The Healing (2 page)

‘And is he still . . . ? In the night, Elizabeth?' his aunt asked.

There was no spoken answer.

‘It'll pass Elizabeth,' his uncle affirmed. ‘I know it's hard to believe but he's a growing boy and he's a tough boy. He'll come through it, he'll come through the other side. It just needs time.'

‘You've got to be strong for him,' urged his aunt. ‘He needs you more than ever now and there's not an hour of the day when the Lord's family isn't praying that you will receive the strength to cope.'

‘But I don't feel strong,' his mother whimpered. ‘I feel like I just want to lie down somewhere and die.
Forgive me Pastor but I just don't think I can see this thing through.'

She was crying again and there was the sound of moving chairs. He stood up and peered over the banisters but could only see a few feet into the room. Sitting down again he stared at the angry red scrapes on his hands then licked his tongue along their ridged lengths. There were still flecks of seed on his clothing and he picked them off, letting them float to the bottom of the stairs. Then he heard the pastor saying that they would pray and he knew the visit was coming to a close. Without being able to see he knew they would be kneeling on the floor, elbows resting on their chairs, hands tightly clasped, and faces lined with concentration. As the booming voice forced its way into the silent corners of the house he turned away and entered his bedroom.

‘And as Father we bring before You this grieving family we beseech Your Holy Spirit to minister unto them in this their hour of deepest need.'

He crouched down in the tight space between the wardrobe and the wall. Above his bed he could see bright squares on the wallpaper where once pictures had been stuck, and the dried-up crinkled bits of Sellotape which had held them.

‘Give them the grace and strength to bear their heavy burden. Take away this thorned crown and let them know Thy peace, which is the peace which passeth all understanding.'

A tea-chest sat in the middle of the floor. There were still some small leaves of tea in the paper at the bottom. He had seen them when he was packing his books and
possessions. All around stretched the patterned wallpaper where a hundred faces lurked, to emerge each night in the twilight world before sleep.

‘Guide them through the difficult days that lie ahead and bless Elizabeth as she seeks to make a new home in the city. Be near to Samuel and heal the wounds which now afflict his soul.'

A swallow hurtled towards the window then looped back on itself in a black pulse of speed. Others followed it, darting into pockets of space.

‘We think too, O Lord, of our province at this dangerous time when each day there is more shedding of innocent blood. We feel that we are a people besieged in our own land and we ask that You may smite the enemy at our gate. The forces of government and state have deserted us and, in this our hour of need, we turn to You for our succour and deliverance. Pour down Your wrath on those who daily sow the seeds of death and destruction and confound their evil schemes. Finally, our Father, we ask You to support Your children with Thy everlasting arms, fill them with Thy Holy Spirit, and above all give them the strength to say like Thy servant of old, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord”.'

He put his hand to the bottom of the wardrobe door and flapped it back towards him so that it walled in his narrow little space, darkening and sealing it. He pulled his knees up tightly until only the tips of his whitened shoes were visible and shut his ears against the words, heard only the strange whisperings of his heart. He shut his ears against the words, heard only the whispering voice
telling him to block out the screams, to hide in silence, wear it like a coat buttoned tight about his being. Grow small and safe, locked deep inside himself, small and safe like a silent stone in the ditch.

He raised the edge of the net curtain with the back of his fingers and peered into the street. A man who had got out of the van parked outside the house next door was screwing a SOLD sign onto the bottom of the estate agent's board. Rain was beginning to fall and sullen clouds loomed overhead, darkening the afternoon. He was a young man with blond hair, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, and he seemed to be in a hurry to get the job done. When he had finished attaching the SOLD sign, he straightened the post, which had been blown askew in the winter months of wind and storm, by hammering a wedge into the ground. The garden itself had grown wild through neglect, with weeds overwhelming the flower beds and the grass sprouting tall and ragged. The straggly privet hedge sagged in places where children had pushed each other into it, and in mildewed corners roses spurted sickly colours and dropped blackened petals into the wilderness which tangled about their roots.

When the young man had finished his task he hurried
off, letting the gate swing loudly behind him. He watched the van until it disappeared. The rain was heavier now and thick low clouds seemed to flatten out the lingering brightness of the day. Weighted drops splashed the window and raced into nothingness. He let the curtain fall and walked back to the table. He would come soon. He had waited a long time but it was almost over. It was nearly time. Soon he would come. He went back to the white-clothed table. In the middle of it sat a pile of identical green-backed ledgers. Edges of newspaper cuttings peeped out of them. Picking up the top one he slowly turned the pages, pausing as he studied each one, his mouth silently forming the words which his finger underlined. Sometimes he pushed his face close to the photographs as if lodging them deep in his memory. His hands delicately smoothed wrinkles and traced over the pages as if they were written in braille. Then, reaching some page deep in the ledger, he stopped and closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edges of the table for support. When he opened his eyes again he read the page deliberately, as if forcing himself to finish it. When he had done so, he sat back and glanced towards the window. It was still raining.

He continued turning the pages of the ledger until he reached the end of the cuttings. Two clean white pages stared up at him. He went to the sideboard where newspapers were stacked in neat piles. He searched through one of the piles until he found the paper he was looking for, and from a drawer took out a small pair of scissors and a pot of paste, then returned to the table. Straightening the paper on the table, he squared it up as if it were a deck of playing cards, then carefully, with his tongue peeping
out the corner of his mouth, cut out the photograph on the front and pasted it onto the blank page. He had put too much glue on and some oozed out the sides. Taking his handkerchief, he dabbed at it until the excess had been soaked up, then sat back and studied it. He looked mainly at the boy, scanning his features, touching him gently with the tips of his fingers as if absorbing him through touch. Soon he would come. The wait was nearly over. He smoothed the photograph one final time with his handkerchief, then read the caption aloud, slowly and carefully.

‘THE WIDOW OF MURDERED UDR SERGEANT THOMAS ANDERSON COMFORTS HER TWELVE-YEAR-OLD SON SAMUEL AT THIS MORNING'S FUNERAL.'

Then he closed his eyes, clasped his hands together in front of his bowed head and prayed silently for a long time.

When he had finished he closed the ledger and returned it to the top of the pile, then carried them to the drawer of the sideboard where they were kept. He locked it and placed the key behind the clock which sat in the middle of the fireplace. It had stopped raining and pockets of brightness were beginning to edge out the smothering greyness of the afternoon. He had many things to do and he listed them in his mind. He began by taking the newspaper from the table and spreading it on the tiled hearth, then shovelled the previous night's ashes onto it. He piled a little heap in the middle, then folded over the corners of the paper to make a scrunched-up parcel. Leaving it on the hearth, he took the ash-tray through the kitchen and out the back
door to where the dustbin stood. A breeze blew ash onto his clothes and a fine film of white layered his hands. As he emptied the ashes into the bin, ash puffed up into the air until he smothered it with the metal lid.

He set down the empty tray, went to the wooden shed and found a hatchet. Its head was loose and he banged the handle on the ground until it was jammed tight then used it to cut sticks, slicing slivers of wood from an assortment of off-cuts and scraps he had gathered. Sometimes the blade struck on a knot and he tapped the ground until it forced through a path. Carrying the sticks in the empty ash-tray, he returned to the fire and placed them on a bed of crumpled paper, then positioned the cinders carefully, mindful not to pile them too deeply in case they smothered the flames. He took the box of matches from the fireplace and tried to strike one, but it broke in two and he dropped it onto the cinders. When the second match sparked into life, his hand shook a little, but he managed to light the corners of the newspaper, holding it until it almost burnt his hand. The fire spread slowly at first then gained a hold and the sticks started to crackle. Placing his face close to the bars of the grate he blew softly, making the flames flicker brightly. Soon all the sticks had caught alight and yellow-tipped flames poked through gaps in the cinders. He rubbed the side of his face with his hand, leaving a grey streak on his cheek.

He sat down on his chair at the side of the fire and watched it closely. Soon he would add a few small pieces of coal from the scuttle, but not just yet. The fire's light forced the final vestiges of gloom from the room. Cinders began to glow gently. He drew strength from its light.
Often he felt the burden of his appointed task, the terrible weight of the work he must do in the face of darkness – so much darkness all around, more than one man could dispel. But he was no longer relying on himself for the bright flame of light – it would be given, if only he had faith, eyes to see, ears to listen. Sometimes he wondered why God had chosen him, picked him alone from all His servants. Like Moses, he had questioned God, doubted his own worthiness, said, ‘But behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice for they will say, The Lord hath not appeared unto thee.' For a long time he had tried to hide from the knowledge, tried to find reasons why he was the wrong choice.

He lifted down his Bible and opened it at the marker. ‘And Moses said unto the Lord, O my Lord I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto Thy servant, but I am slow of speech and of a slow tongue. And the Lord said unto him, Who hath made man's mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the Lord? Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say.' The understanding of these words had driven away the doubts. He was waiting, his soul ready. Flames poked through the darkness. Soon a bright light of healing would burst through the darkness. Soon it would be time. God had given him the boy. He was finally coming and his heart gave thanks for the gift.

Lifting the tongs from the hearth, he dropped a few pieces of coal among the cinders then set the fireguard in place. It was buckled and jagged ends of wire plucked at his knuckles. Then he went into the kitchen and washed
his hands, having to rub hard at the thin tongue of soap to produce any lather, and dried them on the faded towel which hung limply from a rail at the back of the door. He sat down on one of the two kitchen chairs and reached for his boots. As he lifted them the heels swung together and a little crust of dry mud flaked to the floor. He folded over the toe of his grey woollen sock and squirmed his foot into the first one then laced it tightly, finishing with a double knot. When the second was almost on, he stood up straight and tested that they were securely on by pushing his weight into them and stamping on the spot like a soldier marking time. He put on his jacket which had been hanging on the back of the chair and searched aimlessly in the pockets for a few seconds. The grey mark on his cheek smouldered like a scar. Then he went out into the back garden.

All traces of rain had seeped away and a pale yellow sun hung tremulously in the sky. Only the dampness of the grass and the droplets of water weighing down the heads of flowers indicated the heaviness of the earlier rain. He stopped occasionally to pull the dead head of a flower, crumpling the petals in his hands and letting them sprinkle to the ground like confetti. Where the wind had blown the clump of white-faced daisies he paused to push them together and straighten the stakes which held them upright. The grass would need cutting soon. His fingers felt the scented velvety softness of rose petals and without knowing why he slipped them into his pocket.

The garage smelt of the rotting grass which stuck to the roller of the lawnmower. Along two of the walls makeshift shelves sagged under the weight of tins
of paint, with crusted lids and thick drips striping their sides, assorted bottles of grimy liquid, rusted biscuit tins stacked high with nails, screws, door handles and tools. The brown-ribbed remnants of a threadbare carpet, its faded floral swirls splashed with oil stains, stretched into shadowy corners where rubbish piled up in tiered layers. Across the rafters rested planks of wood, an old door with blistered flaking paint and a bicycle frame. In the rotting corners of the window frames dead flies decayed among dense shrouds of web. Going to the window he pulled the curtains closed, making sure that they left no gap through which unwelcome eyes might pry. Grainy shafts of dust-flecked light fanned through the thin frayed curtains, spearing the gloom.

He checked the door was tightly closed then sat down on a paint-splattered chair which nestled among the accumulation of debris. His eyes flitted nervously, resting briefly on some object before moving on again, exploring with curiosity the discarded remnants of a lifetime. They crossed oil-coated blackened pieces of machinery, deep boxes overflowing with mechanical parts, moss-mottled lengths of guttering, a ladder with broken rungs, and always they circled back towards the same spot. At first he was reluctant to focus on it, almost as if he wanted to disguise his desire to look, to confirm its existence by stealth. A fly buzzed behind the curtain, pinging the glass in its confusion to escape. As he sat straight-backed on the chair, both hands resting on his knees, a thin shaft of light lit up the ash-marked side of his face and dust danced weightlessly to some silent music. Then the sunlight suddenly died and he faded into the half-light, his motionless
form drawn imperceptibly into a shadowy world where it blended with the discarded and the forgotten.