A Cleansing of Souls Read online

  “No,” he said, “I don’t believe he did.”

  And the meal ended in silence.

  Ron managed to thank Roger for his company before they parted. As he left the restaurant, his mind was reeling and rocking with all sorts of thoughts. Why now? Why did it all have to happen now? As he walked, he tried to clear his head by breathing deeply the evening air. He dared not acknowledge his deepest fear, He reassured himself that there was no way Michael could know. But if he had known at that moment just how much Michael did know, he may well have stayed in Big Town indefinitely until he had found him, instead of looking for a telephone box from which to call his wife.

  The railway station that opened out into the main street was noisy and packed with sweaty people. There was a row of telephone kiosks just inside the entrance that were party to all manner of conversations that revealed the wonderful minutiae of people’s lives. In one of them stood Ron. He was having difficulty dialling his own telephone number; such was the state of his mind and perhaps the residual effects of the wine. Twice he dialled wrongly before finally having some success.

  The telephone rang in the hall and Diane answered it. She was hoping it would be her husband. He had been gone all day. And his dinner was almost ready.

  “Hello?”

  “Love, it’s me. I can’t talk long. I don’t have much change. I’m just calling to say that I’ll be back in about an hour, hopefully. I’m just leaving now.”

  “No luck then?”

  “No. Look, I’ve got to go.”

  “Christine got another note from him this morning,” said Diane. “The same as before apparently - written in a crossword. She brought it over for you to see, but you’d just left.”

  “What did it say?” asked Ron tentatively. It had been a long day.

  “It was very odd. Christine didn’t understand a word of it. She seemed to think it would mean more to you than it did to her. She really is in a terrible state, Ron.”

  “What did it say?”

  “Hang on, dear, I’ll go and get it.”

  And all the while, Ron watched the numbers count down on the display in the kiosk, mesmerised.

  “I’ll read it out to you, dear. I copied it down. It was so difficult to read with all those grubby black squares everywhere. Anyway, it says:

  ALL MY LIFE IT HAS BEEN BOTH WITHIN ME AND ABOUT ME

  YOU KNEW JENNIFER

  YOU DID

  YOU DO

  JENNIFER IS SEVEN YEARS OLD AGAIN

  SHE WAS TAKEN FROM ME ONCE

  YOU HAVE TAKEN HER FROM ME AGAIN

  BUT I FLOAT ABOVE EVERYTHING NOW

  I SEE EVERYTHING

  I KNOW EVERYTHING

  JENNIFER TOLD ME SHE TOLD ME RON

  WITH HER EYES

  I KNOW

  I CLEANSED HER SOUL.

  And that’s it,” said Diane, finally. “A bit odd, isn’t it? Christine is very upset. Who is Jennifer, anyway?”

  There was no reply.

  For back in the station, the numbers had counted down to zero. And the receiver hung limp, dangling like a hanged man, swaying silently in perfect, deathly motion.

  Chapter 8

  The music almost swept George back into the street as he pulled open the door of the pub. He had decided to look for Tom locally first, reasoning that even if he didn’t find him straight away, he may meet somebody who knew his son, a friend, a work colleague, somebody. He was unaware that Tom had neither friends nor colleagues.

  He squeezed by the huge bouncer at the door and was immediately overwhelmed by a feeling telling him to just leave this place, to go back out of the door and into the street. Bright lights pulsed and glared red, gold and green. Sweat dripped from the walls and smoke fused with the lights to render everyone transparent, fading in and out of vision like true spectres of youth. The bass seemed ready to blow a hole through the wall and it shook the very floor upon which George now stood.

  These people were alien to George. They were not of his kind. As he walked around the pub, pounding stares, glances and contortions of features just left him shaking. He saw young girls with make-up applied so vigorously and laboriously that it served only to mask their inherent beauty. They became grotesque caricatures, tottering on high heels, wobbling vaguely and uncomfortably in time with the incessant beat of the plastic drums. There were children, surely just children, in a tangled mess in the corner. Their faces were red and their eyes large. And they tried with all their burgeoning adolescent strength to keep from slipping out of sight beneath the table of their own destruction.

  Tom had often called back as he was leaving the house to let his mum and dad know that he was just going out for a drink or that he was just off to the pub. These thoughts were with George now. He found it so hard to imagine that his boy was able to survive in an atmosphere of such raucous intensity. From where had he acquired the skills to merge in with this reckless crowd?

  George tried two more pubs, without success, before deciding to make his way back home. It had been a doomed and fruitless effort.

  The night was clear and the moon was full, giving light to the darkening streets. Barely any of the street lamps seemed to work; those that did just flickered on and off, blinking shyly through the day and the night.

  So George’s eyes were on the ground now, following a path of despair. He emerged again onto the main street of this small town, flanked both sides by Banks and Building Societies. These were the only institutions able to maintain a fluorescent presence, providing a blue green glow with which even the moon itself dare not compete.

  There were several short side streets off the main road, leading to deserted car parks or small alleys containing large, metal vats of rubbish. At the head of all the side streets and the alleys, on the pavement and on the forecourts of closed down shops, there were parked cars. And sprawled on, in and around these cars, there were children.

  So deep was George in his thoughts that he was no more than a yard away from one such group when he became aware of its presence. A car horn blared three times. George looked up quickly, though he had learned in the previous few hours not to look anywhere for too long. It didn’t do to stare.

  The car horn blared again, punctuating the music that screamed from the car radio.

  The children that stood around the car were of all ages. Some drank cheap lager from cans and almost all had cigarettes either dangling from their hands like an extra digit or stuck between their lips.

  Though the night was warm, George felt a chill about him. He felt the eyes of the children upon him as he stood there and in those eyes, he saw only malice. There was no humour at all. He contrived to walk warily past the group and just as he thought he was through, a small girl stepped out in front of him. He almost knocked her over. She just stood there looking up at him. She couldn’t have been more than ten years old. George had an urge to take her hand and lead her away from all this. It was when he took a hurried step sideways to avoid her that she took a drag from a smouldering cigarette and spat like a snake on the ground in front of his feet. Her face then cracked in half to reveal a huge, satisfied grin, exposing bright white teeth that sparkled like the thick gold chain around her neck.

  And George hurried on, trembling.

  When he finally arrived home, he sat in the dark in his armchair. Closing his eyes in the silence, images whirled before him. The flashing lights of the pubs were tattooed upon his retina. He thought of those people he had seen and the children with their drink and their cigarettes and their rings and their chains. Who were they? How did they connect with him? He was a stranger in his own town - and Tom, what of Tom? The father then realised in an instant that he did not know his own son, had not known him for years, probably not since Little Norman. In truth, they did not know one another. Each was surely waiting for a miracle.

  When Tom had been small, George had played with him until both gave in to exhaustion and utter contentment. They had played football in the kitchen, had chased ea
ch other up and down the stairs, and had charged into the garden in the summer evenings, throwing water at each other and everybody else. He had read to Tom of Peter Pan, of Robin Hood, of Dick Turpin and of Robinson Crusoe. He had taken him to football matches, both wearing the lurid scarves and hats Elaine had knitted for them, and wearing them proudly too. And they had both leapt into the air together in ecstasy when their team scored. George had made Tom toys from wood – cars and trucks, plaques for his wall and a nameplate for his door. And he had stood over him while he dreamed, just watching the quilt cover rise and fall, wishing so vehemently to be inside that boy’s head, in his thoughts and in his dreams.

  And now that boy was gone. His boy, Tom, had run away from him.

  The radiators hummed and droned. The fridge in the kitchen whined. The moon slipped mournfully behind a cloud and George fell apart in his chair.

  “So, Tom. How do you find your life?”

  Tom did not reply. He had become used to Michael speaking an almost constant stream of words, half of which he would listen to, the other half he would just allow to pass him by. It had been as if there was a radio playing in the background of his sufferings. But this question would not let him go.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, life, life is miraculous in itself. All those events and people and experiences that come together to make up your life, the things you look back on and the things you look forward to, your dreams, your fears. That is life. That is your life. And you are young, Tom, so young.” Michael paused and continued in a more subdued tone. “When I was your age, I remember just trembling with life, with the fear of it and the longing for it. And I tremble still, Tom. Not with fear, or even longing, but because I know I am over the worst of it.”

  “And that’s why you spend all day, every day, in this bloody park?” replied Tom. He was thinking of his mum and his dad and of Little Norman, of his reasons for coming to Big Town and of the forlorn hopes that he was trying so desperately to cling to.

  “This place, this beautiful place, is not just any park. Just look around you.”

  Tom shrugged his shoulders and looked away. He was losing his way a little here. He had noticed over the past few days that his companion was becoming increasingly obtuse. A sense of urgency close to impatience would sometimes overwhelm Michael. He would become irritable and then somehow reach into himself and return to the placid, gentle man whom Tom had first met. Tom would waken sometimes and catch Michael’s voice rising and falling beside him, conversing with himself. And then he would stop and look at Tom, a bewildered, sad expression on his face, before falling into a protracted silence.

  Michael began again, his voice calm and soft.

  “So, Tom. How do you find your life?”

  Tom knew that the moment had come. He had been unable to sit down and think of his problems, of his past or of his future. The days had drifted one into the other and he had just been drifting along with them. It had taken a stranger to bring him down from up there, to turn him around and begin to put him back together again.

  “I suppose I’m still looking for it,” he replied eventually.

  Michael pondered this answer, trying to fit it into his own thoughts and experiences of being lonely upon this earth.

  “You are your life, Tom. Your life is within you.”

  “Then perhaps I’m looking for myself.”

  Michael nodded.

  Tom sighed deeply and shook a little for tears were surely not far from his young eyes.

  “There are times, Tom, times in our lives when all we see is darkness, when nothing is clear to us at all. We are brought up to see with our eyes, but it is our eyes that betray us. True sight and true vision lie within us, Tom, within our souls. And that is where you will find yourself, within your soul.”

  “But how is that real life? How does that help me here, now? I need to get rid of this thing in me; this fucking feeling that stops me from being like everyone else. And I don’t know where to start. I’ve left home. I still feel the same. I need to change something. I can’t explain it. I can’t even explain what it is I need to change.”

  Those tears were so close now.

  Michael was looking at Tom as if he were looking at himself. He wanted to hold him, to bring him into his world, to show him the glory that awaited him. He tried to keep telling himself that it was too early yet, that the time was not right, but as the days had passed, Michael’s hold on what society expects and respects, was gradually being devoured by that which had been within him for so long, an illness that had lain dormant, an illness that had been awoken by his love for a little girl.

  “There is nothing to explain, Tom. Words just get in the way sometimes. Look into your heart, close your eyes and you will see your soul. Your body, the physical world, is all irrelevance.”

  “But I live and breathe in this world. You can’t just forget it and pretend it’s not there. Fine if you’ve got loads of money and a big house in the middle of nowhere, you can do all that philosophy stuff. But I’ve got nothing. Fuck all.”

  “Your soul, Tom. You have your soul.”

  Tom breathed a little harder now.

  “Anyway,” he said, “where has it got you? You’re in the same position as me. And you’re a lot older. You’re as fucked as I am.”

  Michael smiled knowingly. He saw him and Tom as two extremities, one at each end of the journey.

  “What are you laughing at?”

  “I’m not laughing at all, Tom. I just know how you feel for I was like you once. Lost. Confused. I was just like you, Tom.”

  “So then why are you smiling? Anyway, you don’t know anything about me.”

  “I know everything about you, Tom.”

  “Bollocks.”

  Silence.

  Birds singing.

  That’s all.

  Tom was becoming irritated now. One more person telling him that he knew what he was going through, knew him better than he did himself.

  “Look,” he said, “I mean, all that seems to happen is I tell you things, you spend hours going on about some crap, and then the day’s over and it starts all over again.”

  Michael looked at the young man beside him, a sad and sorrowful look.

  “If I were to tell you of my life, Tom, it would break the both of us. And I shall not burden you with it.”

  The two men sat there now on that bench beneath the sun, quiet for a moment, contemplative, each thinking his own thoughts, experiencing his own dread. How tenuous is our grip upon reality when the strings that bind us to the machinery of society are severed. A cloud wavered across the sun and shadows danced within the trees. But soon the sun was bright again and the air warm and heavy.

  Michael looked at Tom, at this self-conscious young man so lost in life. And he knew he could help him.

  “Tom,” he said, “would it help you to know more about me?”

  Tom paused. “It’s up to you,” he said. “I suppose. I mean I don’t really know anything about you, do I?”

  “Ask away, Tom. Ask away.”

  Tom thought for a moment.

  “Is Michael your real name then?” he asked with little enthusiasm.

  “Yes it is. Michael Parrish.”

  “And what are you, fifty, fifty-five?”

  “Forty-eight.”

  “Sorry.”

  “That’s okay.”

  “So are you from round here then?”

  “No, no I’m not. Not really.”

  Tom felt, for some reason, a little foolish. “Look,” he said, “this is stupid. Let’s just forget about it. It’s not important.”

  Michael thought for a moment. This boy was so young. Jennifer had been young. She still is, he thought to himself. How the past is connected to the present. You are never free, never entirely free. For it is the passing of time, that very abstract of creations, that deceives us all.

  In the absence of a response, Tom plodded on with one more question. “So what do you do
then?” he asked.

  Michael then stood up and took off his jacket, laying it gently on the bench beside him as if anticipating the question. He rolled up the sleeves of his stained white shirt. It was then that Tom realised that through these days of unbearable heat, Michael had remained attired in his suit. And then he looked at Michael’s bare forearms, suppressing disgust as he did so. For up the entire length, from the wrist to the elbow, there were deep scars, perhaps every quarter of an inch. The scars were white and tight, standing out clearly as if they had been painted on. Tom could not help but stare.

  “You ask me what I do, Tom,” said Michael. “And I will tell you. I save souls.”

  Tom did not speak. No words came to his mind. He just kept staring at those scars.

  “I save souls, Tom. I cleanse them. I suffer pain so that others may not.”

  All Tom could do was to repeat what Michael had said.

  “You save souls?” he said almost mechanically.

  “I cleanse them.”

  And Tom had to ask the inevitable question, just had to, as you or I would have had to.

  “How do you do that?” he asked, as a child talking to a conjurer.

  The sky above began to darken a little and it seemed now as if this small corner of the park was entirely on its own, floating in the universe. Seclusion. Desolation. You could feel it in the air. Michael withdrew a small penknife from the inside of his jacket pocket, its blade glinting in the waning sun.

  Tom moved, as if to stand.

  “Do not fear, Tom,” said Michael. “It is I that will feel your pain.”

  Tom stood now and backed away a little.

  “Listen to me, Tom. And trust me. I can save your soul. I bear the scars of a nation, of a world. My world. Each mark on my arm is a soul saved.”

  He then held the penknife against the skin of his outer right forearm and dragged it slowly across, reopening one of the scars. Blood oozed from it. Tom was unable to look away.

  “That is my mother,” said Michael.

  He did it again, a little further up.

  “That is my father whom I never knew.”

  And he did it again.