The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  ‘We will enjoy the remainder of your education, Elizabeth. I will see you shortly.’ I fix the tape over her mouth and travel to work.

  Unfortunately, I learn that no one on my borough has been arrested for immigration offences. Therefore I have no reason to visit police stations and will not see PC Collingwell. It is ironic that he has become so important in my life, but it is through him that I will learn of Victor’s case.

  I sit at my desk and think of Elizabeth. Is she really changing? Am I succeeding? I start to fidget, the excitement overtaking me. I don’t want to be at work. No, I can’t think like that. I have said that before. Even Collingwell became suspicious when I lost enthusiasm. I will stay committed, but the truth is that all I want to do is spend my time with Elizabeth. I consider taking annual leave for the next week. A week with Elizabeth is a wonderful incentive, but Victor spoils this idea. I need to know where his case is heading. But there is nothing I can do about it. Things have happened so fast since yesterday that I have not had time to think logically. I stare at my blank monitor. With delight I realise that taking leave is the most sensible thing I can do. If the police pay me a visit, it is only Elizabeth’s presence that will interest them. Therefore I need to deal with her as quickly as possible, and remove all traces of her.

  Without delay I contact my supervisor who then authorises my leave. He even lets me take the rest of the day off. Sometimes it pays to be such a valued employee.

  Within an hour I am home, skipping down to the basement, taking beautiful warmth from Elizabeth’s welcoming expression. She has never invited me into her life before. But it was there, I am certain, just for a second. A look of cheerfulness. I remove all her restraints and sit in my chair. ‘Feel free to walk around,’ I say. The corner of Elizabeth’s lip rises slightly and she strains as she pushes herself up. I am ready to catch her but this proves unnecessary, as she finds her balance and slowly and carefully walks around the room.

  ‘I feel so weak,’ she says.

  ‘You will get stronger now. Your muscles have been neglected.’ As she strengthens her legs I say, ‘Were you physically active?’

  ‘I liked horse riding.’

  ‘Would you still like it?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel different now.’

  ‘How so?’

  She stops and faces me. ‘I don’t feel the same things that I felt before. I am not that person anymore. I feel released. Enlightened.’ Her expression is neutral. I detect no regret, no melancholy.

  ‘So you are grateful for this change?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You don’t appear content to me.’

  Again she stops and meets my eyes. But her eyes look dead. ‘I would not leave this place if I had the chance. I will only leave when you think I’m cured.’

  I feel like laughing. Then I feel angry. She must think I’m stupid, that I will test the truth of her declaration. And then she would scream as soon as she stepped out the front door. She continues walking. But it could be the truth... Since ending Senses Shutdown I have noticed a transformation in her. At first I was sceptical, but the longer I spend with her the more I believe it is real. If this is the case, then she meant what she had just said. If she meant that, then she truly is at stage four of mind control – the ability to criticise the controlling system is lost and compliance with it is automatic rather than voluntary. I thought I had reached that stage before, but I was mistaken. Now, however, I might be there. I bow my head and focus on deep breathing. Do not let her fool you, I warn myself. But the point of Senses Shutdown was to empty Elizabeth’s damaged mind, to drain its evil, so that goodness could fill it. I was certain that I had discovered something awesome. I still am. Therefore I must believe that it will work. I should not be doubtful when it appears that it is.

  ‘Certain things must remain,’ I tell Elizabeth, almost apologetically. ‘You must still use the cat litter, but, while I am here, I will not tie you to the chair. You can roam around the basement. This is because you have earned my trust.’ I had not decided this before speaking the sentence, but it thrilled me to offer her the concession. She has pleased me, so I have rewarded her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she says.

  I hear the tumble dryer buzz, meaning that Elizabeth’s clothes are dry. I want to run upstairs and grab them, but I do not and instead caution myself for being so childish. I did not buy her new clothes. That was a stupid, impulsive idea that could have exposed my plan.

  Elizabeth sits down in her chair. ‘I am exhausted,’ she says.

  Yesterday, I could see that she had lost a lot of muscle. ‘That is the effect of a sedentary existence. That is how I always feel.’

  ‘Then why don’t you exercise?’

  ‘You can answer that for me.’

  ‘Because...exercise alters a person’s appearance.’

  I cannot restrain a smile. ‘Yes, Elizabeth, yes! Appearances cause so much suffering. But it is the weapons, not the targets, that we need to tackle.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Your clothes are ready,’ I blurt out, registering her grateful expression before I fetch them. Moments later I hand them to Elizabeth and leave the room. When she tells me she has changed, I enter the basement and collect my robe.

  That night, I wake to go to the toilet. I slip my dressing robe on and make my way to the bathroom. While I sit on the seat and urinate, a disturbing and exciting thought occurs to me – Elizabeth’s naked body had been inside this robe. I close my eyes and try to shut out the perverted observation. But as the robe hugs my skin, I find myself becoming hugely aroused and my urine starts to splatter on the carpet beneath the toilet. I clench my bladder muscles, stand up and slip out of the robe, feeling ashamed.

  28

  I open my post: Obi-Wan v Vader 2 (Obi-Wan’s redemption) and read the latest responses. The majority are predictably dismissive and insulting. ‘Squid’s son’ writes: ‘Leave Lucas to write the scripts, mate. The little vision you possess receives just the right amount of recognition and respect it deserves on this free-to-post forum.’

  ‘Does your mother know you call her ‘Squid’,’ I reply, feigning ignorance that Squid is actually a creature from Return of the Jedi. ‘The much anticipated Star Wars prequels are devoid of vision. In fact they unforgivably regurgitate ideas from the original trilogy – In the seventies we learned of a fallen jedi who joined the dark side and helped defeat the Jedi. Later on, Yoda warned Luke that once you succumb to the dark side, it consumes your destiny forever, as it had Vader’s. Obi-Wan accepts some responsibility for this, declaring that he was wrong to think he could train his pupil as well as Yoda. We were led to believe that this switching of sides was a cataclysmic and unprecedented turn of events.

  ‘Yet, in Attack of the Clones, we learn that Yoda’s pupil, Count Dooku, had turned to the dark side before Vader!’ I absorb myself in this discussion, wanting the burning question in my head to leave me. ‘Such a plot development is unimaginative, undermines Yoda’s wisdom, and, worst of all, negates the impact of Vader’s defection.’ I am exaggerating my true reaction to this. I felt a little let down, but it did not lessen the impression the Star Wars films had on me. My words will frustrate the users of this forum, and, more importantly offer me a distraction. ‘Lucas’s intention was for the prequels to alter our views of the original trilogy. Well, they did. They damaged them.’ Send.

  When I step into the basement, Elizabeth is on her feet. She smiles at me. ‘Hello, Chalk.’

  ‘Good morning, Elizabeth.’

  She sits down opposite me. My mind is still not clear. She leans forward and picks up the bottle of water. I glance down her top and see the pert breasts dipping into her bra. I turn my head sharply away and wince.

  ‘You were right, Chalk, I am getting stronger.’

  I face her, the guilt clear on my flushed face. ‘You look better.’ I check her bottle of water. It is empty. I now leave her a bottle of water and a flask of soup to use as she pleases. ‘I will
fill your bottle in a minute.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She meets my eyes. It is unbearable for me. Before Senses Shutdown she resented me, but now, now it seems that I appeal to her. It is lust. Surely that is lust in her eyes! Still they bore into mine, a sweet perfect blue. I have never before felt such a connection. It feels so very wrong and yet so irresistibly electrifying. But if she is at stage four and wants to stay here and wants to learn from me, then I am indeed an alluring figure. It creates such alien and amazing responses in me. It takes every ounce of my being to break eye contact. She is going to know what she is doing to me. It is obvious to someone like her. She elicits these responses all the time. I am one of hundreds and it means no more than it did from all of the others... No! This is different. I have changed her. I have moulded her into a beautiful person, one who would find me attractive. It is some colossal force that keeps my eyes from looking up from the floor. I can feel her look and it is melting my mind. I flick my head up and lock into her eyes. There, in that foreign place, I cannot be harmed, I am safe, and free to exist. And it seems perfectly acceptable to ask the question that has haunted me. But I do not speak, she sucks the words out of me... ‘When will you be sixteen?’

  ‘November the fifth.’

  Her face inches closer to mine, consuming me with a fear that I never want to leave me. The tip of her finger presses against my cheekbone and then breaks contact. I see that the finger glistens with wetness. Petrified, I lean back, push myself up and storm up to the bathroom. In the mirror my watery eyes shock me. I blink repeatedly, as fast as I can, and wipe them with the back of my forearm. ‘Acceptance,’ I croak. ‘This is what acceptance does.’ Inside, I harbour a great conflict. Morality aside, I must not do this. She is incomplete, uncured. I would lose all my substance. Remember, remember, the fifth of November. What is the date? I cannot think straight. It is...August, yes, the latter part of August. November is three months away.

  ‘Why does that matter?’ Elizabeth asks. I turn and see her standing outside the bathroom.

  ‘Get in the basement!’ I shout and she complies. She could have run out! Suddenly white, I gawk in the mirror. ‘But she chose not to...’ I did not even know she was there, not until she spoke. And, God, why did she have to say that? Why is she making this so difficult for me? The last thing I should now do is visit her in the basement. However it is the next thing I do.

  ‘I am far from emotionless, Elizabeth,’ I say, staying on my feet and maintaining a distance between us.

  ‘I know.’

  I close my eyes. ‘Sixteen is the age...’ I falter, curse myself. Why must I enter this territory? Why? I take a deep breath. ‘Sixteen...’

  ‘Say it, Chalk, say sex...’

  The word weakens me. I shake my head. She is controlling me. ‘Don’t turn this around, Elizabeth. You know how impulsive I am. You may feel that...’ I look at her and again she is dissecting me. She knows how to manipulate me. What am I doing?

  ‘Sorry. But you asked when I was sixteen and I wondered why.’

  ‘I asked it because I must know everything about you. I am making you pure.’

  I catch Elizabeth glancing at my lap. I sigh. I know what she sees. I can feel my erect penis pushing against my jeans. What more can I do today? There is so much I have to get through, but I cannot simply ignore my state of mind. I have to be focused, serious, and detached. She is flirting with me, tempting me. I am certain now that she is acting genuinely. I no longer doubt her honesty, and normally that would be a cause for celebration, but her sexual interest in me has totally disoriented me. What further evidence do I need to convince myself of her brainwashed condition? She had an opportunity to escape and did not, and has displayed sexual interest in me! Beauty and the beast would be an understatement. But if I do not deal with this now, it will continue. I cannot have this every day. I have to conquer this situation. I turn my back to her. ‘Yes, sixteen is the age when you can have sexual intercourse.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought you would have cared about that.’

  I turn and glare at her, fists clenched. ‘Are you calling me a paedophile?’

  ‘No, no. I mean that it is a law, it is the government that says so.’

  I calm down quickly, and face the steps again. ‘You think because I kidnapped you, that I don’t respect other laws?’

  ‘No, but you said that laws do not fix damaged people, so I did not think you agreed with them.’

  ‘I don’t.’

  ‘Then...why should someone have to wait until they are sixteen to have sex?’

  I start to walk around the basement. I should not engage with her on this topic. ‘They shouldn’t.’

  ‘I can have sex now then,’ she says boldly.

  I avoid her gaze. I could have sex with her now. It would feel wonderful. I have never felt such a need. But I won’t do it. No way. I am too smart. I have made bad decisions recently, but I will not make another one, I will not let my instincts overrule my sound judgement. ‘You can have sex when you are no longer a child. You, Elizabeth, are still a child.’

  ‘What? How can you say that, Chalk? You don’t believe that!’

  I walk up to her. She looks traumatised. ‘Yes I do. You are still ignorant and naïve. You have much to learn, Elizabeth, and flirting with me is hindering your progress.’

  ‘But I have learnt so much!’

  ‘But you are not fully cured, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I know.’ A tear seeps from her eye. ‘I just want to know what you know.’

  ‘You can never know that much. I have suffered my entire life. You have merely confronted the idea of suffering in the past two and a half weeks. I am delivering a crash course.’

  ‘But that will be enough for me, won’t it?’

  ‘Oh yes, you will not leave until you are cured.’

  Her smile is sad, hopeful, brimming with trust and revere.

  29

  Another sleepless night. No disturbing dreams to blame this time – despite feeling physically exhausted when I climbed into bed last night, I could not relax enough to close my eyes. After leaving the basement yesterday, I felt relieved that our discussion had ended positively, with me firmly standing my ground, and so I had hoped that I would rest well that night and for once be able to start the new day fresh. But, instead, the negative occurrences tirelessly bounced around in my skull. On several occasions I had clasped my head in my hands and squeezed as hard as I could, giving in to my frustration and instincts, fully aware that the turmoil could only be dealt with internally, but driven crazy by the fact that I did not know how. Sweating and shivering, many times I reached the disjointed conclusion that I had made critical and irreparable errors. Just as many times, I comforted myself that she was still my prisoner and would not leave until I felt satisfied that she was ready. As long as I reached the destination, it would not matter how often I stumbled and fell on the journey.

  Crucially, I had not masturbated yesterday. Sleep deprivation was responsible for that, but I will not make the same mistake twice. When I omit to do this, I am extremely aroused for the remainder of the day, and that had proved more than costly yesterday – it had given Elizabeth power.

  After relieving myself, I wash my hands in the bathroom and study my face in the mirror. Purple, bruise-like hammocks prop up my eyes. My skin is dry and flaky. Unlike most men, I will not disguise this. What is the point? For me, they are simply the visible indicators of what I feel inside. I often felt this tired at school. The stress of exclusion, disloyalty and victimisation kept me awake. Many years have passed since then, but that unbearable feeling of heaviness through the day, of the need to collapse on the floor and sleep, is painfully familiar. But I cannot waste a minute of my time with Elizabeth. Either I sleep at night or not at all.

  ‘Hi, Chalk,’ she says, beaming as I enter the basement.

  ‘Hello.’ I sit in front of her, stony faced.

  ‘I’d like to learn what you did to Victor.’


  I scratch the back of my head. Surely I have not developed him enough in her head to justify his downfall? I have told her just a tiny portion of what he did. ‘You do not know him well enough.’

  ‘I know he’s a creep.’

  I let myself down by releasing a quick smile. But it is uplifting to have a supporter. ‘He’s a beast.’

  ‘I know,’ she says.

  I reach out for her flask of soup. She does not know. Being told about him and being his victim are two entirely different things.

  ‘I will tell you when you are ready to offer your opinion about him.’

  She nods seriously. ‘Sorry. I understand.’

  Her flask is empty, as is her water bottle. ‘You are living well, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Should I drink less?’ she asks, looking concerned.

  ‘No. You can have as much as you want.’ I stand up and head for the kitchen. I turn the kettle on and wait for it to boil. When I began to unfold Victor’s story to Elizabeth, I did not care about her reaction. But back then she was worthless. Now, though, I am anxious for her approval. But that is not necessarily a bad thing, as she is undergoing change. When I am finished with her she will think exactly as I do, so it is natural for me to seek her backing as our time together nears its end. If I didn’t want this, it could only mean she wasn’t changing and that would mean I was failing.

  I sink deep into the past... Though my parents were useless, as a youngster I cared for them very much. I knew what to expect from them. They offered security and safety, which was essential after a day at school. They provided no emotion or understanding, but they were consistent and I took much comfort from that. My father was bald and skinny, while my mother suffered the misfortune of having a large mole beside her nose. Victor was the first classmate to meet them... The kettle boils. I prepare the soup and water and return to Elizabeth.

  ‘Victor used to call my mother “Rolo”,’ I tell her.

  ‘Rolo? Why?’