if he would like to come with her. He assented without hesitation.

  Sandy’s parents lived on the north side of town, about three miles from the flat. Being a Sunday, buses were scarce, so they made the short journey by underground. And for once, the Beautiful Guitar, Tom’s very essence and innocence, stayed behind. It stood there in the corner of the room, in the middle of his heart.

  The entrance to the underground station was dull and grimy. It was more like the entrance to a mine. There were bottles and empty cans amidst strewn pages from newspapers and pornographic magazines. And where a fruit and vegetable stall had stood the day before, just outside the entrance, there now lay a rotting collection of soiled and unwanted products. Tom took a kick at a sad cabbage on their way in and it just fell apart on impact.

  The escalator was not working, so Tom and Sandy had to walk down the steep spiral steps. It wasn’t too difficult for Tom, but Sandy had some problems in her dainty shoes. By the time he had reached the bottom, she was only half way down. As he waited for her, he looked about him at the posters and the placards on the walls, walls that had been stripped back to reveal damaged plaster, blackened brick and shadows of shadows. And then he felt a sudden urge to look up towards the steps, to see Sandy from a distance, to see her as a stranger - to see her how others saw her. But by the time he turned around, she was with him once more.

  As they walked together through the myriad of complex curved corridors to the platform, they became aware of a tune bouncing and skipping off the walls. The tune became clearer and louder the further they walked, a joyful, happy tune.

  The source of the music was a man on the ground. He was old and grey, as if he were a direct product of the broken wall behind him and just eased his way through the crumbling plaster. He sat there, legs crossed, playing a battered mandolin. His fingers raced along the fret board as if they were madly bridging gaps, thereby holding the whole instrument together. You knew the mandolin would surely fall apart were the man to stop playing even for a moment.

  Beside the mandolin man, there was a small dog. It was predominately white though it had a sizeable black inkblot of a mark on its back. The red collar around the neck was fastened to a silver chain that was in turn wrapped around the left wrist of the mandolin man. Each time the man changed chords or ran his fingers up and down the mandolin, the small dog would be jerked into the air. It would just sit there waiting for the next chord change and then it would jump at the slightest twitch of the chain, landing ready to anticipate the next chord.

  The man was motionless as Tom and Sandy passed, motionless except for those manic fingers which seemed to possess a spirit all of their own, dancing and writhing so nimble and so strong. Tom and Sandy heard the sound of the train approaching and rushed around the corner to the platform. And they didn’t see the creased cardboard sign propped up against the wall beside the mandolin man upon which was written in blue chalk – ‘PLEASE HELP ME FEED MY DOG’. From an A7 to a D to a G, the small dog hurled himself into the air in joyous glee, dancing to that one, sweet, sweet tune of resignation that plays on forever.

  The train screeched and crawled, wounded and bitter, into the station. There was only one other passenger in the carriage that Tom and Sandy entered. He was a young man with a rucksack that clung to his back like a dishevelled, sullen child. He leaned forward, gazing at an unfurled map, the stifled music seeping from his personal stereo in squeals of pain.

  Conversation on the train was impossible; such was the incredible lurching and jolting of the carriage and the deafening clattering of the wheels upon the track. There were times when Tom felt the whole train would just topple over into one smouldering heap of iron. The windows shuddered and the door at the end of the carriage slammed against its frame over and over again.

  The journey lasted ten minutes. At the top of the escalator, on the way out, Tom and Sandy were greeted by a blinding flash of sunlight that filled the exit to the station like some huge torch shining down upon them, picking them out as they rose from the deep bowels of this earth.

  Outside, the street was deserted. All the shops were fronted by iron grilles, padlocks on and alarms set. A slight breeze picked up dust and dirt and other debris, nudging it into the corners. There was a smell in the air, a Sunday morning smell of stagnation, which lingered above everything.

  “So where is it, then?” asked Tom.

  “Just down here. Up near the end,” replied Sandy.

  They continued walking down the street and all Tom could see were shops. There were no houses or flats, just all these petrified shops.

  “Here we are,” said Sandy, smiling, stopping in front of a small general store. “I’ll just go around the side and ring the bell,” she added.

  While Tom waited for Sandy, he looked at the slogans that had been daubed upon the iron grille that was pulled down over the front of the shop and locked tight to the ground. Moments later, Sandy reappeared and beckoned him to come around to the side door.

  Sandy’s father stood there in the doorway and smiled broadly. He was a tiny man in terms of both height and physique. His dark eyes were kind, gentle and full of charming energy; vivacity and humour embodied his entire persona. He kissed his daughter on both cheeks and shook Tom’s had firmly.

  “Dad, this is my friend, Tom. I told you on the phone.”

  “Yes, yes,” said her father. “That’s right, you did. Tom, Tom, Tom.”

  He grinned a wide, satisfying grin and led Tom and Sandy through the door and up the narrow stairs to the flat above.

  The flat, as Tom quickly discovered following a brief but enthusiastic tour, contained just three rooms. There was a bathroom, a kitchen, and a lounge that doubled as a bedroom.

  Tom was introduced to Sandy’s mother who was knitting in a low armchair in the corner of the room as they entered. She was a large woman and she rose unsteadily to greet them, shaking Tom’s hand gently and looking deep into his eyes. She sat back down and put her knitting away carefully into a carrier bag beside her chair.

  Sandy sat on the floor near her mother’s chair and the two of them spoke
in a language Tom did not understand. But though he was unable to comprehend any of the words, he still marvelled at the fluency and proficiency of Sandy’s speech, how it flowed, how it sounded. He was soon enticed away though into a conversation with Sandy’s father whose diction was completely at odds with his swift, frenetic movements. He spoke slowly, almost painfully so, thinking long before each word. Tom found himself staring at the deep eyes and the crevices in that bony face. There was so much there. If his face were a novel, it would surely be a classic of the literary fiction genre.

  “You work with my Sandjreka, Tom?”

  “No. Out of town.”

  “Ah. You have known Sandjreka long?”

  “We went to the same school.”

  “Ah.”

  There was a lengthy pause as Tom trawled his mind for something meaningful to say, something entirely sensible. But he could think of nothing. Nothing came. The silence between the two of them seemed to last forever.

  “Tom - come and look at this.”

  Tom got up gratefully from his chair and went over to join Sandy at the bookcase that leaned precariously against the wall. She held in her hands a long, framed photograph, a wide-angled shot of all the children at Palmer’s Secondary School, taken when she and Tom were in their fourth year there. Tom gazed at it, transfixed. All those children were now a million miles away, in another world, another time. All that was left from those days now were mixed up names, faded memories and an incredible, deep feeling of longing for something that he knew was never there in the first place.

  As he scoured the faces, names sprang back into his memory. Those children were all so young, so perilously young. There was Darren Elliot, the boy who limped grotesquely and was always excused from rugby. And there was Graham Parkinson, the boy who would eat a hamburger in a single bite. He was great! He would creep up behind an unsuspecting group of girls and jump out in front of them, cramming the burger and bun into his open mouth before running away like a madman. And in the back row, partially obscured, at the furthest end, was Paul Regis. They had called Paul ‘Thumper’ at school because he was just like a rabbit – timid, nervous, and wide-eyed. Tom had never spoken to him though he had probably laughed at him, ridiculed him with the others. But all that stopped the day Paul had been run over outside the school gates, on his way home after another day of being teased by everyone. Run over by a car – a rabbit to the very end. He was gone. Tom momentarily recalled the bewildering feeling of shock when it was announced in assembly the following day that Paul had been killed. That had been his first dealings with death. And it had been just a few weeks before Little Norman was due to arrive on this earth.

  Sandy and Tom stood looking at the photograph, reflecting silently on the faces before them and wondering where those faces were now. Were they in work? Were they mothers and fathers themselves? Were they in prison? Were they lost, lonely, confused, satisfied, broken, content? Each child has a story, the story of its life. And I want to read them all.

  There are some things too huge to comprehend, too massive to come to terms with. The passing of lost years, if you think too deeply about them, can surely break you.

  And then Tom saw his own face staring back at him from the photograph - the face of a boy with the troubles of a generation in his heart; a face of grief and bitterness. And that was before Paul Regis, before Little Norman. Perhaps he had always had those feelings. Perhaps he would never lose them, but just go through events to justify them. Perhaps they had just found a new means of expression.

  Music and words are beautiful.

  Tom and Sandy stood there looking at the children, each seeing different things. Sandy’s father crept up behind them and, reaching up, tapped each of them simultaneously on the shoulder. He was so very small.

  “Time for something to eat, now,” he said softly.

  The food was wonderful. There were more textures, aromas, sights and varieties of food than Tom had ever seen before. There were relishes and spices that painted masterpieces in the air above the collapsible table, lingering long after the tongue had first delighted at the taste. Tom had felt a little reluctant to serve himself too much food, but encouraged by Sandy’s father, who ate with a speed only equalled to his enjoyment, he emptied his plate, filled it, and emptied it again. Ah, gorgeous, gorgeous food.

  After having eaten all his stomach could take, Tom sat back in his chair and suddenly found himself in an intense battle to contain a monstrous burp he felt building up within him. Just as he felt he had conquered the worst of it, a resonant bellow leapt from the small man beside him. This emission broke Tom’s own resistance and he too belched gloriously just seconds later.

  “Ah, you enjoy your food, Tom?” said Sandy’s father, smiling.

  “I’m sorry,” mumbled Tom, embarrassed, shaken by the volume and timing of his own testament as to the extent of his enjoyment.

  During the rest of the evening, they all watched television. There was a nature programme followed by a quiz show and then a film. Tom watched the latter with tired eyes. He felt so content and relaxed after the meal that all he wanted to do was sleep. The warmth of the room combined with the continuing spicy aroma that wafted throughout the room tease him into somnolence.

  Towards the end of the film, there were some erotic scenes that caused Sandy to glance nervously at her mother to ensure she was still knitting and not watching. And every time Sandy looked back at the screen, her mother and father smiled tenderly at one another. Tom viewed all this through half-closed eyes, on the outside now, looking in on this family.

  When the time came to leave, Sandy’s mother stood up and shook Tom by the hand once more. He thanked her for the tea and she smiled, nodding her head slowly.

  “It has been a pleasure to meet you, Tom,” said Sandy’s father as they stood outside in the fading light. He laboured over the words but meant every one of them.

  “Yes, you too,” replied Tom, shaking the small man’s bony hand.

  After a kiss goodnight for her father and a wave to her mother, Sandy led Tom back to the station and to the train that would take them both back home.

  When Tom and Sandy arrived back at the flat, they were both very tired. Tom had a headache, due in part to a mixture of the heady smell of the spices and having to concentrate so hard when listening to Sandy’s father. He sat down on the settee whilst Sandy went into the kitchen to make hot chocolate for them both. Before she could return with the drinks, Tom had closed his eyes. The flat was so quiet. Everything was still. Just as he was about to slip into sleep, Sandy handed him his hot chocolate.

  “That was all right, wasn’t it?” said Tom, sipping his drink, feeling it burning his lips. “Your dad’s a good bloke.”

  “Yes, he is,” replied Sandy.

  Tom noticed some hesitation in her voice. He was in tune with her now, closer to her. He could sense her in a way that he had been unable to before.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked. “Did I do something wrong? Except for the burp, I mean. I’m sorry about that. It just sort of came out.”

  “Dad does that all the time,” she said. “He always has done.”

  “Well, what then? Was it something I said?”

  Sandy put her mug on the floor, turned and looked at Tom. It was a nervous, shy and self-conscious look.

  Sandy took a deep breath and continued to look into his eyes as she spoke.

  “This morning,” she said, “what happened this morning was, look, I don’t know how to say this, but, what you did, what we did, it’s just that, did you mean it?” She let go her breath now in pure relief and then added, as if to jog his memory, “when we made love.”

  Tom watched the steam of his hot chocolate weave towards him like some spirit rising. He leaned across, closed his eyes and kissed Sandy softly on the cheek. It was the most sensitive thing he had ever done. And he hadn’t even had to think about it. Tears came to her eyes and she cried, sobbed. All day she had been wondering. It had meant so
much to her. Tom held her to him and she continued to weep.

  Joy. Love. Cry it all out. Hold me like this every day, every morning, every night. May your embrace be my embrace and may I never be without you.

  That night, Tom and Sandy slept in each other’s arms like two wanderers in a strange land, clinging onto the only thing they knew. Their thoughts and their dreams were far apart that night though there bodies were so close. They were in the same place at the same time and that is all. But who can tell what tomorrow brings?

  This is a moment. All we have are moments. Just live them.

  So Sandy was in madly in love.

  And Tom, well Tom just slept in that soft bed, held in the arms of another, praying that the yellow moon would hold off the morning forever.

  Chapter 15

  Who can say what leads a person to suicide? No man can pass judgement on the feelings and thoughts that must consume the mind in those final moments. They are beyond our understanding - for death to be preferable to life, to be the answer, the end. You are gone from our world and our conscience and move briefly into our memories to disappear forever as you were. I would have spent an hour with you, a day, a lifetime even. Just one word from me, and you would be with us still.

  Jennifer. You are gone and I am almost alone.

  It had been so long ago.

  It had been barely a second.

  Young, fresh, vibrant - so full of life and love.

  At fourteen, Jennifer had fallen in love with a boy seven years older than herself. He had just started work and, with the money he earned, would take her to all kinds of marvellous places she had never known existed. She would hang off his arm as they walked down the street, full of pride and bursting with an eagerness just to enjoy every moment with her man.

  Such was her pretty, elfin face, she could have passed for eighteen, twelve or thirty-five. There had been a maturity about her features, a worldliness that had made her all that more fascinating. She was a young girl, but oh so old in so many ways.