A Cleansing of Souls (7 page)

When Elaine had
discovered that Tom had left home, her mind had burst. She had suffered too much, been pushed too far. The intensity of her love for her two children had left her maimed. It had been just over two years since Little Norman, and now Tom too was gone. Her love had undone her.

There has always been a market for those who love too little and who think hardly ever. It is the only market that will ever flourish in times of austerity; whilst the rest of us burn.

George took Elaine to stay with her sister in the north. No other mind could have withstood what she had been through. Her boys had left her, one after the other - gone. It has nothing to do with strength and less to do with gender. It has nothing to do with spirit or character or desire. She just fell apart. When the object of love departs, neither man nor god has right to pass judgement on the reaction to that loss.

Two days after his son’s disappearance, George reported him missing to the Police. ‘Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, maybe in Big Town? Well, Big Town is a big town. If that’s where he’s gone of course. Most of them go there, Lord knows why. Could be anywhere. Not much hope I’m afraid. But, we’ll do our best…Next…Ah, missing person, I see. Young lad, Maybe in Big Town? Well……….’

George telephoned Charles Grandon’s office, but he was in hospital having a footlight removed from his head.

So, here we are. Almost a week has passed since Tom's departure. George sits down in his armchair. He is alone in the house. It is dark and it is quiet. And he feels something within him, deep within. He cannot describe the feeling because he has never felt it before this moment. It just grips him and takes hold, shaking him, jolting him until he leans sharply forward as if released from the taught bow of his own anguish. And he smashes his fist through the glass top of the coffee table before him.

Silence again.

Darkness still.

A torn hand trembles a little.

And a father resolves to bring home his son.

Tom felt Michael’s lips close to his ear, not touching it, but close enough to make him instantly withdraw.

“You know, Tom,” said Michael, himself straightening up, “I’ve not heard you play your guitar yet. You must play for me.”

Tom
sat up and edged away a little so he was now resting against the arm of the bench and he untangled himself from his torpor, the thick curtain that had fallen across his dreams lifting a little. The child within him stirred momentarily, that child that had remained so silent for so long - the Beautiful Guitar.

“What do you want me to play?”

For a moment, he was the expert, the master.

“Anything, Tom, anything at all. But please play for me.”

So Tom played the Beautiful Guitar. The notes crept deep and lonely, flattened and saddened, exuding despair and loneliness, fear and rage. The arena into which the notes were set free gave them vitality, meaning and body. Progressions that he had played in his bedroom through mechanical, tedious hours were now emboldened with a fundamental depth and spirit, sweet, sultry and fantastic.

The birds shuffled about on the grass, listening to this strange and lonesome sound. The anguish deep within the boy’s soul was being drained through his fingertips, emerging from the very heart of the Beautiful Guitar.

And after what may have been hours, one last, long, lingering note was carried away on fragile wings and swept down to the muddy waters of the majestic Mississippi River.

Within the frame of a twelve bar blues, Michael learned more of how Tom felt than he would have learned through any form of speech. Neither of them spoke. The silence was too precious. For where the soul is King, words are mere vagabonds.

The evening sun gracefully faded behind the trees, going down in a blaze of pink and orange, and the birds staggered and stumbled to their treetop homes. A slight breeze sighed about the park and the long shadows of the trees struck out across the gravel, intertwining to form a huge, darkly intricate, woven basket.

It was time for Tom and Michael to leave the park, so they crossed the black strips of gravel and walked the short distance to where they had been spending their nights. This place of rest was behind a skip at the end of a dank alley between two desolate office buildings. No light shone upon the two men and even though it had barely rained for a month, water dripped incessantly onto the stone floor upon which the two lonely figures would curl themselves and somehow make it through the night.

As he tried in vain to find comfort on the cold, damp stones, Tom’s mind was filled with the names of the old blues men he had read about and whose music he so loved, those men who suffered but played on, whose lives bled sorrow and destruction. He imagined them roaming the Southern States in all weathers, with just a battered guitar and sore fingers, entirely at the mercy of the world. And for a scintillating moment, he felt akin to them – Tom Spanner - blues man.

They had lived in a world of primitive social deprivation so bitter as to leave them with little choice but to survive on the wings of their own souls. Their music was their rebellion, their guitars their sole means of expression. They had lived, suffered and died. But on the way to their mournful graves, they had given of themselves to this world. Throughout their stricken lives, they had searched intently for a haven, a place of comfort where they would be neither judged nor castigated. And they had found it – there within themselves.

Now Tom was an office clerk with a three hundred pound guitar and vague ideas about living a life of freedom. The choice to leave had been his. It had been there for him to take. He had committed his fatal error the moment he stepped out onto the street in the half-light of the morning ten days previously. The day he left had been the day of his condemnation. He had aspired to physical freedom and hoped to attain some form of spiritual emancipation as a direct consequence. The former necessarily requires riches extreme; such excess can only hinder the latter. He was a boy in search of himself and anyone who begins that long and lonely journey is nothing but courageous. No medals are handed out, nor honours bestowed for the reward can only be eternal.

Tom had, in a moment of pure insight, caught a glimpse of the man in his mind and had set out to pursue him. The journey thus far had brought him to a place of fear and dirt and despair. But the journey is long my son, and you are so young. Remember that as you lie there in that alley, barely awake, brown water dripping onto your cheeks like tears. Remember that as you try to find peace on this, the blackest of nights.

That week, the people at Tom’s workplace mocked him. Word had got around, as it does. Each ugly faculty was given the chance to reveal the inherent sickness within. There was an insipid cowardice in the air above the desks, hanging there, swirling above everybody, choking them as once it had choked their own long abandoned dreams. A life of vicarious enjoyment was all that was left to them now.

“He’ll be back in the morning begging for his job back,” they all squealed from their processed song sheets.

And so what if he was?

So fucking what?

Saturday morning was fresh and tranquil. As Tom awoke from his bed on the ground, he felt somehow relieved. Indeed 'relief' was the overwhelming feeling that had assailed him each of the previous few mornings. He had survived another night. He could never work out how or even why. Time would be his saviour. Time would see him through. During the daylight hours, he could take in the sights around him, let them fall into him. He could live by the minute, thinking not of yesterday or tomorrow, in fact, not thinking at all. It had been so easy to slip into this drifting state of just being, existing. And he had fallen into the trap. With no structure, he was lost - beautifully, transparently lost.

Tom had always cherished Saturday mornings. He would leave the curtains open and let the Summer birds in the garden tease him from the depths of his warm quilt, with their irritating though captivating sounds. But always, as he was just coming to terms with being awake, about to creep from beneath his soft shell, Little Norman would burst in, clambering onto his big brother like a soft, fat puppy. Tom, beneath the quilt, barely attuned to the day, and Little Norman trying to prize him out, falling on him, giggling gorgeous, alive and just so alive with an indefinable glee. Tom could almost feel his baby brother on him whenever the scene was cruel enough to establish itself in his mind. And he knew that he would never again feel such honest love.

Each day had been the start of a great new adventure for Little Norman. Each object he spotted with those dark brown eyes was an object of wonder. To be so young, so enamoured with life itself. Bring it on home to me.

The birds in the park greeted the daily arrival of Tom and Michael with a piercing aria that tested even Michael’s adoration of them. The grass that had been so green during the spring months was now yellow in places, reduced to blunt shoots. Only the grass beneath the moving shadows of the trees retained any kind of juice. In one sense, this was a living place; in another, it was surely dying.

Sitting again on the wooden bench, Tom longed for Little Norman. The park was peaceful and quiet and allowed him the chance to catch up with the sleep he had missed each night. But the whole place was so old, so ancient and so sedate.

If only Little Norman could just waddle out from behind the trees covered in dirt and grinning like a madman.

The memory of Little Norman always made Tom’s heart beat that little bit faster.

He is on the very edge now.

There is something disturbing about a man with ideas of peace. It usually ends in violence. Michael did not believe in violence – as a rule. Just as this world may not be free for the individual, so it is unreceptive to the dreamer. The wheels of a harsh society grind into motion and the dreamer is no more.

Incompatibility with those around you can drive a man insane.

Michael had come to Big Town to recover and to wait. It had seemed the right thing to do. Nature, both in its depth and in its beauty would reconcile in his mind the scene that he had left behind. It would allow him to clamber back on to that great stage of reality upon which he had performed in so tragic a fashion. Or it would let him go.

“Ron,” pleaded Diane as she stood on the driveway in front of their house, her husband in the car, struggling with his seat belt. “You said yourself that he’d be back within a few days, that he’d come home when he was ready. That’s what you told Christine.”

“No. That’s what you told me,” replied Ron, pointedly.

At last, he succeeded in snapping the seatbelt into place, the activity having caused him to perspire. He told himself that he must not lose his temper with Diane. She didn’t know the whole story as he did. This situation called for the calm assurance and the steadiness of hand for which he was renowned.

“Look, love,” he said, “I’ve told you once already. I’m just going to go to Big Town to meet Roger and find out how Michael left things at work. If he had booked any time off then Roger would have had to have ratified it. If he’s called in sick, Roger would know. That’s all. And, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be going now.”

Ron just wanted to get away now, to sort this whole thing out. It would suit everyone for Michael to be found, particularly himself. Bringing him back may be a different matter. Perhaps, if he could just speak with him then returning home may not even be necessary.

Diane realised the futility of questioning her husband. Even across the length of the driveway, she could see him reddening.

“Okay, dear. Take care,” she called. “I love you,” she added, quietly.

But Ron heard nothing but the grumbling of the car engine.

The motorway rapidly filled with vehicles until the immense convoy of metal and abuse merged into one long, snaking line. Ron shielded himself from the fumes by winding up his window, but this only served to intensify the sticky heat that smothered him as he drove. The seatbelt irritated him and the odour rising from the smouldering upholstery left him nauseous. He had only bought the car four weeks ago and already he hated it. Frantic to escape from the horns and the exhausts, he allowed his mind to slip for a while into past, present and future.

From early on at school, Ron had been recognised by his teachers as one upon whom they could depend. His quickly developing athletic stature and oddly deep voice for one of his years had marked him out from the other boys, none of whom would ridicule him for the latter, due to the imposing nature of the former. He was, by way of his build and his demeanour, on a different level. He was maturity personified, old before his time; and nobody had ever bothered him. He had surely never been young.

One of Ron’s duties at school, as he progressed through the years, had been to ensure that the young first year pupils were not bullied by the older boys. An added difficulty in the management of this task was that the school had consisted of two distinct elements. There were the local children – products of semi affluent families – and there were the children from the Children’s Home that was physically and metaphorically on the very edge of town. Friction was constant between these two groups, fear and ignorance being their only common factor.

It had been clear to Ron on seeing the frail figure of the new boy that there was someone who was going to have a rough time. Michael would just stare at people with those large, timid eyes and his whole face seemed to move precariously whenever he spoke. His hair was so fair it could have been white.

At the age of four, Michael’s mother had left him at the Children’s Home. Events had conspired to force her to give up her children.

Four years old. The world is just opening up to you. All is grand and important. You are so excited and so easily excitable, learning new thing, finding your place and living one long, wondrous day. For each moment is full of wonder. You bounce and charge about, frantic for experience, holding on to those you love and who love you more than you are ever able to imagine. And you know so clearly that things will always be like this.

But there is your first blow. Mummy is gone. You saw her crying and you didn’t know what was happening. And your little sister who had not long been in your life, well she was in your mummy’s arms when she left you standing there - though you would see that lovely little girl again soon when she too was left at the gaping mouth of this world; just as you were.

This big place is not your home. It is cold and full of strangers. Your room is gone and so are your bear and your train.

I don’t like it here. I don’t like it at all.

As Ron was jolted back into the present by a blaring car horn from behind, he was left with a fading image of a young boy in a crowded playground, lost, confused and entirely out of reach to all but him.

On reaching Big Town and calling
in at the office, Ron learned that Roger Peacock, Michael’s boss, was due back from a meeting at two o’clock. He decided therefore to take advantage of the time available to look for Michael in likely places. He knew Big Town well and also thought he knew the sort of places to which Michael may go. If he could find him by luck or coincidence, then so be it. There were no such things as long shots for people like Ron; for they are the type of people who seek to control the likes of you and me.

Time. Ron could have done with it stopping still whilst he looked for Michael. In a second, his life could change - a phone call, a letter, Michael arriving back home. Perhaps he was worrying about nothing. But he was not a man to take chances. Christine had hinted to him that there had been signs that Michael had been becoming 'unwell' in recent weeks; not like before though. It had been nothing as bad as that.

Time. Time. Time.

That morning, Ron scoured the museums, the churches and other places of solitude. He felt momentarily at peace as he wandered from silence to silence. He had not been to a museum for years, having once made the mistake of visiting one, as an adult, in the middle of the school term. On that occasion, he had fled the undisciplined hordes with their clipboards and their packed lunches. It still made him uneasy to think about it. But right now there were things of greater import to moisten his brow.

As each of the preceding days had passed, so had the control Ron had exercised over his life become ever more tenuous.

So as the Big Town bells
chimed in the Big Town sky, Ron had a brief lunch in a restaurant off the main street and mulled over the relative lack of success the morning had brought. He thought about ringing Diane to apologise for the curt nature of his manner when he had left. It didn't take him long to decide against it. The wine he consumed at the corner table instilled in him some strange, alien sense of puerility. He felt for a moment as if he had been let out to play. It was a dangerous, unsettling feeling and one that, despite the encouragement of the wine, he swiftly laid to rest. It was however replaced by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made him feel ill. Childishness and guilt were two states that Ron had ever kept battened down deep within him. Puerility was a strange entity whose sudden appearance had surprised him on occasion; but guilt – well that could only ever have a walk on part in Ron's life. It could only ever be an extra, an afterthought.

Diane had always been the perfect wife for Ron. She had ensured he had someone to return to. Hers were the arms in which he would lie, contemplating. She was the shade of grey that smoothed the edges of his black and white soul. And they would talk about the begonias often.

Outside the restaurant within which Ron had indulged himself, a man lay on the pavement. Many people strode manfully by, convincing themselves that it was but a pile of rags. Ron emerged into the afternoon sunlight and almost stumbled over the dark, ragged mound, having to step back sharply in order to retain his balance. He was just steadying himself when he saw the fingers.

The man was wearing a long, black coat and heavy boots. A dirty beard pulled at what little could be seen of the cracked face, and tiny insects made their busy way across the limp left palm, following each other in streams up the sleeve. This man could have been ninety years old. He could have been twenty-five.

Ron stepped around the man and, in doing so, was gripped by a chill. Was this what death looked like? He couldn’t be sure. Somebody would call an ambulance soon or maybe the Police would come along and deal with the situation. Anyway, this was probably a drunk or one of those ‘addict’ people.

That cold, lifeless man could have lain there for a hundred years. Nobody would have helped him. And all who passed, well they would just bear fleeting witness to the steady decay of the remnants of a man’s life. The bones would turn to dust and the beard would grow and grow until it enshrouded the whole grimy face. Through rain and snow it would have lain there, through hail and storm.

But Ron knew instinctively that Michael would have been the exception. Michael would have knelt down beside this man from whom he himself shamefully walked. He would have taken him in his arms and softly brushed the scurrying creatures from the deep folds of the black coat. And he would have cradled him like a baby.

The proposed visit to the area by vague royalty ensured the removal of the wretched body some days later. You see, these scenes never happen, never occur. In a flash they are gone from sight and conscience forever.

A tall man in a perfect suit stands erect before his peers. His limbs are strong. His back is straight. He is a proud man. And so is his wife. He is well respected by all about him. He knows what is best for you and he knows what is best for me. With a majestic stride he mounts the box of my dreams and with a long finger he gestures at the crumpled heap of my future.

“These,” he proclaims in a voice loud and brave, “These are the people one steps over when one comes out of the opera.”

Oh, what cheers there are.

And amidst the roars and the adulation, the crumpled heap turns to pure light and surely enters Heaven in glory.

As Ron had been preparing to go to Big Town, Tom was waking from another dream. He had begun to sleep with some regularity the last few nights and was becoming used to his new routine. He was beginning to accept the strictures. It was all a case of focusing the mind. Forget this. Remember that. It was as if he had just been born, his first nineteen years on earth being nothing more than a prolonged labour.

It had not occurred to him to call his parents. He had told Michael they were dead. He was in a new role now. He could be whomever he wished - except, perhaps, himself.

But dreams were bringing him down. He had no control over their content or over the feelings with which they left him when he woke. Before going to sleep the previous night on the cold ground, he had put on his black sweatshirt; thankful for the warmth and comfort it gave him. As the summer wore on, the evenings had become cooler. And that night, as the stars and the moon looked down upon him, Tom dreamed a dream…

…the car speeds along the road following the twists and turns as if upon a rail. The moon is high and shines upon the fields, illuminating them, igniting them, inciting them to flame. Tom is in the driver's seat and beside him is a beautiful girl. The car is red and silver, cutting through the night like some blood-stained knife. There is rock and roll music on the radio and the girl taps her sweet feet to the beat-beat-beat…

…a petrol station appears from out of the ground and the car cruises smoothly in. Tom fills up the tank and the girl smiles at him, all hidden wonder and enticement. “Let’s go,” she's saying. “Let’s just leave all this behind us.” A thrill crackles in the air and dust explodes from beneath the wheels of the car…then, from above, we see the car in the middle of black field, overturned and steaming. The girl is gone. In the distance, there is a light. Tom crawls from the wreckage and weaves his way across the field on skates…

…and the bright white light just draws him on…