Breaking the wall

It was bad enough that Nigel was not only called Nigel, he also looked like a complete Nigel. He was also the new pupil in school. He was odd and no one could really put their finger on exactly what it was that made him so.

In an adult his behaviour might have been called eccentric but in a child it was just plain odd. It was the way he held himself; almost as if he wasn’t quite connected to the Earth and that, if he didn’t concentrate, he would float off it into the ether.

It was the way his hairstyle changed. If you were watching minute by minute then you would never notice any discernible alteration but if you visited him again later then it looked somehow different.

It was the way he looked at you with an almost pained expression; but you knew that he wasn’t feeling any pain himself. It was as though he pitied all those who he came into contact with, whoever they were; as if there was something he alone knew about you.

It was the way he talked; a soft, deep voice; barely audible but the meaning was always clear. He only spoke when spoken to and only used as many words that were necessary.

It was all of those things that made Nigel odd to everyone else; but mostly it was because he spoke to himself.

He kept his own company and at first people thought he was shy and reclusive. He bothered no one and no one bothered him; not even those who were classed as the school bullies (and, despite the schools insistence that such behaviour would not be tolerated, there were several). Nigel was seen as an enigma; even by those who couldn’t even pronounce the word, let alone spell it.

It was after the first week had elapsed that Nigel was seen in the corner of the playing field talking. His deep voice carried strangely, and people wondered who it was that had actually befriended him. Upon closer inspection they realised that he was, in fact, talking to himself; or rather actively engaging in a conversation with someone… or something. There was no school play on and he was not thought to be the type to be into amateur dramatics, but if he was acting a part then it was a marvellously nuanced performance; there was no artifice in it.

If he noticed anyone staring then he didn’t pay any attention to it, he simply got up and walked away.

In class, with everyone now starting at him, he showed no signs of embarrassment about the incident. He still maintained his odd composure. And then he started doing the same thing in the lesson itself. When he was asked a question by the teacher he would behave as if the answer had been given to him by a third party; and his answer was always correct, even to the point where he actually corrected the teacher on a question regarding “A Tale of Two Cities”.

“Who wrote ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of foolishness, it was the age of wisdom?’” Mr Jupp asked.

“That was Charles Dickens.” Nigel replied, and then after another pause said, “And I believe that the quote was ‘It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness.’ Not the other way around.”

Mr Jupp was not amused and asked Nigel to stay after class.

Mr Jupp held a copy of ‘A Tale of Two Cities’ in his hands and looked at Nigel. “You were right, after all. I apologise.”

“I should be the one to apologise, Mr Jupp. It was remiss of me to call you up like that.”

“What is it that I hear about you talking to yourself? I wouldn’t have believed it myself, but I saw it happen in class. I think most children have an imaginary friend at one time or other, but they grow out of it. I’ve seen the way the other children look at you; they may not have done anything to you yet, but the more you draw attention to yourself…”

“I’m not sure that I follow you what you’re alluding to, Sir.”

“Nigel.. people fear what they don’t understand, and what’s more some people lash out at what they fear. You seem like a nice chap and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“What is it that people fear?”

“They see you talking to yourself.”

“But I’m not talking to myself, Sir.” Nigel replied.

“I don’t understand.”

Nigel thought to himself for a minute and then said: “You know in the movies when the characters stop what they’re doing and talk to the camera.. and to the audience?”

“Yes, it’s called breaking the fourth wall.”

“It’s a bit like that.”

“That’s preposterous!”

“Why? Have you tried it yourself, Sir? Is that because you fear getting an answer, or not getting an answer?”

The next day in school everyone knew what had been talked about due to the power of gossip. Nigel was now looked upon with derision and scorn. Being odd was one thing, but being a loony was something altogether far different.

It started as a whisper as he walked into the playground. “Loony… loony… loony;” before rising to a cacophony. Nothing had ever ignited such a feeling before; all the pent up fear and frustration could now be released.

Nigel displayed no outward emotion and just walked from one end of the playground to the other and into the school itself. It wasn’t a tall building, scarcely two stories high and there was no way a pupil could access the roof. Despite that, everyone was horrified to see Nigel walk calmly to the edge of the roof and stop with the toes of his shoes overhanging the edge.

He spoke loud enough for people to hear: “I came here hoping that people would be ready to hear what you have to say, but their ears and minds are closed. Even their young are hard set in their ignorance, and I know what will happen if I stay any longer. I do not wish to be such a victim again. I respectfully ask to come back into the presence once more.”

Then a voice that seemed to encompass everything and everyone spoke briefly; and although all heard something different all understood.

And then Nigel stepped off the roof to screams and cries of anguish. Everyone felt the step as if it was themselves taking it; walking into the unknown. Nigel stepped off the roof and across to the other side of the wall.

Past saving

“You were never like this thirty years ago.” And that was true; thirty years was a long time.

“Well, congratulation; you’ve finally found the real me. You always said there had to be more to me, and now you know you’re right. Just like you used to be.”

Spend enough time anywhere, Len always maintained, and even Heaven would feel like Hell, especially if it was with the wrong person. The thing is, it didn’t start out like this.. or did it?

“What do you mean, used to be?” He snapped. It was supposed to be a quiet afternoon; a trip to the seaside; a walk down memory lane before they demolished the pier and eradicated the last of their happy memories.

“Well, you used to be right. Or, at least, you used to pretend you were right, and I suppose that I used to pretend as well.” Dot had taken some persuading, the news of the pier being demolished had hit her harder than he had realised. He was saddened by it, certainly, but she seemed almost inconsolable; nor did she want to talk about it; or indeed anything, which was very unlike her.

“Anything for a quiet life, I suppose.” He muttered. “How ironic.”

“What did you say?” She snapped suddenly.

“Steady on, old girl. What’s the matter?”

“Go to hell!”  I can’t, he thought, already there.. and what was worse, he knew that she felt the same. Neither of them wanted to end up this way, but it had still happened; slowly, inexorably: minute by damned minute. This trip might well have been a mistake, but what was one more? Unless this was the final one.

“Seriously, Dot, what’s wrong? You know I don’t mean it.”

There were still times when Len’s truth surprised her, where his real caring nature shone through, like it always used to. Not only did it make it easier to love him, but she knew that she could tell him anything, well.. almost. Now is where she would put it to the test.

“Do you remember Justin? He used to work at Wentworth’s with me for a while.”

Len shifted a little, uncomfortable with the way the conversation had suddenly turned.

“Yes, I vaguely remember him –or at least you mentioning him.” He lied.

“I found out that he passed away a couple of days ago. On Facebook, I mean… I found out that on Facebook that he passed. The funeral was yesterday.”

“Oh?”

“I went.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” It wasn’t that she had gone without him; he had never stopped her living her own life. He had tried to make her happy, even if it meant that she did things on her own; but it was the fact that she hadn’t even told him. She’d never had any reason to be secretive before.

“I don’t know. I didn’t know whether I could go through with it myself, to be honest. I didn’t know… what I felt.”

“What do you mean, Dorothy?”

“Why is it that you only call me Dorothy in that tone of voice? You used to whisper my name during love making.”

“Don’t change the subject, what else haven’t you been telling me?”

“But I’m not changing the subject, don’t you see? As above, so below; one of your favourite sayings. Look at the detail to see the root of the bigger problem. We’re growing apart, Leonard. We’re not talking anymore, not like we used to. We bicker, but not talk… Justin and I.. well, we had an affair.. of sorts.”

“For God’s sake, why tell me now?”

“Don’t blaspheme!”

“Jesus Fucking Christ, your timing is as impeccable as ever.”

“Please, Leonard, don’t blaspheme.”

“Leonard, eh? Touché, old girl, touché. You know, I’ve often wondered why you got more religious the longer we’ve been together. What am I, the anti-christ?”

“Hardly… you’ve always encouraged me to find my own truth; the same way you have. You’ve never told me what to believe, and I suppose I’m grateful. But where you’ve found solace and truth and peace of mind, I’ve seen only emptiness.”

“You never did understand that life is what you make it; you only get out what you put it. You’ve never invested in your Self.”

“Well, neither did you…”

“I gave you your freedom. I’ve allowed you to be what you wanted; to have what you wanted.”

“Have you..”

“well… except that.”

“At least the church gives me a sense of purpose, tells me who I am.”

“I’m sorry that you need such a scaffold; I had hoped that you’d find the strength to do that on your own.”

“I must be a great disappointment to you.” Dot turned to look out at sea.

“Do you have to be so daft? I married you, didn’t I? Despite not believing in it; doesn’t that count for something? I’m still with you… I still love you; doesn’t that say something?”

“I don’t know any more.” She replied.

He took a deep breath, watched the gulls cawl and hackle at each other. “Are you going to tell me about him then?” He asked. “About what happened?”

“He was only there as a temp; six months. He was ten years younger than me but always looked at me with.. I don’t know… there was a wistfulness  in his gaze; something alive for me. I wasn’t unhappy, you mustn’t think that. At least, I don’t think so. You’ve always been distant… I know that you always loved me; but I don’t think you’ve ever been in love with me. You don’t put as much effort into the relationship anymore.”

“It’s always been about what you want, though Dot.” He interjected. “And I’ve never denied you anything; but, equally, I learned long ago that you’d never be completely satisfied. Early on you defined our relationship as being best because of the way I made you feel; not about me per se; but it was always about what you got out of it, or what I did for you. So I supposed he was different then.”

“He courted me, would you believe? Gently though, allowed me to time to make up my own mind. Strangely he didn’t want anything from me, just to give me love, and loving. We were together only for four months; on and off.. mostly off.”

“I know.” The silence struck her, it was as if the sea itself had stood still. She had never dreamed that he knew. All that time. “Well… obviously, I didn’t know the details, but I certainly suspected.”

“But why did you never say anything? Oh.. of course.”

She was quiet for a bit. The world carried on as normal; the sun played hide and seek with the clouds as children ran along the pier behind them. The smells of candyfloss, donuts and fish & chips would soon be nothing more than a tidal memory; an eddy on the minds of the lucky few who would remember.

“It wasn’t love that we felt.” She finally said. “At least I don’t think it was. We loved each other in the moment and then went our separate ways. The irony was that he was married as well; happily too, as I was led to believe, and with two daughters; and that was where the real rub was. He knew what I so desperately wanted and that was probably why he never slept with me. We enjoyed each other but never went all the way; even with him I was denied.

“What made it worse was the way he spoke about you… I mean, obviously we talked, but the more I explained about you and us, the more admiration he showed for you. How you’d given me flow; freedom and choice. And I suppose that’s true, otherwise I would never have met him.

“Of course, he moved away when his contract was up. We knew that we’d never keep in contact, and our last meeting was very much the same as our first… I swore that I’d never tell you; that I’d keep our secret to the grave.”

“And you have, pet.”

“Yes, I suppose I have.”

“And what do you feel now?” He asked.

“I don’t know. I never wanted to hurt you. I guess I felt empty when he left. It was about that time when you were researching hermeticism and I picked up the Bible, and just thought ‘why not?’ At least someone will love me.” She sobbed now, gently, like a lost soul might weep.

“I’ve always loved you, but –in hindsight- maybe not the way that you needed it. You want love like a child; constant attention. The only reason you want a baby so much is so it can take you away from the emptiness you’ve always felt. But it’s only ever a passing felling; you have to do that yourself.”

“But why? You’ve never really told me why you don’t want children. You must tell me, Len, I can’t go on not knowing. I can’t have them now anyway; please tell me.”

He looked at her then, his eyes full of compassion. Part of him wanted to say no, but that would have been unbearably cruel. He sighed.

“Once, when I was a boy of no more than thirteen, I went to a ghastly wedding.” He said, looking out to sea again. “It was with a bunch of family I didn’t know or care for; cousins, distant something or rathers. The reception was being held at some awful, run-down hotel when they didn’t seem to care about customer service or value for money. It was dingy and expensive.

“Anyway, I was claustrophobic –even back then- so I went outside. There was a veranda overlooking the Downs and a few younger children were playing, making lots of noise. I didn’t take too much notice; the view was so stunning.

“One of the children had a kind of motorised bird that flapped its wings when you threw it. This boy was deaf and had some form of mental retardation; I don’t know what kind –we were more ignorant about that kind of thing, back then. I was taller than most of the other kids, and he wanted me to throw this damnable bird, this flappy toy, and he wouldn’t take no for an answer. He kept tugging at my sleeve.

“My cousin, Bobby, was there and he was enjoying it; really winding me up; so I picked up this bloody bird and threw it as hard as I could out of spite, see? I never wanted to get involved but he wouldn’t leave me alone!” He could feel the tears now, a memory he’d hoped was forgotten was still just as painful. “The wind… I didn’t bank on the bloody wind taking it, did I? I mean, how could I have known?” My God, it was still so raw, it could have happened yesterday. Was it still happening now?

“What happened, Len? Please tell me, it’s ok. Let it out, it can’t hurt you anymore.”

“Oh.. and how do you know? You want to know what happened? I killed that poor lad, just as if I’d put a gun to his head; it was my fault. I threw that bird, that fucking bird.” People were staring at him; look at the old fool blubbing, well.. let them! “That bird, flew so very high on to the roof. I bet it had never flown that high in its life, and now it was stuck out of reach, never to fly again. There was no way I could get to it, nor did I have any inclination to, but the boy was having none of it. He wanted me to go and get it; after all, I was the one who had lost it. But there was no way I was getting involved; I hadn’t wanted to throw it in the first place, had i? So I tried walking away, but he wouldn’t let me; he tried stopping me… kids… we can be so cruel; all he wanted was his damn bird… He tried to grab me, tried dragging me back; he didn’t seem to understand that I didn’t want to know…  but he soon did though.”

“What did you do? What did you do to that poor boy?”

“See; you’re just the same. The poor boy…he was a menace. What I want to know, and what I’ve often wondered about afterwards, is where were his fucking parents? Why weren’t they looking after him? They were probably enjoying the free booze, getting pissed.”

“What did you do?” She persisted, quietly.

“Nothing.. pushed him away; that’s all.. and then walked away. Thankfully he didn’t follow. He fell to the ground, but I didn’t bother going to help him; to me the matter was over, but for him it had only just begun.

“I wanted food; I was hungry. Even back then I comfort ate, and by the time I’d laden up my plate I’d almost forgotten about it all… almost.  Then Bobby ran over to me, distraught. The boy.. he kept saying; The boy.. sobbing. I ran out with him. The boy hadn’t forgotten about that damned bird, after all. Seems it was his favourite toy and he wanted it back, so he tried climbing up the side of the building. Those old hotels; they all have the fancy walls with lots of hand-holds, and this boy tried scaling them. Obviously he fell; no one looking after him, no one caring and he paid the price.

“He didn’t fall far but the way his little body was twisted he must have snapped his neck. At least it was quick… But then, like the ultimate irony, that fucking bird came flapping back down because of a stray gust of wind. It landed on his body but he would never play with it again. That poor, poor boy.”

“But it wasn’t your fault, Len. How can you continue to blame yourself?”

“No one blamed me. Not even his parents. All the witnesses saw him hassle me, none of them remembered me pushing him down, but all saw me try to reason with him. The parents looked almost relieved that their torment was over. What they must have endured over the years, and the one time they turned their back something happened.

“I was inconsolable for weeks afterwards; I still saw his face accusing me. The parents let me keep the bird, they didn’t ask why; perhaps they understood.”

“No..; that’s.. you mean, that’s why you keep that mangy toy in the corner? I thought it might have been your favourite toy as a child; I never dreamed..”

“I swore that I would never put myself in that position again. I despised those parents; all the parents that turned a blind eye to that poor child. I despised myself for the same, and I knew that I could never bring a child into such a life.”

“But you wouldn’t have done. You would have been different. Oh, Len.”

“Really? I caused the death of that boy; I was the catalyst. I don’t know whether I could’ve gotten that bird or talked the boy down from getting it; but I didn’t want to know. I hated children, Dot… don’t you see? I despised them. Now? I don’t know; I pity them; they don’t stand a chance and things have gotten so much worse.

“Don’t you see? Our child.. had we… it wouldn’t have stood a chance. Between us, you would’ve smothered it before it could even get out of the crib and I would have abandoned it. Together I’m sure that we make a whole, but I couldn’t have subjected an innocent soul to that kind of torment. Far better to bear it myself.”

“But you haven’t, have you? I’ve had to bear it as well. This is why you’re always so distant.. why you’ve striven so hard to find meaning; and you’re just as empty as me. Oh, you put on these graces, tart it up in language to dazzle me but you’re still the same thirteen year old boy.”

“Yes.. yes..” He nodded, ashamed, but also relieved to finally have disclosed what he felt. “You’re right, of course.”

Dot smiled despite everything, or perhaps because of everything. Despite the pain, the recriminations, she actually laughed.

“That must be the first time you’ve ever said that… and meant it.” She said, still smiling.

“Do you think people can change, Dot? Do you think that we can? Or are we like this damn pier; just a skeleton; we weather the storms and high tides until its deemed we’re too unsafe and have no functional value. What do you think? Are we still of value to each other?”

“Justin dying has made sense of a few things, clarified them. I don’t think either of us have ever lived for the moment. We’ve both sought sanctuary elsewhere; escaping what we think is the inevitability of other peoples failings; but it needn’t be that way. What have we got to be scared of anymore? We’ve been scared to love because of what we might have to lose, but what have we really gained?

“I want more, Leonard. I want more from you, damn you. I want more love from you; I want to love you more.”

“Ha – that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear, m’love. Maybe there’s hope for you yet…For us. Do you think that we can change?”

“I fucking well hope so.”

A part from you

The dreams are similar but infinitely varied. Sometimes day, sometimes it transpires at night.. Sometimes the whole school is watching: forty souls all holding on to an in-breath that is never released; shock, awe and almost spiritual terror keeping everything else at bay. Other times he is alone. However when he is in the wood he is never alone; someone else is there beside him but he can not make out who they are. But there is always one constant: the unknowable object that hovers in front of him, threatening to shut his rational mind down. 

It’s easier to think of it as a dream, that it never really happened. But it did, and life was never the same.

Sometime he wakes up in a sweat, and for a second he’s back in the wood that first time; when the world dropped away from him. Everything else since that day has been a fantasy, ethereal; the world just full of holes; nothing with solidity any more.

Adam was 15 when the unknowable object landed in the playing field adjacent to his school. It was the end of the day and most of the children had gone home.  There were a handful of pupils that had stayed behind for special projects, and never noticed anything happening at first, but Adam was the only one who was brave enough to venture close to IT. The remaining teachers and pupils were frozen in time, unable to move even if they had wanted to. Adam was insistent and managed to climb through a gap in the metal fence that the caretaker had been too lazy to fix. Something drove him, pushed him closer, ever closer and with each step he felt the air become charged, denser as if he was walking through thunder.

It hung there, defying gravity, logic and God. It didn’t belong, it felt wrong; everything about it. The way it pulsated, changing colour: silver, gold, red… the air was dense with ozone and a rose-petal scent and every atom vibrated in his body as he reached out. It was then that he felt a prisoner in his own body, horrified as he watched his own hand reach out to IT..to touch IT. He knew that he couldn’t stop himself; his only hope, that he could wake before it took him. But it wasn't a dream.

Lill felt like a prisoner in her own life, as if she were living someone else’s. She felt disposable, someone to be used, torn up and then discarded. In her dream she felt differently. She only ever remembered the one dream anyways; always the same dream and, just as in her life, the dream was always happening to someone else.

It was a boy, someone she cared about; possibly the only one she had ever cared about, on a level that she thought was impossible. It physically hurt knowing that she was apart from him. Something was happening; something had appeared that should never have been there. She felt helpless, watching the boy walk towards it, every muscle in her wanting to do the same but unable to  comply. The boy seemed as much prisoner as her, his fear palpable, tears streaming down their face. His hand reaching out to the death of childhood, a stronger pulse, a searing heat and then her everything draining of colour, leaving her awake, barely.

She was used to sleeping alone; the night fears making it easier for Clive, to have his own bed. They had been married only six months, her latest in a long line of failed relationships.  Clive, at least, did not abuse her... Since being married he had gone from constantly putting her down to barely acknowledging her presence, to completely ignoring her.

And who knows, maybe that was all she was good for. She never seemed to have anything worth contributing. She was incapable of having children, possessed no qualities that made her worth remembering, which had kept her in the same position in work for many years, with no prospect of promotion. But then she had no desires of her own, no aspirations, she felt barren.

No, there was one person that made her feel whole, that had always made her feel as if she was someone: Adam, but for the life of her she couldn’t remember why that was. Her memories were so vague due to some kind of head trauma, no doubt. Yet when she heard the news broadcast she suddenly remembered what was missing and what she must do next.

Adam felt like throwing the radio against the wall after hearing the asinine broadcast about the reunion. They called it the “Return of the Mothership” and made it sound just like any other excuse for a drunken piss-up. Damn it! This was his life; it was the only event that had ever meant something and they had cheapened it.

“Is everything alright?”  The woman lying next to him asked. The radio had woken her up; his dreams already acting as an alarm clock. She would never understand so he told her to go back to sleep. He couldn’t remember her name anyway, there seemed little point, he’d be gone in ten minutes. Most of the time he could do without people; their inanities and insistence at their own self-importance nagged him. He alone had seen beyond the veil; the Object had taken him there; wherever that meant. Time just seemed to pass for him now, it was something else that happened to everyone but not him; he had no passion or drive –just for a completeness that he could never satisfy. Every so often thought he could bear it no longer and had to give in; drown that unquenchable desire to be one with someone and afterwards he would loathe himself for it. He hadn’t always been this way. Life used to have meaning back when he was a child, before…

There had been …

..had he touched the object? Everyone had insisted that he had but he couldn’t remember. His memory was terribly fragmented –he knew that he had reached out to it, his fingers tingling the closer he got; then there was a blinding light and he was awake; deep in Franklyn’s Wood at night, whereas it had been daylight beforehand.

For twenty years he had lived with this unknowable thing, this loss; but no longer. The fates were conspiring and he could now get some answers with someone else; for maybe she would be there too.

There were two types of people at the re-union; those that had actually witnessed the incident and wanted some closure and the weirdo’s, those that wanted to believe and had watched far too many episodes of the X-Files. No one noticed Lilith when she walked into the hall where the reunion was taking place. Everyone assumed that she was one of the “believers” and she was too shy to actually start a conversation with anyone.

When Adam walked into the room everyone turned as one. Everyone knew who he was and why he had come; even if he didn’t. He had wanted to blend in, walk about as inconspicuously as possible and almost turned around to run out again; but then he saw her. Like long lost lovers they ran to each other and embraced, everyone else looking at them with obvious bemusement: just who was she?

Time passed, Adam and Lill chatted like they were old friends, almost forgetting what had brought them to the reunion, and then a voice from the stage brought the present crashing back down.

“Please could all those who were there that night follow me to the fence outside. We don’t want anyone else there; we’ll know, so please don’t try. This isn’t for you; this is for us, so we can hopefully understand what happened.”

Like a procession, both ex-teachers and ex-pupils gathered at the now rusting fence, a crudely chalked “X” on the field in front where the Object had hung.

Adam stood at the back with Lill, holding hands and when everyone had reached the fence they all turned round to look at her. “Why have you come here?” Someone demanded. “We asked only for those who were there that afternoon.”

“I was there.” Lill protested. All shook their heads whilst Adam protested her innocence. They didn’t want to know.

Lill shook her head in disbelief, this couldn’t be happening. This was the only event that had ever held any meaning for her and now she was being told that the people that she hoped would understand her couldn’t remember her either. She started sobbing and wrenched her hand away from Adam. The gap in the fence was still prominent, like a tear into the past and she slipped through it and ran for the sanctuary of Franklyn’s Wood, now deep in night time shadow.

Adam looked at those who he’d hoped would give him some resolution but he could see that they were just as empty, looking for him to add meaning. It was her, it was Lill; she was the only one that could help him and he knew that he could help her so he ran after her as fast as he could.

The past doppled around him as he got the strangest sense of déjà vu. It took a couple of minutes but he finally caught up with her. She was inconsolable at first. He held her face in his hands and kissed her lightly on the lips: “You are the only one that’s ever meant anything to me.” As they kissed again the air around them became electric, a sodium light pulsated throwing flickering shadows across the wood. Adam knew why they’d been brought back there and he also remembered what had happened that day.

The Unknowable Object had held everyone stationery for hours, no one aware of the passage of time until suddenly it flew up into the air, releasing everyone. Adam couldn’t let it go; his compunction was to run after it, especially when he saw it land in Franklyn’s Wood.

He not only chased it, but he found it hovering where they were standing now. It was then that he had reached out as it was spinning, pulsing a globulous red, but it was cold to the touch. He never registered the shift to unconsciousness only the groggy coming to later.

“And had you looked to your side upon waking you would’ve seen me lying there where I had not been before.” Lill replied to his unspoken question. "We were one before they came... I don't know now what we are."

“I’ve always known that you existed even though my conscious mind would never allow it.”

“So what now? How can we carry on?”

The light coalesced in front of them, red shifting, become whole. They looked at each other, Adam and Lillith, one soul. Holding hands, now of one mind, they smiled, perhaps for the first time; knowing no other and walked as one into the light.

Sitting on a train

Sitting on a train, everybody’s reading whether it’s the latest best seller (a fat, bloated excuse for a novel released by a publisher who cares more for price than value) or a well thumbed classic where each page is so well read it becomes an extension of the reader and imbued with the very sweat and smell of its host body.

Newspapers are torn between the sickly sweet condescending tabloids playing to the bygone age of smutty sea-side Britain and the aloof and presumptuous broadsheets, opinionated but distant; like critics to the naked emperor - they’re too busy describing the water to realise that the ship has sunk.

Magazines are just as bad: gaudy and excessive covering a multitude of nothings; cars and fashion, both externalisations of the vacuum that lies within the readers souls. Then there are the health and lifestyle publications written by prophets of hypocrisy and the jizz ridden rags of celebrities and the terminally washed up –each one indistinguishable from the other.

The rest of the carriage, those that are not nose deep into a publication, are either reading each other, hoping to find familiarity in strangers; or the landscape, trying to discern what they can from the hills and woodland that passes them by so unashamedly, like remote phrenologists hoping to catch recognition from their reflection of the train windows.

I’m of the latter category, struggling to come to terms with a whole host of emotions – my whole psychic world having been turned upside-down. My motives for being here are no longer clear so I sit staring out the window trying to catch my reflection unawares.

I’m not sure whether I’ve actually accomplished anything, or whether the trip was a futile gesture on my part; only time will tell, for sure. (I hate futile gestures, they’re dishonest and often leave me drained and empty; forcing me to question my motives.) I know one thing; I’m on the return journey, in more ways than one, and I have the scars to prove it, though you would need to be a medium to feel them.

Conversation in the carriage ebbs and flows with the rhythm of the tracks, children fight to be heard: a compulsion to repeat vies with the adults repulsion to complete. I stay silent, content at this stage to try and soak it all in. I’m hoping that some of this small talk, the ability to spew forth cheap nothings as if they were pearls of insight and illumination, will avail itself to me via osmosis. But like a faulty mobile there must be bad network coverage because the signal is quickly lost; too much noise.

Everything is so banal to me, or is this the key to understanding it all. Is one person’s banality another person’s gossip? What about me? Am I gossip-worthy?

Somehow I doubt it. I keep to myself mostly, my world internalised; I’ve tried making small talk in the past but the words soon fail me. I want to find out what makes the other persons world turn; why they get up in the morning. This goes too deep for most people, especially strangers on a train and their body language soon changes from mild indifference to hostile blocking. From killing time to cornered animals, and even though they have not the place to cross their legs they will turn away from me and blank me that way, pretend that I no longer exist as if I had offended them.

On the times that I do get a sensible answer I’m often sorry I asked…

I forgot to bring my mp3 player with me. I can’t drown out this static. I also forgot to bring a book so there is to be no escapism for me at all, so I must endure. Luckily I’ve a window seat so I can lose myself in the view.

Damn it, we’re still in London. I thought we’d been on the train for at least an hour but that can’t be so, it must be only a matter of minutes still.

Someone is talking to me; a woman opposite and judging by her proverbial tone of voice and unashamed assumptions she must be family of some kind, but she is just another stranger to me at the moment. I reply, feigning interest at her observations and even manage to fake laughter at one of her absurd banalities. I reason that at this stage it would be better to remain on friendly ground until I can distance myself from this charade permanently. This is neither the time nor place to try.

The woman seems placated by my answers and smiles. I turn back to the window and the view outside and see only my own reflection, vague but understanding, staring back at me as we pass through a tunnel. I ask him a silent question and receive only a negative in reply, and like a solar flare we erupt into the hazy sunshine like a liberated mole.

Slowing, the pace of conversation changes gear to compensate. It’s almost like the end of a movement in an elaborate and disjointed symphony. Counter rhythms and contrapuntal melodies weave in and out as the passengers enter a frenzy to gather their belongings before they disembark. Even before the train draws to a halt there is a further flurry of activity as they sprint to form an orderly queue at the door.

I’m asked another question by my familiar companion and reply that there will be quiet a few stops more before we reach our destination. She sighs.

My own metaphysical destination is still unknown to me. For a while I was comfortable and I thought I knew where I wanted to be. I had, if not an actual goal, then at least a sense of general direction that I was travelling in. I was actually at haste when bit by bit it was taken away from me. I’m still not sure exactly what it was that happened or even if there was one defining moment that changed everything, but I woke up one morning (both figuratively and actually) no longer knowing my purpose or if there was a point to my travelling.

Was this journey my way of finding that? If so, I can’t have succeeded….

I am so lost in my own maze of supposition that I fail to notice the woman sitting in the empty seat next to my companion. We had been lucky enough to board a nearly empty train and I had hoped that it would last until our destination. Yet more piped dreams.

In retrospect I’m unsure whether I would actually have preferred her to sit next to me or not… On the one hand I would have had the, admitted, guilty pleasure of her physicality and warmth next to me but facing me… I could drink in her charm and heavenly beauty.

Please do not think of me as one of the trench-coat brigade. Admittedly I do own such a garment but it was due to a fondness of Film Noir and practicality. I am also far too easily embarrassed ever to try such a shameless pursuit of exposition.

No, it was nothing so scandalous… I simply spend too much time on my own and very rarely frequent places where I can be in close proximity to women. I am not perverted, nor desperate.. if one had to pin a label to my mannerisms it would be one of loneliness. I am not ashamed to admit it – it surely must be a brave man who can admit to his shortcomings.

Be that as it may, when she spoke to me my whole perception ratio was suddenly inverted. No longer was I focussing inward, reflecting on the days misgivings and grievances, I was now fully cognizant on the world around me, aware of her every movement and exhalation.

Believe me, and I know how this must sound, but let me make an analogy to explain my behaviour. A starving man will gorge himself on seeing food, almost to his ruination as will someone dying of thirst. I had been starved of seeing beauty for such a long time – isolating myself had obviously come at a price.

A description of her would be futile but I will try. Should my elaborations seem flat and insipid it is due to my own lack of a poetic soul rather than her divine beauty… Her recently washed, auburn hair hung limply but somehow seductively down across her shoulders; her bright and inquisitive eyes stole glances at me as she waited for my reply. She seemed to drink in the world around her, inquisitive like a child but with a knowing glint in her eye.

And the dress… oh, the dress that she wore was so alluring and draped over her body giving brief and tantalising glimpses of her pale, almost creamy skin, so tactile and inviting. I felt the temperature rise in the carriage and tried to stop my pupils from dilating against my will.

Part of me hoped that she would get off at the next stop so I could regain my composure. My sterile world was being rocked to its very foundations. Up until now I had lived by mediocrity; comforted myself with the familiar and now this blissful earthbound angel, innocent of what she was doing to me, had shown me that there was hope for something more in my life.

With a marked amount of effort on my behalf I returned my gaze to the window, hoping to catch her reflection –a much less threatening way to stare at someone, but somehow far more sinister.

And then she spoke to me again and I realised that I had ignored her previous question. I could hardly believe that I had been that rude. I answered quickly unaware exactly of what I had said. My mind was reeling with possibilities and computations like an overworked enigma decoding machine. The why’s and wherefores of this chance encounter could wait until later for if ever there was a reason to live in the present this was it!

My garbled answer must have pleased her for she laughed with bright abandon and I laughed in reciprocation. Her voice was bubbly and her body responded in kind. Animated, her dress flowed and coalesced and my heart raced with every crease and fold that unravelled. Her dress was knee length and left everything to the imagination, but she sat with her legs apart, her hands tugging and kneading at the fabric that lay gathered there. And sometimes I could see pale flesh ascend into such sweet darkness that I felt myself go light-headed to compensate.

We talked about nothings, the asinine noise that everyone else rambled on about suddenly took on new meanings for me. This was sublime! She made everything interesting that I almost hung myself on her questions and glided out on her sentences.

Even my companion felt encouraged to join in with our conversation, much to my regret. Typically she soon monopolised the conversation and actively ignored my attempts to steer it away from her. It was like trying plot a course away from a whirlpool or the event horizon of a black hole.

However, as we were nearing the next station my companion asked a fatal question, dashing my hopes forever. It is doubtful that anything could ever have come from this chance encounter anyway but all the time there is doubt there is also the capacity for hope.

The question was innocent enough; however, the answer was, for me, an equivalent of Icarus’ descent after flying too close to the sun –my hope was dashed against the train tracks. The light died in my eyes at that point and I scarcely acknowledged her leaving although I did see, with scorn and contempt, the hug that she gave my companion. I half-heartedly waved back as we passed her on our departure and as she disappeared from view all that I was left with was my own unanswered question.

Written in the stars

“If he leans and nods when he sings Teo Torriatte then I know that he knows.” That was my life for too many years; I always knew that it was meant to be and in that moment I knew that he felt it too.  It was written in the stars, just he said in his songs.

I was to be your Fairy Queen and  when I saw you that first night at the Rainbow, I knew that you knew it too. You hid yourself behind the showman’s façade even then; the disguise almost perfect but I saw you for who you really were. And I could see that you knew that; you saw me that night, looked into my eyes and I felt that electricity pass between us. You took a step back, and I saw it register on the other members of the band, it was so powerful; that night changed both our lives. It was a split second moment and could so easily have been misconstrued but I could see it for what it really was. We were linked; star crossed lovers in a world that would never understand.

Of course, there was no way that you could let the world know about us, but you made it clear how you really felt in your songs. There were often allusions to things that only we would know about, even when they were written by other people, it was the way that you sang it; the emphasis that you placed on certain words.

I knew that you had been in love and had been hurt so deeply, you made it plain when you sang “Love of my life”. Had it not been for that night you might well have locked yourself away; never allowed yourself to love again. But I could tell that you felt the same way as me when I listened to you singing “You take my breath away”, the first song that you wrote after that night. If only you knew how my heart soared upon hearing those lyrics for the first time. The love was almost spiritual, and I felt exactly the same.

In those early months that was enough for me, no one even came close, but it became harder and harder to sustain.  I would see you as often as I could afford and it didn’t matter where I sat you found  me; moved provocatively to me and I would feel like a schoolboy again. My first crush.

But then the inevitable happened, I met someone at the Earls Court concert. In any other time no one would have gotten a look in, but I was so lonely, needed some affection; some tenderness so bad that we saw each other regularly. We even went to your gigs together and I know that hurt; you thought that I was doing this to you out of spite, but I didn’t. Your songs even reflected the way you felt: “My melancholy blues” and “Dreamer’s ball”…

But the relationship didn’t last, he never held me in his sway like you did; and he knew that. He even tried to issue me an ultimatum –him or you. So  I chose the fantasy over the reality.

From then I was in a state of shock, I went on from one night stand to one night stand; and I sometimes wonder whether you sang “Another one bites the dust” to get back at me; you could be so bitchy sometimes… but you regretted even that. “Need your loving tonight” made it clear that you were sorry… but I didn’t care. It certainly didn’t stop me; was I really trying to hurt you that badly? Was that why you wrote “Back chat” to get under my skin?

Had that been the only song on the album I think I would’ve ended it there. I could quite easily have turned my back on you but “Las palabras de amor” melted my reserve and made me realise just how much you did care. “Under pressure” made me realise just what you were up against and how much you really needed me and my support; your life was so tough, my love, you had to endure too much. I wanted to comfort you, to show you that someone else cared and loved you for who you were. Yours was a tortured soul and no one else understood. Songs like “A hard life”, “Made in heaven”, and “Man made paradise” broke me up inside. I felt your pain and I could tell that meant a lot to you; I WAS born to love you, and you felt the same too.

It must have been then that you found out the awful truth; of course you couldn’t let on, you certainly weren’t going to tell me what was going on, but I could tell that something had changed. Your songs got darker, more poignant. The way you sang “Who wants to live forever”, it was as if you were coming to grips with your own mortality the only way you knew how.

I saw you at Live Aid, saw you at Wembley; never knowing that it would be the last time for that magic to happen. Then everything when quiet for years; I trawled the newspapers, the TV, for a sight of you; discounting all of the tabloid back-stabbing, but I resolved myself that I would stay strong for you; still send you my love and it paid off: your affirmations in “The miracle” made everything worthwhile.

But I didn’t want to face the fact that there was anything wrong; even though it was apparent in the music video’s. You were looking so haggard, my love, its painful to watch them now; but I couldn’t accept it then. By the time Innuendo was released I knew that it was too late and the dichotomous nature of “I can’t live with you” summed it up perfectly; I knew that our love could never be, at least in this lifetime. You knew that too, and in a way you were telling me not to give up hope. The words to “Bijou” were like a parting gift to me; gave me so much to live for.

I still can not believe that twenty years have passed … that you have been gone from my life for that amount of time. My heart broke that morning I found out and realised that the world had lost such a gifted soul, and I had lost my truth. When my brother died I could not find it in myself to cry, yet for you I wept the whole day, I was inconsolable. It felt as if my whole world would break in two. Never had I been so close to ending it. The only thing that stopped me was your final words on the “Show must go on”; and when they realised the video to “These are the days of our lives” I was finally able to see you say the words in death that I had waited a lifetime to witness: “I love you”.

I love you too, Freddie; and I will go on loving you until we meet again for we truly are destined to spend the rest of our lives together. 

The Solace Of The Trees

We prefer the winter months; the bleakness; the despair, it’s as if God bleached the colour from the world.

The family has lived by the railway tracks for forty years now and rather than see it as a distraction we have learned to incorporate it into our lives and the trains are now part of the weft of our routine. There is something precise and methodical about living by a railway line; the cold precision of the wheels on the tracks, it has an almost soporific effect, it seems to heighten the feelings of helplessness and alienation that we have grown to love.

On the other side of the tracks stands a wood, bereft of leaves and colour this time of year. I have often found that Silver Birches and Beech trees become ghosts in the winter, their wraith-like appearance frozen in fear or sorrow. I have taken many walks through the woods and have found answers to a great many questions whilst staring at their emancipated forms.

Further on is the older part of the wood; here the trees are ancient, tall and majestic; proud in their suffering, limbs contorted. Some are several hundred years old and have seen much of the world pass by them. Fashions come and go, world wars and births, trauma’s and oh, so many deaths.

People come to pay homage to these sentinels, seek out the solace of the trees. Some have travelled many miles for the answer to that final question and they never leave disappointed. And we have been appointed guardians; pickers of those strange fruit that hang so tantalisingly just out of reach.

We did not seek such an honour, we are far too humble to presume so much, it was bestowed upon my Grandfather on his first walk through the woods as a child. Our family moved here for solace and to find meaning in a world filled with mediocrity, and the world delivered; starting with my Grandfather, it gave us a purpose.

What a sight met his eyes that evening, I can not begin to wonder. I, like my father before me, have grown up humble to the ecstasy. We see no pain or fear in death, just relief; the release that only the acceptance of the end can give.

But for my Grandfathers twelve year self it was awe that captivated him and held him in its sway as the wind gently moved the young lady’s body. There were no signs of force, no mutilation to her fragile beauty, just a pair of well worn steps resting on the trunk (well worn even then; we have since replaced the steps twice, once in my lifetime). My Grandfather still talks of that time, of her timelessness, china-doll innocence –something that he has never seen the likeness of since (and in my more sanguine moments, I wonder whether my Grandmothers countenance bore similarities.)

How long he was captivated by her I will never know, time stands still for the dead, and it was then that he understood why he had been brought to her. It was not solely to hold vigil but to treat her with the reverence she deserved.

Carefully he cut her down; inch by inch, lowered her on to the leafy eiderdown beneath her. He took the rope from around her neck like she was a lost sister and there was not a mark on her body save for the ligature abrasions.    He then ran to the house and returned with a single shovel. Her body was surprisingly light and he carried her yet deeper still. How did he know to start digging? I can only say that from my own experience it felt right. One just knows; when one is in tune with the world then one knows the feelings. One just knows.

He made the hole deep, at least six feet, and it took hours but he took consummate pride in everything he did, ensuring that she was correctly and comfortably laid out –why, she could surely have been sleeping. When the hole had been filled there was no marker left; leaves and loam were carefully laid over the site and there was no way for anyone else to tell who slept there. But he knew, and we know – just as we know that we were not the first to have such a responsibility; just as we will not be the last. It is an honour that is handed down generation to generation.

You may think then it heartless to deny people the chance of finding their loved ones –their son or daughter; husband or wife. But tell me this: had the person wished to be found then would they have chosen such a final resting place? Why would anyone come here to die if they wished to be found or rescued? They come here to die; for final reconciliation, almost as if they were aware that they would be looked after –sometimes to a greater degree after death than they ever were in life.

We do not advertise what we do –I doubt very much that anyone would understand our compunction to do right. Yet how is it that many of these poor souls have left money or gifts for our services? It is true that we seek no payment for what we do and have never thought to rob the dead –for that would be repugnant- but we have found on many victims two bronze pennies in the left hand and two silver pennies in their right. For the bronze pennies it was easy to ascertain the meaning, but why would there be two silver pennies; so tightly held on to, if not as a sign of respect and an understanding of what we endure.

It is a blessing to receive such gifts, we treasure the crossing of each person and we hold all of them in our hearts and minds for they chose us.

I will teach you the ways so that you may understand and revere their passing too, my son. And when it is my time to come I trust that you honour my request and lay me amongst those who will be waiting for me on the other side.

The Burning Question

“I’m not religious, so I don’t believe in an omniscient narrator.”

This was the Tweet that started it all. For Peter it was the distillation of many months of thought and many years of doubt; it was very difficult to find something worth believing in; especially when Christianity was such a no-brainer. It was puerile and banal when he was a teenager (when he flirted with Catholic guilt…it was either that or become a Goth) and now it was crass and offensive. All Christianity offered was an easy alternative to the people who couldn’t figure out the answers themselves. And it had gotten so much more difficult since then; any freedom of thought was looked down upon with a great and spurious disdain.

To be fair, it was actually very difficult to discover one’s own path when faced with the supermarket full of faiths and religions; it was: a conflicting morass of tricksters, illusionists and frauds trying to sell you the ticket to the afterlife of their choosing (but only if you followed their twelve step prescribed and paid for plan). All the secrets of the universe were yours for the taking so as long as you could afford them and apparently there were always expansion packs and expensive add-ons that added years to your life; granted you the keys to illumination and gave you a larger penis provided you could afford them!

Peter had spent so many wasted years traversing these blind alleys of faith healing and mediums. There was a lot of experience and knowledge that he had gleamed from these encounters but not in the way he had expected. He’d learnt all the ways NOT to treat people and realised that none of the so called, shaman’s, wise men, high priestesses or mediums knew more than him; they were just great salesmen, that’s all.

What struck him though was the gullibility of the people around; how much they wanted to believe in something other than themselves often at their own cost (regardless of time, energy and money). It also became apparent that people didn’t want to do any of the hard work themselves. They wanted to be spoon fed the answers continuously in small, bite-sized digestible morsels, like baby food.  Religion made it easy; the indoctrination started at such an early age when the mind was malleable and the images and brainwashing could stay a lifetime.

Peter, a biblical name itself, loathed Christianity with a passion, but despite being so staunchly against it still found himself immersed in the archetypal imagery associated with it; it was all around. That wasn’t to say that there weren’t ‘good Christians’, but it wasn’t the religion that made them; they would have been genuine people regardless of the trappings. Christianity provided a crutch for people.

It was through reading about Joseph Campbell that he realised that it was the story that was so important; finding one’s own story away from the quagmire of the shifting identity that society tried to impose. ‘Be true to yourself’ seemed to be the creed that many Eastern philosophies espoused, or so it seemed to Peter, and that the key to leading an enlightened life was finding out what worked for you and you alone. The answers were out there for you to find, but you had to make the effort –like panning for gold.

Peter understood that the true message of alchemy had nothing to do with turning crap into gold but refining one’s self from the base material that other people gave you into the true spirit. Guilt had nothing to do with it! He knew that we all hold the spark of divinity but the aim of the game was in realising it.

“Go from misconceptualising to mythconceptualising.” Read his second tweet the following day and by this time his circle of followers had doubled to almost seventy! Word had spread fast.

What prompted his move from passive realisation to actualisation was the most trivial of confrontations in his local MacDonalds. As usual, inefficiency ruled and, despite the improved assembly line approach to burger building, there were longer queues and no real demarcation as to where one queue started.

Peter had joined one such raggedy queue and they were all covering two tills; both as ineffectual as the other; yet there were no grumblings and most people seemed content to exist in this limbo. However, there was one lady who took exception and barged across to get to the front of the queue much to the chagrin of the others.

“Don’t they feed you in Ethiopia?” was her killer retort when Peter asked her politely to get to the end of the queue. She then launched into a torrent of abuse which got her ejected from the store in the end. Peter couldn’t help but notice the small crucifix hanging from her neck and wondered whether that had anything to do with her arrogance; probably not as she seemed to be the type of crass and ignorant harridan that was currently in vogue. 

What was worse: there seemed to be more and more of that particular kind of unenlightened, selfish person around. And as religion offered no real alternatives when it came to finding a real path through the morass of life, Peter realised that it was down to him to offer at least his view of things; people could then make up their own mind. He was not going to let that woman and her type have the last say.

He wanted to start small he wasn’t going to start a religion like L. Ron Hubbard so it dawned on him that the MeetUp groups would offer him the best opportunities. This was not going to be “The Peter Cawl show”, it would be an opportunity to discuss alternatives and new ways of living. He wasn’t going to run it per se; a subject would be picked each week to discuss and it would be a mutual learning experience. There was no way that he would accept anyone who had a strong faith; he wasn’t interested in being converted or converting anyone himself. (this would actually be a test for himself as well for he had strong views so it would be important for him not to dominate and argue his points across). An open mind would be the main criteria and egos were to be left at the door. It was his group and he would be more than happy to stop anyone from joining who tried to break those rules.

He’d been a member of local MeetUp groups for about a year and had floated his ideas for his new venture with people he perceived had a like mind, and was pleasantly surprised by the interest it was stirring. The first meeting was on Monday in a local pub; he didn’t want many people there: too large a group would be counter-productive. He didn’t have all the answers and actually said so on his MeetUp advert. Too many people would have made the conversation unwieldy, not to mention difficult to host in a pub.

The eleven spaces filled up instantly and twenty people actually turned up. The pub landlord was overjoyed because it was a quiet night and actually gave out a few nibbles. The topic that night was “what does it mean to be Spiritual?”; debate was lively and enlightened. There was a nice mix of people, young and old, male and female with a mix of ethnic backgrounds as well; all came with open minds and hearts.

All agreed that the journey was key and no faith or religion had the answers; it was up to the individual to decide what worked for them. All left with much reading and research; and plenty of soul searching to do and all really wanted to come back which made Peter feel he’d made the right decision.

All? Actually no; at the end of that first night there was one man sitting alone at the far corner of the table with a dour expression; thin lipped, tight gazed. He eyed Peter with contempt and said nothing, just got up and walked out of the pub. Peter wondered whether he’d picked the wrong meet-up group by mistake, and when he checked the list of attendees at home he was sure of it. It was doubtful that the guy would return.

The feedback from the rest of the group was resoundingly positive; people were pleased that there was no hard sell, they had found a place to explore their own beliefs and ideas without being ridiculed. Yes, there was laughter, but none of it was personal.

Peter had left it open for people to pick what they wanted to talk about for the next meeting. Unsurprisingly, religion was touted by many but Peter thought it best to let the group bed in before they moved on to such a contentious issue; passions could run high and it would be better for people to know each other before letting off such steam.

He suggested UFO’s instead which had many people readily agreeing. This was a subject that he had looked into over the years and knew that there were many angles to cover from the Jungian perspective to the modern equivalent of Fairies. Again, the evening flowed and everyone joined in with their own interpretations; some had their own first-hand experience of lights in the sky and others were die-hard X-Files fans.

It was the sharp intake of breath that startled Peter as he walked home that night.

“Why do you insist on doing this?” The voice was hard, fragile; the body it belonged to was as well –thin and tall, short cropped hair. But the eyes still had a fevered look, unblinking. This was the look of a fanatic and Peter knew that he had to tread very carefully now.

“I’m not insisting on anything; people come to the group of their own free will –it’s a choice.”

“You’re leading these people astray; they’re weak. You should not be doing this.”

“I’m sorry you don’t agree with what I’m doing, but you don’t have to come to the group. That is your choice. I’m not hurting anyone.”

“That remains to be seen.” The man replied and walked past him into the darkness.

Two weeks passed by and Peter had almost forgotten the strange man and his piercing eyes. Until…

“You think you’re so clever don’t you?” It was the fourth week and Peter had hit his stride; people were really beginning to open up now and explore their own path; talk about their own experiences, whether it was about the Tarot or the I-Ching, or fairies and angels.

The voice took him by surprise; it was late and the group discussion had stretched out to three hours and the pub was close to closing. The landlord was a convert himself now and actually joined in with the debates. The man was sitting at the other end of the bar, and by the amount of empty glasses, he’d been sitting there since the beginning.

“You should have joined us.” Peter replied.

“Even though you don’t want any religious zealots to join you?” It was obvious that he’d seen the postings on MeetUp and read between the lines. “Answer my question –you think you’re clever, don’t you?”

“No… not at all. What makes you think that?”

“The answers are all there; right in front of you, yet you ignore it all. You blaspheme with every thought, action and speech. Why?”

“Quite the opposite… We don’t have the answers and between us we’re helping each other find the clues to what out paths might be.” Peter knew that he had to be careful. He was pumped up with the intellectual equivalent of adrenaline but oh, so tired. He wanted this person to go and leave him alone, but equally he knew that this was a powderkeg; all it would take was one spark.

“But the answers are right there in front of you, yet all you do is ridicule; why?”

“For you there are answers, which is great… but that doesn’t work for us. It’s not the same. Look; what’s your name?”

“Isaiah.” Figures, thought Paul.

“Look Isaiah, come to the group if you want. Put your side of the story if it makes you feel better. Explain to us why you feel.. what it is that you feel and we will listen. It has to be better than sitting on the side-lines like you do.

“Why, so you can all have your fun and laugh? It’s always easier to mock what you don’t understand.”

“That’s it –we don’t understand. And if you do, then you owe it to us to explain.” Isaiah continued staring through him. “Well, it’s your choice. I’ve given you a genuine offer; come and state your piece and we’ll listen; otherwise I’m going to have to ask you to stop stalking us.”

“I’m not.”

“Well… stalking me then. It’s very disconcerting and I could do without it. Why do you do it?”

“You know why.” It was obvious that Isaiah was in no mood to listen. It was either retreat or confrontation, so Peter chose the latter. He walked home without event yet he was constantly aware he was being followed; every time he turned around, however, there was nobody there –except God, he thought and chuckled.

His group had swelled to forty people now and the pub landlord had graciously allowed them to use the upstairs function room for the evening. Each evening went by without a hitch right up until closing time and then there would be Isaiah waiting at the bar; eyes piercing as everyone walked out. This was an accident waiting to happen but there would be no winners if Peter confronted him, so he decided to move the venue to a new location.

Everyone agreed and even chipped in so they could afford to rent out a village hall for a couple of hours a week. There were more than enough people to cover the costs and allow for tea and biscuits as well. Yet at the end of the first evening at the new venue, there stood Isaiah waiting outside, soaked to the skin from the pouring rain; such an incongruous sight. For the first time, Peter was afraid of him, afraid of what would happen to him if anyone realised what he was doing. Peter walked up to him: “I will meet with you.” Isaiah spoke quietly, just so Peter could hear and then just walked away back into the storm.

Next week the hall was packed to capacity; all wanted to understand; all were there to learn how the other person felt. Peter felt both proud and a little nervous; things were starting to roller-coaster out of his control. He had no idea whether Isaiah would turn up; or what kind of mood he might be in; he didn’t want a riot or a lynching on his hands.

Suddenly the doors opened to Isaiah. At first he just stood there, like a sheriff in a lawless town and Peter thought he was holding a cheap bottle of gin or vodka wrapped in newspaper –not the greatest of start's. As he strode closer it became obvious what he was carrying, but it was too late to do anything about it.

The match was struck, the soaked rag lit and with a horrifying scream Isaiah threw the bottle; smashing it at Peters feet, soaking him with flaming hatred. Isaiah stood there, staring at the figure now engulfed in fire, eyes wide with disbelief. The whole congregation drew breath as one at the sight that now met their eyes. Isaiah fell to his knees and began rocking back and forth, the same words echoing the thoughts of those around him.

“Why won’t he burn? Why won’t he burn? Why won’t he burn?”

Peter helplessly saw the fear awash in everyone’s eyes, looked to his hands and wept.