Of the Boy

The waves came up and down the beach, foaming, crashing on that spit of sand. Air saturated with sea salt. After the storm now. No rain or thunder now. After the storm now, hair strewn in the water, jumper damp and heavy. Covered in cockles. Sea weed in his hair. The waves came up and down again, rubbish and planks cresting the waves. Green bottles surfed. The waves came up and up and down again. Stubbled. Sand amongst his hair, hand on beach and hand on seabed. He moaned. His eyes opened, slow, and he heard gulls. The waves came up and down again. Crashed over his head, sprayed spittle. He got up, making hand prints in the damp sand. He Looked to sea, nothing there, nothing there but the wind, howling across the waves, catching sea spray, gulls drifting in it, nothing there but the wind.

Then he looked up at the lighthouse. Stripes of red and stripes of white, ivy coils across it, snaking like fishnets, house of terracotta, soft steaming chimneys, attached by criss crossing wood and nails eroded to rust. It perched upon that blighted isle, cresting out of the waves on some rock of damnation. And by the gate, just built to swing in the sea breeze, stood a man smoking from a pipe. He took it out to speak.

“Are you the only one?” and the man, damp and washed up simply nodded.

Luggage and boxed bottles, crabs perched amongst dark greens, tapping with crustacean curiosity, mussels clung to wrinkled leather in conchin colonies. The pair hauled everything they could, up that slither of path to the terracotta house. Last of all stood a box of red and of iron, shaped as nymphs amongst nettles, buckles wrought from bronze. The lighthouse keeper went to pick it up and the man ushered him away saying, no, no, I will take this one, this one cannot be dropped.

They spoke in the kitchen. The lighthouse keeper had found him dry clothes and they stood drinking soup from mugs.

“You will have to stay.”

“I could call someone, do you have a phone?” The lighthouse keeper shook his head, “no telegraph or anything?” his head continued to shake, he says:

“Only post. A postman comes once a week. You will have to stay till he comes.”

“Where can I stay? Where can I work?”

“You could sleep here, but there is more room in the cellar, the cellar is empty, if you wouldn’t mind it?”

“Excellent. You are kind. I will take the cellar,” he looked over at the boxes and bags, covered in sand, some still dripping, and then back at the man “I didn’t catch your name.”

“It’s Robert. Robert Pike.”

“Thomas Simmons, pleased to meet you,” he held out a hand and smiled, white teeth between pale lips, they shook. Thomas looked around at the shelves of the small kitchen. He frowned, inclining his head.

“Do you live alone?”

“Yes.”

“There is no one else?”

“No one.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“No, no. I am past that.”

“I would get lonely, I hate being alone.”

“It is alright.”

“I will endorse you for this,” Robert held up a hand in protest.

“No, please don’t, I have enough money.”

“Not as much as you deserve,” Thomas finished the soup and placed it on the side, he looked at the empty cup, then up at Robert, “Are you sure?” Robert was nodding, Thomas smiled, “Thank you,” he said and took the damp and sand prickled bags to the cellar.

Robert’s day passed as all his days passed, in that destined solitude that only the lovers of the lost suffer. No music played. Empty house wallowing in empty cacophonies, brass and strings silenced forever. Echoes missing. Only the sea, only the sea to hear, only the sea. In the basement bangs and iron outcries. Gone after an hour. He read. Lost in adventures far away, figures of fiction, experiencing façade feelings unfindable. Time dripped away and evening came. He lit the beacon and made dinner, white meat doused in gravy, vegetables of dark green. Him and Thomas sat opposite each other over a small table, candles flickered and the bookcases of ever thumbed volumes danced in shadow.

“Not a chime or a bell in this house, there are no voices, do you always live like this?” Robert looked up from his sawing, across the dancing flames, pirouetting on top of wax podiums. He could see the reclined figure of Thomas, swilling red wine in his wine glass.

“Yes.” Robert went back to his sawing.

“In silence?” Robert stopped again.

“Yes, in silence.”

“You have a piano, do you not play?”

“No, I,” he looked at his plate, glancing up at Thomas once, flashing him a sombre smile. “I used to, I can’t though, she used to to.” Thomas said he was sorry and waited, Robert sawed, knife grating on china now, then Thomas said:

“What do you do?” this time Robert didn’t look up.

“I read, mostly, sometimes I watch the sea.”

“The sea?” Robert placed the knife and fork down on either side of the plate.

“The sea never changes.”

“Do you not want to, well, I don’t know, do you not wish to make an impact, some art, some pock mark on human existence, surely you don’t want to just fade out like this, barely known, just part of the cycle. Do you not want some pock mark you can call yours?”

Robert looked off at the books for a long time.

“No, I see no point to it.”

“No point?”

“Yes, why would I want to create?” He drank from his wine, so long since he’d last drunk, he winced at the bite of it.

“Recognition,” Thomas said.

“Look at how I live, do I live like a man wanting recognition.”

“Still. I’d want something.”

“No, I do not wish to create or change or alter, the world is balanced, the silence is balanced, why risk imbalance?”

“The world may be better for it.”

“What do I care of the world, what do I care of people, my life is lived, I head only towards the grave,” he stood up then, “I am sorry, I will tend to the beacon, I will leave you in peace,” and he left.

He paced about the beacon, the crackling and the heat all about him, waves and waves and waves outstretched before him. He sighed and sat. On the edge, legs dangling, pendulous, he sat till he was calm.

Always the worst, moonlight leaking in through the bedroom window. Blowing out the candles, one by one, as sleep crept, always the worst. Even the gulls silent. He sat on the bed and undressed. He lay. Always the worst. Nothing but him and the stars and her and her and her and the waves coming up and down the beach, up and down the beach, up and down the beach. Beset with petals of red and white, rolling up and down the beach, painting it with petals till the tide line’s red, no fury, as if beset by solemnity, no fury to the waves. White dress clung to her as she slept, waves coming up and down again. Even the gulls silent. Sleep forever more. Only the sound of water, draped over sand. The waves came up and down again, dress clinging like some second skin of cold cold white. Drifted in the waves. Eyes closed, arms crossed. Roses of darkest red and thorns of deepest green roven across her. Hair on the waves. Each strand separate. Damp by the neck, auburn rolled on the waves, the raft rocked, wrist bound, rocked on the waves. And him, always knelt on the sea bed, soaked to the waist, always knelt on the sea bed, still the dampness, not there now, still the waves, the feel of the waves. Not there now.

He awakened. Eyes opened in a passive eruption from that darkness. Loneliness tugged like a knife in his guts. He wiped sleep from his eyes and rolled over. Groping in that space where she used to lay, cold and undisturbed, no crinkles in the bed sheet, no hazy awakening of happiness, no post sleep smile. A seagull, head cocked, watched from the windowsill. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his feet. Purple toes. Always the feel of the waves, nothing else but the waves. He wandered into the kitchen, Thomas was pouring out water.

“Morning,” Thomas said.

“Morning,” Robert said and looked out to sea. The pair stood in silence on chequered kitchen tiles.

“Did you sleep well?” Thomas said. Robert fiddled with the draw. He took his time replying.

“Yes,” Robert said.

“What did you dream about?” auburn rolling on the waves, Robert looked up, he was still waking, he said:

“I never remember my dreams.” beset with petals of red and white.

“I remember mine, of deepest green roven across her, mine was about a circus, there were clowns, and elephants standing one legged, and big tops, three like an alligator, there was pandemonium and a fire and then it changed and that is all I remember.” Robert found a glass and poured water into it.

“Sounds like a good dream,” Robert said.

“It was,” Thomas, smiled, nodded, drank from the water, “do you know there is a psychologist who believes our dreams mean things?”

“Things?”

“They give us an insight into how we feel,” Robert was silent. He held the bridge of his nose in thumb and forefinger, he frowned.

“I am sorry about last night,” Robert said. Thomas comes up to him and pats him on the back.

“It’s fine, mate, it’s fine,” he smiled and left Robert in the kitchen. Placing his cup in the sink as he went he returned to the cellar, his dressing gown is red.

Half two and the rain began. Soft caress at first, ringlets on the still ocean, ever expanding circles. Building to a tempest. Till the ocean danced. Till lightning leapt and thunder sang. Every wave dimpled and riveted. It rose and rose, muttered fury in the billowing of those black clouds. Every window pane streaked with ever flowing waterfalls. The garden was churned to mud, puddles carved into it’s surface, their waters bubbling, leaping in eruptions and geysers aqueous, streams, like tears of the earth eddied and banked to sea. Thomas watched the washing line, caught in forlorn orbit, like some haggard and truncated oak perched on brittle roots subject to the frenzied passion of the storm. He swilled the wine and sat down opposite Robert.

“Will the postman be able to make it in this?” Thomas said. Robert looked up from the carrots and the white meat, looked at the window for an instant and said:

“Yes,” Thomas nodded and smiled. He placed the red wine down on the table.

“I realise, I haven’t told you what I do in your cellar. And I’m sure you have been wondering.”

“I see that it is your business,” Robert finished, taking the last of the white meat, “I respect that what is yours.” Robert spoke whilst chewing.

“You are a humble man, I am however a man of science.” Robert looked up and placed his knife and fork on the plate.

“I am a biologist. I worked in London.”

“Yet, you were on a ship.”

“Yes, I was,” he drank from the wine, Robert’s glass was left empty, left untouched, “I found this in one of the crates,” he said looking into the redness, “Would you like some wine?” he tipped the glass towards Robert as if it would transfer via voluntary osmosis, Robert dismissed it with a hand gesture. Thomas smiled, he continued:

“Yes the boat. The boat was an idea wrought from misfortune and frustration,” he gulped down the last of the wine, half a glass, he began filling it back up again, till the wine crested on the rim and he leant the bottle toward Robert again, “you sure?” Robert nodded. Thomas continued.

“You see I needed to test something, something…” he wound his hand round an invisible loom, winding the word to his lips, “something…different.” he drank and then smiled a boozy smile. Thomas continued.

“You see, I was upon the cusp of success. Something that could change the world. Change the world if the world wasn’t so damn resistant to it,” and he stooped to the glass and lapped up the wine like a cat, “But alas, such is the revolutionist’s plight. You see, I realised I needed money, I needed backing so what do I do, I spend money on parties, I invite woman and men with similar mindsets, with money, governors, dukes, barons and baronesses. Yet still my idea is frowned upon. Advancement is frowned upon. People are hostile to it.” Something like wind played on the walls and thumps echoed.

“Soon, I myself am frowned upon, loathed even, for I can see what they cannot, laws are passed against me, I am run out of London. Run out for a thesis, a movement, a scientific renaissance. Men with sticks and fire come to my house and burn it to the ground. I run. Escape to the sewers, to the countryside.” The thumps continued, louder, louder, on the door frame of the room.

“And now, I gather up materials, I beg, I borrow, I steal. And with what pennies I can procure, with the pittance my bank allows me, me the outlaw, me the thief, me the genius,” louder, louder they called, “I build a ship, ramshackle, built from rust and loose cedar wood. I sail the ocean, for forty days and forty nights. I work. Work upon the ocean, driftwood on the current, nothing but rum and oranges and stale bread to eat. And it works. My plans come to fruition. I am amazed at first at it. I am appalled at it. I am enthralled by it. I take it apart and put it in the box, the box of iron and of red and I prepare for London,” louder louder they sung, “Then this storm, a storm like this one, sent by fate himself to dash me upon these rocks, comes and wrecks me, stealing everything from me, everything I worked for left splintered and wrecked across your shore,” louder, louder, they wailed, “Upon that ship was a single photo, a possession I loved, the only thing I treasured from the land. A frame of sandalwood,” and louder, till the door rattled in it’s hinges, some incessant force trapped behind it, “and it was a picture of my beau, the only woman I have ever loved. All the clichés define her. Hair like black silk and eyes like diamonds. A voice like music, she swallowed her h’s. A laugh like sugar, it twinkled in the breeze. She smiled in the picture. Her smile was clicheless.”

Robert looked at the door, rattling, the knob oscillating, he spoke:

“What’s behind the door?” Thomas turned and looked at the door.

“I think that’s my son,” he said.

Thomas went and unlocked the door. And like clockwork it came.

And like clockwork it came, shambling across the patterns of the carpet, limping over stitched roses purple and embroided nettles blue, arms outstretched and head bound in bandages, like clockwork it came. Dressed in cardigan of grey, shirt of white, tie tied in Windsor knot, socks shown beneath corduroy trousers. Like clockwork it came. Head bound in bandages. Shambling and limping, blood marks on the bandages, blood roses where eyes should be, red tear tracts to the jawline. Like clockwork it came. Head bound in bandages. Thomas took it by the hand, leading it, it’s left arm outstretched, padding along the table legs, finding the chair. It squirmed onto it, legs paddling. It sat. Sat and played with the knifes and the forks.

“Hello,” said Robert to the boy.

“He cannot speak,” Thomas played with the boy’s caramel hair as the boy fiddled with knifes and forks, forks and knifes switched and switched again. “He cannot hear. Cannot do either till he is better.”

“Why, what has happened to him?” the boy found the plate and lead his hands around it till they touched.

“He was injured in the ship wreck,” the boy put the knife and fork on the plate and spun them.

“What’s his name?”

“Joseph, his name is Joseph Simmons,” the boy giggled when the fork struck his fingers.

“You could have told me, I would not have minded.” the boy picked up the knife and fork and made floating actions.

“It did not appear important. I did not want to cause more trouble than I already have.”

“It’s your son.”

“I was distressed,” the boy brought the knife and fork together and they chimed. “I was worried about him. My son, I was worried about my son,” he looked at the boy who was now bringing the knife and fork together over and over. Robert looked at the boy and shook away the troubles with a hand gesture.

“It’s fine, he can go where he wishes.”

“I wanted to ask you something,” over and over, chiming, over and over.

“What?” over and over.

“It’s about the piano,” laughing now, over and over , chiming and laughing, over and over.

“Yes,” over and over.

“I know this is asking a bit much, but, but could you do something for me,” over and over and over.

“Yes,” the chiming and the laughing.

“Joseph, stop that, it’s distracting,” Thomas said and took the knife and fork and dropped them on the floor. He turned to Robert and shifted his hair out of his eye.

“Could you teach him to play? When he can hear. Could you teach him? He is so bored down stairs.”

“Yes, I will teach him.”

“Thank you, your kindness knows no bounds. Now, Thomas and me must go to bed,” And he looked at the boy and ushered silent words upon deaf ears: “Because that’s why your up here, isn’t it?” The head bound in bandages ignored him, Thomas looked at the boy for a long time before he turned to Robert and held up a hand in farewell, “I will see you tomorrow.” And Thomas stood up and took the boy’s hand and lead him, stumbling over the carpet, away.

Night, and dreams whistled in the wind. He heard waves come up and down the beach. Moonlight danced across the sea and dreams of her haunted the starless night. Dreams of flowers and dreams of her. Of waves coming up and down the beach. Of white lilies and red roses. He lay alone, hand in tight fist beside his eyes, as if they could hold the sadness, hold what was left of her. Alone in deeper darkness. Eyes clamped shut in despair, clamped shut till the skin creases. Hopelessness. Alone against the tide of fate, trapped in deeper darkness. White lilies and red roses. Hopeless to change the ebb and flow of fortune, waves came up and down the beach, cold guesswork crashed against him, alone in deeper darkness, chanting questions answer less, eyes clamped shut in deeper darkness, saying, why? why? no answer. Never an answer. Hopelessness. No answer. Memories pure as air, no answer. White lilies and red roses. Eyes clamped shut in despair, alone in deeper darkness. Forlorn, he found photos of her, locked away in the third draw down, key hidden under the floorboards. Still the crash of waves, still the caress of sea breeze. He shuffled through the smiles and the sunlight. White lilies and red roses. Old forests and remembered retreats. Sat in bedsheets, cold passenger of time dragged second by second away, unable to resist, sat and looked, unable to fight, unable to forget, sat and looked at the ocean.

“I dreamed of circuses again,” Robert opened his eyes and looked up from the coffee, bubbles still swirling where it was freshly stirred. That burnt toast smell. That jam smell. That crunch as Thomas ate. The sun so bright in the window it made Robert squint.

“Thank you,” Robert said and drank. “Same dream?”

“Yes, but I was ringmaster. There was pandemonium. But I was ringmaster.”

“What would the psychologist say about it?” Robert sat back and wiped his eyes. Still sleepy. Always sleepy.

“Something about showmanship,” Thomas said. There was toast on the table and Robert took a piece, smeared butter on it, little flicks of black burntness sprung from under the knife. The knife made raking sounds. Robert looked up from his workmanship, he spoke:

“And, are you a showman?” Thomas looked out to sea. There was silence for a long time. The question seemed to register, as if it was filtered through some gluttonous medium. Thomas’ eyes drifted back to Robert.

Thomas said: “The boy is ready.”

Thomas looked down at his right hand, perched on the white shirted shoulder of the boy. The bandages were gone. Only the bob of bowl cut visible above the table. Robert sat up. The bob stopped just before the eyebrows, stains of black above blue eyes, The boy fiddled with the blue and white of his tie, a look of ignorance and innocence on his face as if every new breath was a discovery. He had freckles. They began with three blind mice.

Evening, and the boy’s hands were wrapped in bandage now, thin lines of purple and pink at the wrist, Thomas ruffled the boy’s hair as they ate. The boy stayed silent. Expressionless.

“How did he hurt his hands?” Robert said. Memories of him and her, of music, fingers dancing like light across water, of smiles shared, him and her, simple togetherness, her teeth so white between pink lips, sunlight like fire on her auburn.

“He fell down the stairs.” said Thomas. The boy had stood there just watching as Robert cleared off the dust and the cobwebs, sending grape sized spiders scuttling. He opened the lid and ran his hand over the keys, holding back the memories like a dam. He’d had to pick the boy up and place him on the seat. The boy was nervous at first, not wanting to touch the keys, jumping at every jaunty note. He started slow, copying, then they’d began to play together, Thomas had been watching and when he spoke, just, that sounds good, the boy jolted and stopped.

“They weren’t broken were they?” said Robert. Thomas stood over the piano, leaning on the matt black, sipping from hot tea, the boy missing notes, and Thomas saying, chanting, why does he miss?

“There is nothing broke.” then the first hit had come, knocking the boy from the seat, as if it was the boy’s fault, as if he should know better, Thomas standing there, imperator, cracking his knuckles, the tea sat on the matt black, and the boy, scrambling, feet scuffing the carpet as Thomas advanced, Robert saying, it’s his hands, just his hands, he’ll change, he’ll change, he has thick hands, he’ll change, and Thomas shot a look that spoke of madness, turning and picking up the boy’s collar and the boy torn across the room to the basement.

“It’s just his hands.”

“I know it.”

“He’ll change.”

“Are you suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing?”

“No.”

“You are ignorant,” and he left Robert alone in the silence.

Robert stood by the beacon, guiding ships away from his blighted isle. Flames lapped and crackled in the wind. Sparks flowed like fire flies from their tips. Smell of burnt wood, smell of billowing black smoke. No gulls called. Only the sound of the waves, draped over sand and shingle. All alone in his overcoat. Nothing but the waves. Alone with the moon, licks of cloud across it. Always the waves. Alone with his thoughts, thoughts of the boy, of the pink and purple at his wrist. Fell down the stairs? He looked down at his garden, grass tickled teal by the moonlight, at the slide and the empty swings, creaking as the wind played. No children. Fell down the stairs? At the washing line, at the white picket fence, a little ring around his little empire. And at the sun decks, memories of holding hands in the sunshine, of smiles, of polo shirts and lemonade, two for just one.

The grass spent all it’s days leaping towards the sun. It Caressed the underside of the decaying swings, drowning the playground in ever shifting strands, red rust and picket fences flooded. Tall enough for the boy to populate with unseen imaginings, wondrous monsters, sickly heroes, Indians and lions and sabre tooth tigers, poisonous frogs and polar bears, dragons with forty teeth and witches with none, all made from nothing, nothing at all. Thomas had been there since the blood red dawn, sapphire clouds sullen, billowing gulls black. Running his hand through the grass, watching the boy whoop and shout. The grass tickled. He had his knees tucked to his chest, grasping them, one-handed – two-handed, as if some unseen force could steal them from him. Robert found him at midday.

Robert sat on the other sun deck. Thomas held his jacket tight against the cold. Thomas didn’t look up when he spoke, just nodded towards the sea, “I think that’s where London is,” and seemed to stare vacantly towards the sea, stretching on and on, waves white tipped. Spittle sprays, carried to them on the wind. Rolling on and on. Sunlight gasped in rays of purest white.

“I want to be back there.”

“How long have you been outside?” Thomas looked at him, his eyes ringed in red and red themselves, tear marks on his cheeks, he pointed at the boy. His hair wild in the wind. His knuckles purple and his hand trembled as he ran it through his hair, he pointed to the boy.

“Since the boy asked to come out. He tugged on my arm till I came,” the boy was running around like a bird, giggling as he made bird noises. Robert watched. Thomas went back to watching the sea, Robert had not the heart to tell him London was behind them.

“The sea never changes,” Thomas said.

“No. It doesn’t,” Robert played idly with a blade of grass. “I like it. It’s constant. I miss constants.”

“No,” the boy was a lion now, stomping in the mud, “I hate it,” Thomas said, “I feel so lonely.” He looked at Robert his eyes so bloodshot, so red and so bloodshot. “So isolated, the sea makes me feel like a speck, no one listens to me, no one cares, I just wanted to be adored.”

“You have a son.” Robert said. Thomas shook his head, a tear plunged into the grassy depths.

“He cannot speak, I want to be adored and I cannot make him speak.”

“You have yourself.”

“He’s terrible company.” The pair sat in silence.

Thomas ran his hand through the grass again, “How do you do it? How do you sit here in all your solitude and not feel meaningless?” Robert didn’t answer.

“How long till I can go home?” Thomas said, “I need to show the world what I have done.” Robert looked at the boy, seeming to dig and uncover something. He looked at Thomas.

“Tomorrow, you go tomorrow.” The boy came, holding a kite of orange. His hands so white and so crisp against the canvas, no freckles any more, the tail trailing across the sea of grass, no freckles any more, serpentine in the wind. Thomas got up and took the kite and Robert watched the boy’s hands, no freckles any more. He sat waiting till the pair played by the picket fence.

Echoes of the world changing, whisperings of rocks shifting over one another, as Robert made his way into the bowels of the Earth. Dripping stalagmites and creaking book shelves. He pawed about for a candle and found none. Trapped in deeper darkness. Beset with white lilies and red roses. He could feel the paving slabs, the cold and the damp seeping through his socks. The Earth ground around him. He pried free a candle, jammed in a brazen holder. He lit it.

The room erupted into light and shadow, puddles reflected him, the shadows danced. He looked around, saw the unmade bed, saw the makeshift bed for the boy. The earth seemed to whisper as he plunged into deeper darkness. Beset with lilies and red roses. Deeper now, bookshelves now. They towered, volumes of leather cracked and creased, smell of damp pages, smell of the Earth, of water on rocks, bookshelves of oak and pine, adorned with Iron candle holders shaped like lions and cold candles frozen mid melt, statuesque, so long since last lit. She was here last. Beset with white lilies and red roses. He moved onwards, creeping past memories in the cracks and the corners. Expeditions of knowledge. Inquisition making them delve into the depths. Arguments solved and agreements met. He stumbled upon Thomas’ workbench and stood indecisive.

It stood like Cereberus. Made of iron and of red, carved nymphs danced across it’s surface. Bronze clasps held its secrets. Knifes and other instruments sat around, all coated with the same substance, bloodied fingerprints on their handles. The desk stained with blood. He listened. Nothing, nothing but the sound of drips dropping and the ever grinding Earth. He clawed in another breath and unlocked the thing.

They sat like broken puzzle pieces, all atop one another, torn up and laid about, young parts, sullen skin, a head with eyes missing, fingers with fingernails missing, arms with hands missing, all bloodied and all taken apart, organs, intestines strewn. All the faces so shocked. Bits tailored to whatever need. Pale skin, shrunken, tight across the bones. Packed in like travelling goods. Everything rotten, decayed or bloated. All the faces so shocked. Skin so pale. He closed the lid, iron upon iron echoed, he sat. His hands trembled. Upon the desk sat a pair of hands covered in freckles, hack marks at the wrist.

Mist cloaked the water. Sound of gulls. The waves crashed and ebbed, black and orginless, bubbling over the leather of Robert’s boots. White sands, washed up bottles. By himself, skimming pebbles into the fog. Purple and brown orbs bounded over that black medium. The surface is broken into ring columns. Columns of four, five this time, three the next. Was it right? Was what he was about to do right? Four rings, opening, crested upon one another. Was it right? Six, pebble popped out of sight, droplets in it’s place. The pieces belong elsewhere, it had no right to be. He picked another pebble, smooth, cold in the misty air. Yet it was. It had no right to be. He threw and managed seven.

“It’s okay.” Robert said. “Hush now, quiet now.” he said. “It’s okay. Quiet now. Quiet now. Hush now.” Man and boy collapsed by the cupboards. By the under sink. Boot squeaks and stifled screams. The boy’s legs kicked, catching on the chequered tiles of the kitchen. Black scuff marks. The boy beat with his fist, slamming the back of his head against the man. Hand across his youthful mouth, stifled screams, thick arm held his throat in place. Robert reached for the razor on the side, pawing on the marble worktop, he grasped it and the boys black pupils watched as the man prepared to cut. Turning the boy’s head till the pale neck shows. The boy pawed at the blade. Cuts opened. His hands are smeared with blood. He pulled his head away, struggling. Pushed the blade away, another cut in the pale palm, pushed the blade away again. Tears now. Moaning now. He bit into the hand clamped at his mouth, Robert drew the blade. Dripping blood smile. He dug in deeper, opening up whatever he can. Still pawing, still pushing. White neck carved. Blood came with every heart beat. Blood squirted and poured. Gushed over his hand. Covered the checkers, fountaining over his hand. The boy gasped now, thrashing with his fists, hands grasped at the blood smile on his neck. Tears on white cheeks. Tears with the blood. Brow furrowed. White neck carved. His feet kicked. His fists pound. They died out, losing power with every heartbeat, he beat at the man till he can no longer. Eyes, red rimmed from tears, roll away, white replaces black pupil, spittle and froth come to his lips, his cheeks are covered in the droplets as he trembled. Robert let the boy slide from him and got up, trying to wipe the blood from him. Too much. The boy lay there trembling. Robert slipped and scrambled to the sinks. The razor slipped and rattled around the basin where cups with spots sat. He can hear the boy trembling, moaning as the last few pints flow from him. Robert looked over his shoulder to see the boy in the blood. Hand in tight fist slowly uncoiled, blooming like a lotus flower. Little lines of claret ran in the rivets between the tiles. He picked up the knife from the sink and washed it, dark deluge, dilute blood orange like blood, seeping away. He turned and steped over the boy, still moaning, still shuddering. He took the stairs two at at time. Only half the deed done. He needed to change, needed to summon the will. Only half the deed done.

A crash and then a drumbeat of feet on stairs, Robert brought the door to, and locked it, jamming a chair under the knob, hands and fists pound against the frame, making it shake, the door knob rattling, Robert pushed his chest of draws against the door and then sat holding it their with his weight.

“What have you done?” Thomas said, “You do not know what you have done. Why the boy? What have you done, my work, what have you done? Open up. Open this door.” The pounding stopped and then a rush of steps echoed and the door shook. “Why? Why? I worked so hard. I worked so hard, I worked so hard, how dare you take this from me? Take that opus, that life work, what gives you the right? What gives anyone the right? Why do you judge me? Why do you judge me?” The sounds of tears and sadness as the fists stopped. One last thud and then silence, sobs of why? why?

“We humans crave each other so much. So afraid to be alone, to be rejected. We cannot face the notion of hate, of despisement, we push and force ourselves on each other. We are interconnected yet so alone. And then you, you take from me, my boy, my child. I hate you. My one chance to be loved and you take it from me. Humans hate me, do you hear me? Humans hate me.”

Fists and hands flew at the door again. He stopped and sobbed.

“I am the one to make the first move, I grow so tired of this. I wait and I wait. No one wishes to speak to me. No one cares. I am repulsive. I hide nothing and I am repulsive. I try to please you, I try so hard. There is no evil behind this smile. No one returns the favour, no one is there for me, no one wants me there. I beg. No one wants me there. Ever wondered what I think? What I want? What I need? How my day went? Why don’t you care? Why does she find it so hard to care? Why am I having to pour out these emotions? I can’t be the only one like this? I can’t believe your all fine? I can’t believe your all okay? Why aren’t you like this? Why aren’t you worried your the only one? Why are you all tottering away nicely? Why can’t I totter away? Why aren’t you worried that I’m not tottering away? Why aren’t you inviting me to totter along with you? Why? Why? Why? Why do I exist? Why do you exist? Why do any of us exist if we’re so purposeless? I can’t sleep at night. Can she sleep at night? Does she wonder why I can’t sleep at night? I can’t sleep because I wonder whether she’s asleep at night. Does anybody miss me? Does anybody care? I can’t remember the last time someone wanted a conversation with me? I can’t remember the last time anyone cared? I can’t remember the last time someone said my name? I hide this, hide this because else it will drive you all away, hide the demons and the devil within me. She still doesn’t talk to me. Should I just give up? Your still not talking to me. How long have I been here pounded this door. Why can’t I function? Why does no one care? Why does no one say, oh Thomas you look a bit down today? Is something the matter? All I want is someone to wonder whether something is the matter. Why does no one care? You still haven’t talked to me, do I repulse you. Do I make you sick? Is that it? I make you and her and everyone else sick? I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. Is no one else like this? Is no one like this? Why don’t you speak up? Why are you all such idiots? Why does no one care? I hate you all. Do you not know of solitude. What am I? What is the point? She is still here, does she not care, I am here, I’m obviously here for her. I hate you. You know I hate you. Was I ever truly happy. When was I happy last? Why can’t I feel better? Why? Tears now, what’s this, tears now. Tears now, a dislike of myself. Why tears now? Why does no one care? Oh she likes me, your an idiot, she never liked you. I hate you. Open up this door. Open up this door. I hate you.”

He chanted ‘i hate you’ till he grew tired and silence swept like a tide over that blighted isle. Robert sat looking at himself in the mirror, still covered in blood, hands still trembling. Was it right? Only half the deed was done. The first stone came, bouncing off the window. Then another, then another. He crossed the room and looked out. Thomas was standing in the garden, a bloody trail left across the stalks of grass, waving red serpent in the wind. The boy’s hand, pale white, tight within his. The corpse covered in mud, one hand in his, blackened, bruised purple. He was calling to Robert. Robert shut the curtains and sat on the bed.

Night came like a retort, and Robert lay wide eyed on the bed. Wind whistled and the waves came up and down the beach. Boy trembled on the kitchen tiles. Every patch of darkness a home for that echoed memory, every shadow a memento of guilt. He didn’t sleep. Dawn came, sun rising lazily from the ocean.

He listened to the door for some whispering of movement. None comes and he unlocks it. The stairs creak as he entered the room they ate in. The garden door lay open and stalks of green grass pawed at the white frame. Distant gulls called from across the ocean. The table cloth billowed in the breeze, a chair is overturned, another stood alone in the centre of the room, and two books lay open by the blood trail. It lead to the basement. The house is silent, nothing but the faint crash of waves.

The door is unlocked and swayed open at the mere suggestion of his hand. He descended, all the candles are lit, the blood trail snaked across paving slabs, running deeper into the darkness. He descended by fluttering candlelight.

He found the man and the boy bathed in blood. The pine of the workbench painted red. Throat stitched closed and, by books on animals, a heart lays discarded, it beats no more, grey now, boy sized. Thomas lay, hand on paving slab and hand on workbench. Not an organ in place, intestines and guts slewed about. Heart self detached, clinging on by venous chords, torn from it’s cage. Dried tears on his cheeks. Scalpel in his hand.

Robert built a raft from chipped driftwood at noon. Man, boy and bundle of bits all bound by worn string, tawny and frayed. All lay there rotten. The man still clung to boy, to it. Choppy wind and gentle rain as he prayed for the man, prayed to the howling wind and the pounding rain. He knelt, trousers damp as waves came up and down the beach. Red roses and white lillies. Just a raft of sin, a collage of life, just food for carrion.