The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  ‘That mist is no longer there, Chalk,’ she says defiantly. ‘You wiped it away.’

  ‘I know, Elizabeth. But the mist society inflicted upon me still exists...’

  34

  ‘Though the meeting was fleeting,’ I mumble, ‘...my desperate heart was beating.’ I press my thumbs underneath my double chin and rest my heavy head on them as I gaze at the monitor. I have little use for my computer these days. Forums no longer interest me. I have no email contacts and do not need to research anything. A few years back, I had thrown myself into the world of online dating, convinced that it would rescue me. Things had looked promising until I transmitted photos of myself. Even the females who had assessed themselves as unattractive lost interest at that point... I head-butt the keyboard. My head jumps back up instantly. My thumbs were supposed to support me! Perhaps then, I might actually sleep. I stumble towards my bedroom, barely managing to make it to the bed, where I collapse like a sack of spuds...

  A faint breeze gently chills my nostrils and wakes me. I crease my forehead. There is no access for draughts in this house – I do not open windows. Bemused, I push myself up, still tired, but alert. How long had I been sleeping? I have no idea. I walk out my room and see that the front door is wide open. I gasp, wide eyed, and sprint outside. Oh my God! No! No! She had fooled me! She had tricked me! I look up and down the street. She has gone! That is it. It is over! I dig my fingertips in my scalp until I cannot stand the pain. Then, conscious of my neighbours, I hold back my tears until I am indoors. My mind is a tornado in my skull. I shut the door, back against it and slide onto my knees. ‘Oh, Elizabeth!’ I whisper. ‘Elizabeth, Elizabeth!’ Internally, I feel as if a steamroller has flattened me. ‘You were not ready, I do not deserve this!’ I roll forwards onto my head and uncontrollably weep.

  ‘Have you learnt much today?’ I hear someone say.

  I am certain it is my mind taunting me, until I see Elizabeth standing at the top of the basements steps. ‘Are you real?’ I cry. ‘Is it really you?’

  ‘Yes, Chalk, I am Elizabeth. We are still together.’

  Confused, energised and humble all at once, I rise to my feet, my body lighter than it has ever been. In truth, though it cannot be, it is weightless. I run up to her and wrap my arms around her, clasping my fingers together, adamant that no one, not the police or anyone, will ever break apart these strong arms. No one will ever separate us.

  ‘Well, Chalk,’ she says. ‘What have you learnt today?’ She retracts her head and looks into my eyes, inches from me.

  I feel unfocused, vulnerable and dependent. The only thing I am capable of doing is speaking from my heart. ‘That I love you,’ I croak.

  Her tender lips sink into mine, slowly, delicately, until we join, and I stand there, trembling, terrified, and, for once, definite about something. The kiss is brief, but it had to be. It is a moment, skies above sex and lust – both of these are absent. To follow it up would be mindless – it would incinerate the perfect memory. So, appropriately, we part, like twins, and then gaze at each other, allowing ourselves time to capture the image, to ensure it is precise, and then store it forever...

  As time passes, the world cruelly seeps back in and I feel intense pressure to regain control, to take charge and lay down my authority. How can I do so after that? How could I be cold to her? I cannot damage that kiss, I cannot... Maybe I should just leave, return to her in an hour, allowing enough time for us to start again.

  ‘And what else?’ she asks me. I screw up my face. ‘What else have you learned, Chalk?’

  ‘You opened the door,’ I say, thinking aloud, and suddenly beautifully enlightened, ‘but…you chose not to leave.’

  ‘Yes, Chalk. You were fast asleep. I saw you on your bed. I could have escaped.’ I nod. ‘But if I had stepped outside, I would not have escaped, I would have been captured by them.’ Incredulous, I just gawk. ‘You can let go of your doubts, Chalk, your mistrust. Now you know for certain that I am here by my own choice.’

  ‘I-I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You don’t need to say anything.’ She places her hand on her chest.

  I want to reward her. I want to make her happier than she ever has been. A concession, a huge concession, is needed. ‘Would you care to dine with me? Upstairs, in the dining room?’

  ‘I would love to.’

  ‘Give me an hour.’

  ‘Okay.’ She smiles that vibrant, inimitable smile and I respond with one of my own, less memorable, but just as genuine. Elizabeth returns to the basement. Meanwhile, I panic. What am I going to make? I have never had a proper meal with anyone I care about. But wait... I do not have to impress her, she accepts me for who I am, she will enjoy whatever I prepare. I would love to order Chinese or Indian, but it is too risky. I will have to make do with what I have.

  I open the freezer. I am out of oriental meals, so pizza it is. They will take twenty-five minutes to heat up in the oven. That will give me enough time to first buy a bottle of champagne. The thought of such a purchase triggers tingling sensations over my entire body. A ‘bottle of bubbly’ would be the perfect conclusion to this great day. I head out the door. Yes, a bottle of champagne is commonly shared between two, but loners can have cause to celebrate.

  I buy a good bottle and rush home. I put the pizzas in the oven and lay the table. Such is my enthusiasm that I am out of breath as I pull the tablecloth tight. I fill an ice bucket, set it down on the table and carefully lower the champagne into it. I pick up each glass and remove the watermarks with a tea towel, then I polish each piece of cutlery. I regulate my breathing while I check that everything is in place, then I start the oven. While I wait for the meal to cook, I search my wardrobe and select a black shirt and a pair of Wrangler jeans. I curse myself for having to now iron the creases out of them. Everything in my cupboard has been transferred directly from the tumble dryer. I never iron anything until I need it. As I wait for the iron to heat up, I flatten the sleeves. I am useless at ironing. I may well achieve a smooth front and back, but the arms will look like racing tracks. Minutes later I grunt as I create a new crease. After this I dress up and check myself in the mirror. At least I have made an effort. I play Magic FM on my stereo, then remove the pizzas, lay them on the plates and nervously head down to the basement.

  Elizabeth beams at me. ‘You look nice, Chalk,’ she says.

  ‘Thank you. Please follow me.’

  As I escort her to the dining room, I wipe the sweat off my forehead and undo another shirt button. Earlier I had cleaned and dried her dirty clothes and then left them in the basement. However, she’s still wearing the new clothes I bought her.

  ‘Champagne!’ Elizabeth cries as she eases herself into her seat. ‘What a treat!’

  ‘I have never tasted it before... I have never had reason to.’

  Elizabeth and I sit opposite each other, with the champagne in between us set off slightly to the side so that we can see each other. She moves her seat closer to the table. ‘Well, Chalk, now you do,’ she says, her voice loaded with excitement. Clearly, the kiss had made a similar impact on her. ‘May I?’ she asks, reaching for the bottle.

  ‘Please do.’

  Elizabeth half-fills our glasses and then returns the bottle to the bucket. ‘When you drink champagne, Chalk, you are supposed to use champagne flutes. They are narrower than wine glasses, and hold less liquid. I won’t fill these, so the champagne stays cold.’

  ‘Okay,’ I say. I take a sip of the drink. It tastes a little like sparkling wine.

  ‘This goes straight to your head,’ Elizabeth says, taking a sip. We start to eat our pizzas, slowly, so that we can relish the occasion. ‘You do like microwave meals, don’t you, Chalk?’

  ‘Do you not?’ I ask, feeling a little deflated.

  ‘I like the taste, but I have started to notice the side effects. My skin is more pasty looking, there are fatty deposits on my hips, bottom, and beneath my arms. And I feel lethargic.’

  ‘Does
that bother you?’

  ‘Of course not, but I have been here for a few weeks, whereas you have survived on this diet for many years. Think what it is doing to you inside.’

  ‘My concern is what people do to me inside. Food is the least of my troubles. These meals are quick, cheap and fill me up.’ Elizabeth nods and bites at her slice. ‘How long was the front door open?’ I ask.

  ‘Not long. I heard you stirring as I was unlocking it. I opened it, and as soon as I sat back down in the basement I heard you run outside.’

  ‘Did anyone see you?’

  ‘No, I was careful.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m positive, Chalk.’

  I take another sip. ‘I have often considered opening a clothes shop.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes. As you know I made a lot of money out of Mike Wickinton.’ I chew a piece of pizza. ‘I would manufacture clothes from cheap materials, so they cost me pennies, and then have a fancy logo stitched into them, namely a quarter moon. The brand would be called “Moonface”.’ Elizabeth looks interested, but I sense she is being polite. ‘To make the business a success, I would just have to sell the items at extortionate prices. See the irony? You can become rich by selling products which offer absolutely no value for money.’

  ‘You’re right, Chalk,’ she says, holding a half-eaten slice, ‘people will pay anything for designer gear.’

  ‘And more so if other people can’t afford it. When I initially thought of this, I made the mistake of thinking the logo would have to be stitched somewhere discreet, as it would look tacky on the front of an evening dress. But I soon realised that is exactly where the owner would want it. There, prominent, ready to be noticed and commented upon.’ Elizabeth smiles. ‘My market would be the rich, and I am certain I would make a fortune.’

  ‘And in the process, rip-off the people who have made you suffer.’

  ‘That’s the problem. Extravagance does not bother them. They would not care if they uncovered my motive, just as long as they have clothes that others can’t afford.’

  ‘You could make a lot of money out of them, and then sell everything at market prices.’

  I laugh. ‘I like that!...And then continue to sell everything dirt cheap, so common people wear it alongside the elite.’

  ‘But that might interest trading standards.’

  ‘Yes, it might. Perhaps I should just price them sky high and reap the rewards.’ Elizabeth laughs and picks up her glass. I see that she has drunk half of the contents. I check my glass and see that I have consumed just as much. ‘I am feeling a little tipsy,’ I acknowledge.

  ‘I feel the same.’

  ‘It would immensely satisfy me to take advantage of collective vanity, but unfortunately it would not cure them. They would happily empty the store, oblivious to the statement I am making.’

  ‘I understand. Your message would not be recognised. But you would become very wealthy.’

  ‘Money has never interested me,’ I say.

  ‘No, it is worthless.’

  ‘You need it to live, but it will not fulfil you.’

  ‘No. It won’t.’ Elizabeth swallows a mouthful of pizza. She is on her third slice. ‘Do you feel fulfilled now, Chalk?’

  I look quizzically at her. ‘No, of course I don’t.’ She looks away, visibly disappointed. ‘You think I should?’ I ask.

  ‘Well...what did our kiss mean to you?’

  I shuffle uncomfortably in my seat. The alcohol prompts me to speak my mind. ‘It meant a lot, Elizabeth.’

  ‘Then you know that I have accepted you.’

  ‘I already knew that.’

  ‘But it is more, Chalk. We kissed. That is the first step.’ She finishes her champagne, taking a large gulp. ‘Is it not enough for you that I want to have sex with you? I am offering myself to you. It is what I want to do.’

  ‘I am flattered, Elizabeth, even a little emotional, but the kiss was more important than that. It meant more to me than sex.’

  ‘I know. I know that.’ She shakes her head. ‘I know it was love, but…offering my body to you, wanting to make love to you, is the most meaningful statement I can make.’

  I finish my drink. I wish there was more in the glass so I could delay my response. I gulp down nothing. ‘Elizabeth, it is taking all my willpower to resist that offer. You are an extremely attractive girl in all respects, but giving into that...desire, would result in irreparable harm to our mission. Whether age matters to you or me is irrelevant. It matters to them out there, and us having sexual relations would permanently cloud the issues we want to raise.’

  She stares at me for a long while, her face passive. She is thinking. Rather than reply, she removes the bottle and fills our glasses. ‘You know best, Chalk,’ she says boldly and a little sadly.

  ‘It would be unforgivable for us, for me, to allow lust to jeopardise this,’ I say sensitively.

  She nods. ‘You are right, I know you are.’

  I pick up my glass and drink more than I should. ‘I was so relieved when I saw you, Elizabeth, standing on top of those steps.’

  ‘I know you were.’

  ‘I felt devastated when I thought you had gone. If you had actually left me, I think I would have found you and then murdered you.’

  35

  An hour later we sit together in the lounge, watching a recording of The X Factor. I am drunk.

  ‘This programme fascinates me,’ I say. ‘This bit, the auditions, I mean. It’s just a zoo, isn’t it?’ Elizabeth hiccups, her body leaning against mine on the sofa. After finishing the champagne, we grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge. Both of us drink from our first glass. ‘Throw society’s victims into a cage and watch them perform. That’s why this programme is such a hit. We love this degrading exploitation.’

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Chalk.’

  ‘We all criticise Simon Cowell for his bluntness and brutal honesty, but no one stops watching, do they? We love to see him knock someone down, someone who is already at rock-bottom.’

  I turn to face Elizabeth. She wears a serious expression. ‘It amuses us,’ she says.

  ‘He thinks by shattering someone’s delusions he is doing them a favour. Ultimately, in most cases, it probably will benefit them, prompting them to focus their energies on something more productive, but should they have to hear this in front of millions of people? Is that really necessary?’ I find that when I am drunk, and in company with someone else, I cannot stop talking.

  ‘But they know what to expect,’ Elizabeth responds. ‘The series has been on for years.’

  ‘They don’t know. They think they’re good; that they’ll win. Either their friends are just as deluded, or are not actually friends and have stitched them up, or the individual is a loner. But regardless, they are desperate for acceptance; for popularity. They want to swap social exclusion for stardom. I cannot believe that this “helpful advice” has not yet caused suicide.’

  ‘It all comes down to selfishness.’

  ‘Yes, the inability to see beyond one’s own circumstances.’

  Elizabeth stifles a yawn. ‘They think the judges are wrong about them,’ she says. ‘They are that desperate to succeed that they dismiss expert assessments.’

  I nod. ‘I can’t watch this anymore. It’s offending me.’ I look at Elizabeth. ‘Do you mind if we watch something else?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What would you like to watch?’

  ‘A movie?’

  ‘What sort of movie? Would you like to watch Vanilla Sky? Have you seen it? It’s my favourite film.’

  ‘Let’s watch it then,’ she excitedly says. ‘I haven’t seen it.’

  Hurriedly, I find the DVD and insert it in the player, eagerly anticipating the discussion the film will provoke.

  ‘I don’t know if I’ll be able to watch it all though,’ she says. ‘I’m feeling tired.’

  ‘Then we shouldn’t watch it. You have to watch it all at once o
r you’ll miss things. You can’t take a break.’

  ‘It sounds serious.’

  ‘It is. It’s an extraordinary film.’ I return to the seat.

  ‘What’s it about?’ she asks. ‘A friend said it was confusing.’

  ‘That does not surprise me. Your friends cannot appreciate the plight of a victim.’ Elizabeth lifts her glass to her lips. ‘It’s about a popular guy who sleeps with lots of women, who then loses his looks and becomes an outcast. But, just before he had the accident, he met a girl that he genuinely fell in love with. On their second meeting, he had to try to recreate that earlier appeal with a deformed face.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound confusing.’

  ‘Believe me, there is a lot more to the film, but that is the sub-plot that I love. It shows us, perfectly, how sickeningly preoccupied with visuals we are...’

  Elizabeth’s face is suddenly serious. ‘That is the answer you wanted.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The pattern you wanted me to recognise... All that greed, that narrow-mindedness, is bred from what we see.’ I arch my neck away from her, create a distance between us so that I can see her whole form. ‘I have been thinking about it all day and I know I’m right. We reward certain animals solely on the basis that they are pleasing to the eye; we want to win the lottery because we can see ourselves in exotic locations with expensive possessions; supporters make derogatory comments as a result of what they see on the football pitch; and people would pay thousands to have a luxurious logo visible on their clothes...’

  Open mouthed, I just stare. The haunting and beautiful tune that accompanies the menu screen replays on Vanilla Sky.

  ‘We watch The X Factor to witness the devastation on the victims’ faces.’ She looks up at me, satisfied, and sips her wine. ‘You, Chalk, seek to wipe free the mist that impedes their vision.’ She extends her arm so that her glass is aimed at the outside world. ‘... But when that mist is no longer there, it will leave just their own reflection in the glass.’