A Cleansing of Souls (11 page)

Tom felt the silence burning into him. He hated all this talk of all these mundane things he had left behind. Pleasantries, he supposed it was called, exchanging pleasantries. They weren’t pleasant to him though. They were just precursors, crafty forerunners for what was inevitable. But then, at that moment, he would have talked about the price of curtains all day if it meant he didn’t have to talk about himself. You see, he was naked now, naked and vulnerable, just like the rest of us.

“Do you still live at home, Tom?”

See? Personal questions. Fucking personal questions.

Tom looked at Sandy from beneath his dark brow.

“Why?”

“I just wondered,” she replied, aware of the change in atmosphere, feeling now that she had lost any ground she had previously gained.

This was not Tom, she thought to herself, not the Tom that had occupied her mind night after night, day after day, when they were both so much younger.

“Are you warm enough?”

He nodded his bowed head, his wet hair hanging down, tangled and formless.

“You still play your guitar then,” persevered Sandy, her eyes falling on the hard, black case. “You must be really good at it by now.”

“Not bad.”

“How come you’ve got it with you? Were you on your way somewhere? I haven’t kept you, have I?”

“From what?”

Tom looked around at her sharply; rage lingering in his eyes for a second.

“From what?” he repeated, this time softly, almost pleadingly.

His mind throbbed. There was a torment within it. All the bitter experiences of his short life came together as one. He saw only failure and misfortune. There was no such thing as redemption, only shame. Pain and longing scratched at the door to his heart, coming home to rest, creeping into his tired eyes. And sorrow floated out upon warm, warm tears. Once he had had begun to cry, he was unable to stop. His whole body shuddered in mute disappointment as anger and blighted innocence were wrenched from deep within him drop by drop by drop.

Sandy just sat there watching him. She made no motion towards him and she said not a word. She took in for the first time the ragged nature of his clothes, the dirt on his hands and the smell of decay the lingering smell of decay in the air around him. And she understood that this was a private agony of which she had no part.

So the intensity of the emotion under which Tom had gratefully bowed was lifted. His body stuttered as it broke free and his breath was returned to him once more.

“Tom,” whispered Sandy, coming close to him now. “Tom, it’s all right. You don’t have to tell me anything. It’s all right. I’m sorry.”

He shook and shivered, tremulous before her. His clothes were still damp upon him, as if freshly saturated with his own tears. Sandy put her arm across the back of the settee and pulled him gently towards her, holding him so close. She laid his head upon her and gently stroked his sodden hair.

“Shh,” she said softly, “shh….”

He mumbled something but the words meant nothing. She held him tighter now, closer. His aching limbs left him. They were no longer a part of him.

And Sandy and Tom stayed like that for almost an hour, entwined in one another, until Sandy felt upon her now damp breast the rhythmic breath of sleep.

“That’s it,” she whispered, “that’s it. You sleep now. Shh….shh…..”

And the young man fell asleep in her arms.

When Tom awoke the next morning, Sandy was gone.

Compared to the alley where he had slept previously, the settee had been a silken heaven. He felt as if he had slept for years. He had not woken every ten minutes, heart pounding, intensely aware of every footstep, every noise and
, more frighteningly, every silence. He had woken strangely content.

When you’re asleep, life still rolls on. Things are dealt with, put into order within us sometimes while we’re asleep in a way that the conscious mind cannot even begin to contemplate. It was as if Tom had been lowered prostrate and shivering into dark waters and had emerged wrapped warm and tight in the clothes of another. Once again, the spectre of premature redemption peered its head into his wayward life and smiled seductively in his direction.

Tom lay quite still on the settee and gazed at the ceiling. It was so comfortable in this room. Everything seemed so soft. And he was high up, perhaps on the fourth or fifth floor, high above the streets. Thoughts ventured onto the cluttered stage of his mind, exiting shortly after making their unbidden entrance. His road had been rough, very rough. It was time now for a break, to think like everybody else, to just relax
, mate.

There was a note on the coffee table. The handwriting was large and curly. Tom read it over twice. It read ‘I’ve gone to work. I’ll be back at about six. I’ll leave earlier if I can. Make yourself at home. You can have a bath if you want to. Please don’t leave before I get back. I’ll make you something to eat when I get in. Help yourself to anything in the cupboards. See you later.’ Sandy had signed her name and added her work number in case he needed it.

Tom sat back on the settee, not sure what to do. She had left him alone in her flat. She didn’t know him, not really, hadn’t seen him for years. At school, they hadn’t even been friends, just classmates. Yet she had let him stay the night and now she was offering to cook him something to eat when she got home from work. It didn’t seem quite believable to him that someone could have that much trust. There are some beautiful people out there.

So he wandered around the flat, quietly, feeling slightly uncomfortable. He found the bathroom and carefully used the toilet. It could have been made of crystal such was his experience with the walls and trees that had been the backdrop for his relief the previous few weeks. He ran himself a bath and removed his clothes. They smelt strongly of the rain from the previous night. It was only once he had got into the hot bath and smothered himself in soap that he realised how filthy he had become. The water turned a dull grey colour through which Tom couldn’t even see his legs. He lay there for some time, just calm and silent. Eventually, he got out, rinsed the bath with the shower hose and wrapped a large peach towel about himself. As he was doing so, the gratifying silence was pulled apart by the ringing of the telephone. He walked through cautiously to Sandy’s bedroom where the phone was, and picked it up.

“Hello?” he said, warily.

“Hi. It’s me. Sandy.”

“Oh. Right. Okay. Good,” he said, much relieved. “You sound different on the phone."

“So do you. I was just seeing how you were.”

“I’m sorry I wasn’t awake when you left.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Sandy, pausing now. “Are you okay with washing machines? You can wash your clothes if you like.” He didn't reply, thrown as he was by the question. “Or you can wait until I get in,” she added.

Tom was thinking furiously now. Long term plans or minute by minute. Decisions were being made for him again. What to do? Dreams, freedom, warmth, security, loneliness, cold, backward step, any step, go, stay, find Michael, stay, stay, stay. For the minute…

“Tom, I don’t know what’s happening with you, and you don’t have to tell me, but I want you to know that you can trust me. If there’s any way I can help, I will. And don’t think you’re ‘putting me out’ or anything. To be honest, I’d like the company.”

Stay, stay, stay…….

“Thanks,” replied Tom softly. “I’ll see how it goes.”

He thought of secret documents and of midnight meetings, single light bulbs and black coffee. He thought of the stars, the trees and of cold, cold alleys.

“Well, I’d best be going, Tom. Just so long as you're okay. I’ll see you about six.”

Tom said goodbye and put the phone down. He wandered out of the bedroom, a towel still wrapped around him, and slumped down onto the settee, feeling weary again. From what he could remember, Sandy had been one of those girls at school whom he had despised, whom he had judged as short-sighted and narrow-minded. She had got top marks in every subject. When a volunteer was called for, hers had been the first hand in the air. And she had never got drunk with the others. She didn’t know what real life was about. He vaguely remembered her as having very few friends and that she was picked on by some of the other girls. But now, now she seemed different.

She was old then, Tom.

She is younger now. And you, well, you're just the opposite.

So Tom got up languorously from the settee, turned the television on and watched Sesame Street. And when that finished, he watched Mr Benn.

Whilst Tom was sprawled on the settee indulging in the events along Festive Road, Michael was in the park, battered and dazed. The bruises were showing now on his face though the blood had since dried and was intermittently flaking off.
As he sat there on the bench, an earnest young man in a dark suit approached him.

“You are in need of Love,” said the earnest young man, looking down upon him.

“I am Love,” replied Michael, looking up.

“There is one,” continued the earnest young man, “one who can give you all the love that you need. He will love you for who you are. He will forgive you your sins and he will deliver you unto Heaven. He will look upon you as his own and he will cherish you. Your sins were washed away when Jesus was nailed to the cross. He suffered so that you may not suffer. He died and was resurrected so that you too may join your father. Jesus will save you.”

Michael looked deep into the eyes of the earnest young man and held his upturned palms before him.

“I am Jesus,” he said, tears in his eyes.

And the earnest young man left, affronted.

Sandy arrived back at the flat just before six that evening. She opened the door to the lounge and found Tom on the settee, his eyes closed, the towel still wrapped around him. He had slept all afternoon. She looked at him as he lay there. He seemed such
a lonely figure, so frightened. It was as if he had just fallen down to earth.

             
Tom awoke to the sound of clanging and clattering in the kitchen. It was like a fanfare that announced the next stage of his reckless life. He was suddenly aware that the towel did little to fully cover him, so he began arranging it hastily, looking for his clothes.

“I’m just doing some tea,” called Sandy, hearing the frantic rustling in the lounge. “Do you want coffee?”

“Cheers.”

“Your clothes are in the washing machine,” she called again. “Hope you don’t mind.”

And these thoughts streamed through his mind: he could be on the run or undercover. He could be a poet, an artist, an author, anything. Was this a final chance to re-invent, to begin again? Re-focus, re-adjust and succeed. Don’t look inwards. Look outwards. Watch out. Be one step ahead. And in that moment, Tom felt he had finally worked out the rules of adulthood. He had become wise to the ways of the world. What did Michael know anyway?

And thus was the contamination of the child was complete.

And Little Norman? Well, he was nowhere to be found.

Sandy took the TV magazine from the floor and placed it on the coffee table.

“Tom,” she said, “you don’t have to answer me if you don’t want to, but, well, I’ve been thinking. You seemed so scared yesterday when I met you. Are you in some sort of trouble? Is there anything I can do?”

He felt an obligation to answer, so soft was her voice. Maybe it was his dwindling conscience.

“Kind of.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t really say any more than that.”