A Cleansing of Souls (12 page)

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.

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 waters 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.

What do you do at times like this, what do you honestly do?

You just let yourself go, float above it all, and let the world take you in all its anger.

“Mr Parrish?”

“Yes.”

The two Policemen exchanged glances.

“You look in a bit of trouble Mr Parrish.”

“Yes.”

“We’ve had some reports, Mr Parrish, that lead us to suggest that it would be beneficial for you if you were to come with us.”

“Yes.”

“We’re going to take you to a hospital, Mr Parrish, and have you looked at. Is that okay with you? Some nasty cuts you’ve got there.”

“Yes.”

So, they had come for him at last, come to take him - in the Garden. They had come silently, leaving not a trace. No time to say farewell, or even to lop off an ear. They had come for him at last.

In the back of the car, Michael’s mind turned to Heaven and the Firmament.

“Do you know how many stars there are in the sky?” he asked.

“Millions?” said one of the Policemen.

“Billions?” said the other.

Michael paused before answering.

“No,” he said, “just one."

Tom woke early on Saturday morning and was looking out of the lounge window into the street when Sandy came in. He had been staying with her for three days now. She no longer asked him questions about his situation or about the night in the park. He was a new man now with a new start.

“How long have you been up?” she asked him.

“Not long.”

“What do you want to do today?”

Sandy wanted to ease up behind him as he stared out of the window, ease up behind him and hold him close. She had never felt like this before. Perhaps this is what it’s like to
feel young, she thought.

“I don’t mind,” replied Tom. He turned around and faced her. She stepped back slightly as if by instinct.

“Well, I usually go shopping on Saturdays. There are a few things I need to get anyway. Did you want to come with me?”

“Sure.”

Sandy went to the kitchen to make some black coffee for them both. She was getting used to the taste now. Tom had not been out since coming to her flat. The thought of them walking down the street together excited her in a way she couldn’t fully understand. And she loved it.

“Tom,” she called out over the noise of the boiling kettle, “I think it would be an idea to get you some clothes or something. I understand if you don’t want to collect any from home, but if you’re going to stay here for a while, you’ll need something. Don’t be offended or anything, it’s just that you could do with more than you’ve got.” She found it so much easier to talk to him when they were in different rooms.

Tom smiled.

“Don’t worry,” he said as she brought their coffee in, “I’ll sort something out.”

“Are you going to go home and get some then?” asked Sandy, sitting down.

“I’ve got a few quid on me. I’ll pick something up.”

“Have you got enough?”

“Who has?”

“If it’s a problem, I can lend you some. It’s ok. I’ve just been paid. Perhaps I can treat you?”

She liked the idea of treating him. And so did he. He drew her to him on the settee and put his arm around her, careful not to spill the coffee.

Sandy listened to the beating of Tom’s heart. And so did he.

Tom tried to go over recent events in his mind
as he walked along with Sandy, but he just couldn’t focus his thoughts. There was something stopping him. All he could think was that things were going right for him at last. But he was no longer Tom Spanner. He was just an actor improvising in his own farce, assuming the most suitable persona for each situation. The people that passed him by were merely extras. And the girl by his side was barely a prop, though she had managed to get him to write down his parents' address for her to add to her little note book. He kept the phone number to himself though.

The streets were a mass of colour. It was a parade. At each side road, huge groups of people gathered, waiting to cross. And when a driver made the unfortunate mistake of stopping his car to let one or two people in front of him, the crowd would surge forward and overwhelm the car like some writhing tide of disparate limbs.

The shoppers wandered around without direction, lost in the glorious madness of it all. But if you look closely, very closely amidst the hustle and the fervour, you will see figures that do not move, bemused, ragged figures - at the station, on the steps of the museum, in the parks, in the churches, in the doorways of your shops and of your theatres - or maybe just there on the ground by your feet. You may pass them by. You have passed them by. As have I. You may turn away, dart out a quick smile perhaps and then head bowed and shoulders hunched, hurry away wondering grief-stricken at the torrid gaze you receive to your token act of kindness. Like the Statues, the Palaces, the Cathedrals and the Parliament, these people are of this town. They will be here forever, long after you and I are gone. And you don’t even have to pay to see them. Not if you don’t want to.

They are the products of a society that congratulates itself on the just nature of its laws and its propensity for fair play, a society that stares in rabid disbelief at poverty and human violations across the world and sees not the scars upon its own skin.

Think about it. A man does not beg by choice. He does not willingly subject himself to the ignominious torment of procuring small change from strangers. Would you? Think about it.

Occasionally, there will be a documentary made about the homeless and the deprived. In kitchens all across the country, kettles will boil until the adverts come on.

Now and then, perhaps, a minor celebrity, famous for who knows what, will descend into the bowels of Big Town for a week, just to witness the pain of it all. But they will soon be back to their house and their city in the skies. Their conscience will win medals and they will have one more chapter completed in an otherwise turgid autobiography.

A Member of Parliament may stand up before jeers and order papers to plead on behalf of the dispossessed. But his words will not be heard. He will have his answer even before he has finished asking his question. ‘Does not the honourable member know that we are spending more in that area, in real terms, after inflation, than ever before? In fact, as he should be aware, we have actually set up a working party to address the real issues. The claims of the honourable member are purely scare mongering and political point scoring and will not be taken seriously by anyone. The public will not stand for it!’

And the public will not stand for it - for they are far too comfortable sitting down.

The play will go on and different actors will fill the roles. The script will remain the same. As will the final act.

This is real. It’s you and it’s me. If you were to touch with a trembling hand one of the people on the street, it would not pass through them. It would touch flesh. It would touch the same body that was once held so tightly by the mother on the day of its condemnation. The same body that sat next to you at school. And that face will be in a photograph album somewhere, smiling the smile of hope. Those feet may have played football with you in the playground with a tennis ball whilst the rain came down. And those lips may have once been kissed so softly.

There is no worse punishment than that of being ostracised, to be alone in a bedroom, on the stairs, in the street, anywhere, feeling that not a soul would care if you were alive or dead.

A man may make a mistake. He may be the victim of his own folly and head off down a road that can only end in failure, hounded by dream and desire. For how long must that man suffer?

Who is it that has the right to judge another and rule that he be severed from life? Let me tell you. It is the prerogative of the friend. Believe me.

Tom had forgotten all those lonely nights, lying awake, thinking what it would be like to have a woman love him, really love him. It was ridiculous to him now. He did not recall the heartache, the embarrassment and the agony. It had all been swept away by this newly acquired sense of
'maturity'.

Thoughts and visions, that one minute he would die for, would float away on the breeze of a restless night. It was as if he were finding himself daily, consciously searching for a way to be. He was able to swing violently from altruism through apathy and cynicism to amorality and back again. And sadly somehow he had convinced himself now that he was in control of the process.

That morning, Tom and Sandy went into nearly every shop in the high street. She bought him a pair of jeans and a shirt. He said he would pay her back. She told him not to worry. So he didn’t.

As they walked back from the shops, they began to notice various groups of people gathered on the street corners and outside the pubs. They were different in character from the shoppers. They had a different aura. And then Tom realised. Saturday - the middle of August - the first day of the new football season; a day of incredible anticipation for some, a day of dread for the uninitiated. Over the coming season, hearts and dreams would be broken, along with a few relationships - but mainly hearts and dreams.