A Cleansing of Souls (21 page)

“It’s clever. I suppose this Joseph Smith character could be anybody, could he? Just to show how God speaks to normal people and all that?”

Sister Welch looked at Sister Bonner. Sister Bonner looked at Sister Welch.

“Tom,” said Sister Bonner, leaning towards him. “It is a true story. Joseph Smith was a real man. All that I told you really happened.”

“Oh,” said Tom, resisting the temptation to lean closer to her. Now, he was somewhat confused. He had heard most of the Bible stories at school, but never this one.

“God says, Tom, that the Bible is just one way to understand his word. He says that there will be other means of learning. And that book in your hand is not just one of those means – it is the only one.”

Tom turned the book around and looked at the cover to see if it really was by someone called Joseph Smith, but he found no mention of that name. There was just the title ‘The Book of Mormon – Another Testament of Jesus Christ.’ And at once, he felt he had been the victim of a spell, a magically impressive trick, an illusion of words and gestures. It was brilliant. And he had fallen for it. The words on the cover brought with them not visions of God, but of Donny and the beautiful Marie. He looked up from the cover of the book and, in his ignorance, half expected the pupils of Sisters Bonner and Welch to have gone from their respective eyes.

“We’re going to let you have that book, Tom,” said Sister Bonner. “And these too.” She handed him some leaflets and then rose to kneel down beside his chair. “Would you like to say a prayer, Tom, before we finish. Until next time?” She gave him a blue card. “This tells you how to pray. Say each line on the card and, when you’ve finished, thank God for something in your life.”

Tom took the blue card and read it to himself. He turned it over and looked upon the bowed heads of the two young women before him.

“What would you like to thank God for, Tom,” asked Sister Bonner, her head still bowed.

Tom thought. His cynicism was rapidly returning. He considered the question hurtful and vindictive. He leaned slowly forward in the direction of Sister Bonner. He looked down towards the front of her coat but saw only darkness. No salvation there, it seemed. Mildly disappointed, he just murmured, “For being here, I suppose.”

“Yes. That’s good, Tom. And what would you like to ask God for?”

His heart became suddenly heavy with grief. What to ask God for? He had to say it. It was as if he were being made to say it. He was before God now, at his feet, or maybe standing next to him in a pub and he said the thing that had been on his mind, at the forefront of his mind since the day he lost his innocence and wonder –

“I want my brother back, please. I need my brother back.”

Tears came to his eyes now. His heart came to the surface. He felt cold and weak and vulnerable. But it made sense. It all made sense now.

Without prompting, Tom prayed. He didn’t follow the hints and tips on the blue card. He just prayed as best as he could. It came naturally. And it was entirely silent. When he had finished, he was reluctant to open his eyes, for in his mind, he held an image of Little Norman with a paper hat upon his head and chocolate sauce upon his face.

“Thank you, Tom,” said Sister Bonner, her voice snapping open the shutters of his eyes. “That was very nice.” Nice. Fucking Nice. “I’ve marked certain passages in The Book that may help you. Thank you again for your time. Here is our card.”

Tom looked at the two women as they stood up, Sister Welch with her bottle-thick glasses and Sister Bonner with her seductively wandering breasts. Two young people so far away from him. He opened the door for them and as they found themselves back on the doorstep once more, Sister Bonner spoke in a strident voice. “The Bible,” she said, “and the Book of Mormon are the first two steps on the stairway to Heaven. It’s up to you, Tom, to climb them.”

“Led Zeppelin,” he said.

And the two women wavered a little. They glanced at each other and then back at Tom who took one last look into Sister Bonner’s wide eyes before shutting the door to the bitter wind.

He was beginning to work things out now.

Little Norman.

It was three days before Christmas and Tom was yet to buy a present for his mother and father. On previous occasions, he had merely withdrawn some money from the Bank and purchased the first thing he saw that appeared remotely suitable. When he thought about it now, he felt embarrassed at his past efforts
– a Frank Sinatra calendar for mum, gardening gloves for dad, an ornament for mum, a book for dad – and so it went on, one more shoddy effort after another.

But this Christmas, things would be different. He needed to show his parents how much he really loved them. Telling them was out of the question. To his eternal shame, he knew he couldn’t tell them. There was something indefinable stopping him. And when he sat there and pondered the depth of his love for those two people who had been through even more than he, a shiver of fear burst through him.

Tom no longer held a Bank or Building Society account. The money he received from the DSS he split between himself and his mother. The cut was roughly equal, though he would give her any change. It was as if he were subconsciously replenishing something he had depleted. And this humble state of being came naturally to him now.

The air was cold as Tom walked to the shops. It slapped his face and pulled at him. His hands clung to the insides of his pockets, gripping his money. The turned-up collar of his denim jacket did little to stop the wind biting his neck.

Christmas had come fast. As a child, Tom had looked forward to it with eagerness and joy. From the end of October, he would wait in an excited state of anxiety, counting the long days and the even longer nights. It had all seemed so large then, so magnificent.

As each day passed, he was beginning to remember something new about his baby brother, something beautiful, funny, something pure and innocent. Memories never let you go. They just don’t leave you alone until you free them from the cage of your burdens, put them in perspective, and let them fly delighted into the skies of your experience.

The town centre was swathed in decorations. Tinsel hung from the shop signs and a large Christmas tree had been erected in the square, lights dangling from it, blinking wildly. People scurried from shop to shop and back again, crashing through doors and squeezing b
y one another. The semi-circle of wooden benches in the square remained unused, cracked and battered by the wind. Nobody could afford to rest. There just wasn’t the time.

Tom stepped towards the seething mass and let it drag him forlornly in. After having been swept breathlessly in and out of six shops, he slumped onto one of the benches, still holding his ten-pound note furiously in his hand. He had almost bought his mother a large box of chocolates but had resisted at the final moment. He tried hard to think of things his parents might like. But he knew it wouldn’t be enough. Whatever he bought would not fully explain his love for them.

So he trudged away, disconsolate.

When he arrived home and opened the front door, he could hear the dull, rhythmic thud of a hammer. The rhythm seemed odd to him now, yet it had been one of the most consistent beats of his childhood. This sound of creativity had not been heard in the house for years. It seemed to be coming from the shed at the back of the garden, but he had not the interest to investigate. So he went upstairs to the softness of his bedroom.

The book given to him by the two young women lay face down on the floor where he had discarded it. He sat on his bed now and, leaning forward, picked the book up. Though there were many pages in it, it felt flimsy and weak in his hands. He lay back upon the bed and held it aloft as he looked at it. A feeling of uneasiness came over him, a sense of distaste. You don’t know me, he thought. Nobody knows me. He began to scratch at the gold lettering on the cover with the fingernails of his right hand. He brought the book closer to him now and continued scratching at the surface, the lettering flaking off beneath his nails. And for a few moments, his movements were torrid and uncontrolled. Then, as if ejecting it from a machine, he hurled the book across the room.

“Tom,” came a voice from downstairs, “can you come down and help me put away some of this shopping?” It was his mother, Elaine.

Having spent so much time at home since his return from Big Town, Tom had come to love his mother all over again. He saw her through the clear eyes of grief, unobstructed by the veil of the wilfully blind.

After packing away the shopping, he made her a cup of tea. He sat down with her at the kitchen table and they both sipped their warm drinks in grateful silence. Not a word passed between them. During that time, their hearts and their souls continued to delve into one another, to soothe, to reconcile differences, to re-affirm love. They were in the same room together drinking tea.

George came into the house from the frozen garden and broke the profound silence. He closed the back door behind him and rubbed his cold hands together as if they might bring forth a spark between his palms that would ignite him in an instant.

“Tea nice is it?” he asked in mock earnest.

“Yes it is, George Spanner. Thank you,” replied Elaine, smiling up at her husband.

“I’ll do you one, dad,” said Tom, getting up from his chair.

The word ‘dad’ melted into George. ‘Dad.’ He could not ever remember being called it before. Perhaps he hadn’t. Not since Little Norman anyway. And it sounded so precious. He felt suddenly proud and exhilarated. There is my son. And there is my wife. And he began to grow again.

Whilst Tom was waiting for the kettle to boil, George sat down opposite Elaine.

“How’s it going?” she asked, whispering just loud enough for Tom to hear.

George looked slowly from side to side and leaned towards her. “Not bad,” he replied. "Not bad at all."

Tom looked up from the now steaming mug of tea before him and glanced quickly at his father who just smiled a sweet smile in return. He looked then towards his mother and just as he was about to speak to her, she rose and put her cup in the sink.

He knew when he was beaten.

And he adored the moment.

That afternoon, the first snow fell. It swirled in ragged patterns, never really landing, just floating
and dancing. The garden became a glass ball filled with water and tiny white flakes, all shaken up by some unseen hand. As the hours passed, the white flakes began to settle on the hard ground, smothering it in a cold sheet, patching up the blemishes and adding purity to that which was rotting.

Tom watched from his bedroom window. Elaine watched from the kitchen. George peered out from the cracked, dusty window of his shed.

And each saw different patterns in the soft and silent storm.

From her flat in Big Town, Sandy too looked out upon the snow. The warmth within the flat caused mist to develop on the inside of the window and she had to continuously wipe it away with her hand in order to see
clearly.

It had been a long year for her. The insurance company had served her well and most of the stolen items had been replaced. She did have difficulty replenishing some of her father’s old records but he had just smiled at her saying that he had heard them all before anyway. But she had never been able to understand how Tom could have done that to her. At times, she had even thought he had something to do with the attack on the shop. She had claimed for everything that had gone, except for the guitar, for he had surely taken that with him when he had fled.

You don’t know me. Nobody knows me.

Sandy’s mother had urged her to forgive Tom, to learn from the experience and to allow the bitterness to fall from her for she said bitterness was like a manacle to the soul. But Sandy found it very hard to do. She had given everything. He had taken more - not just the things in the flat, but her trust and her love. Even so, she tried to see him through the eyes of her mother. He is just a poor, lost boy. One day he will find that for which he is looking. Be proud of yourself Sandjreka. Be very proud.

As she was staring at the whiteness of the day, Sandy heard a key turn in the lock. She went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. And when she came back into the lounge, there was Javed. She moved behind him and slipped her arms about his neck as he sat there on the settee. He smiled up at her as he pulled away slowly, taking his coat off. She moved around now and stood before him, taking his cold hands in hers. And then she kissed him before going back into the kitchen to bring in their drinks.

“We’d better do the Christmas cards today,” said Javed, as Sandy gave him his coffee. “It will be too late soon. And I tell you what, its bloody cold out there.” He lifted the cup to his lips as he spoke to her and then recoiled in shock at the bitter taste. “Sandjreka,” he gasped, “you didn’t put any milk in it!”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said. “I wasn’t thinking.”

But she was. She was thinking about Christmas cards. And she was thinking of Tom.

Time eased by and Tom awoke at ten o’clock the next morning. He had stayed up late the previous night watching an old black and white film. As he opened his eyes, he looked at the clock and realized he had only half an hour to get to the DSS to sign
on. He grabbed the scrunched-up ten-pound note from his bedside table, got dressed and stumbled out of the house.

At the DSS that morning, he was pleasantly surprised. The wire mesh that had separated the employed from the unemployed had been taken down. There was just a small gap now between them. The person who served him was real again, not some disfigured creature encased in metal.

When he emerged from the DSS and into the town centre, the snow began to fall once more. As he walked, he promised himself that he would make one more effort to find a present for his parents. After an hour of toil, he had at least bought them a card each. As for a present, he could still find nothing sufficiently special. Not for less than a tenner anyway.

Over dinner that evening, the arrangements were made for the Christmas weekend.

“Well,” said Elaine, “we’ve got two choices.” George and Tom listened in silence as they ate. “We can either spend Christmas Day here, or we can go up to Sheila’s. She said she’d have us and that we could stay all weekend if we wanted to. Go up Christmas Eve.”

“It’s a long way,” said George, turning to Elaine. “Are you thinking of going by train?” Elaine nodded. “Fine by me,” he continued, “as long as it’s okay with Sheila and Malcolm.”

“What do you think, Tom?” asked Elaine.

“About what?” he replied quietly. For his mind had been on other things.

“Spending Christmas with your Auntie Sheila. All of us.”

“Yes. Sure,” said Tom looking up from h
is plate and recalling with a faint smile his rotund Aunt. “I don’t reckon we’d go short of food, would we?”

“I don’t know,” interjected George quickly. “You don’t get to be that size by giving your food away.”

Tom almost choked on his chips.

“Now stop it you two,” said Elaine, trying to suppress a smile. “Tom, don’t encourage your father,” she added.

The young man looked at his father and saw in truth they were the same man. They had experienced different things and different times but, in essence, they were as one.

“Is that settled, then?” asked Elaine, once her two boys had managed to control themselves. "Can I call Sheila and tell her we’ll be up tomorrow?”

“Of course, love,” said George, resisting the temptation to comment further.

“Tom?”

“Sure. No problem.”

Elaine took the plates into the kitchen and went into the hall to call her sister. Tom washed up and George dried.

“Did you notice they’ve taken that wire stuff down at the DSS, you know, between the windows?” asked Tom as he passed a wet, stained plate to his father.

“Yes,” replied George. “It looks a lot better.”

But George knew that the wire mesh hadn’t been taken away at all. It was just that you could see it before. And now you couldn’t. Every fortnight, he would continue to receive that same look of pity and unintentional contempt. Maybe it came from within himself. He had begun to think so at times. And he would still want to get out of that place as quickly as if it were aflame. For he knew deep down that there are some barriers that will always remain.