Running Man

by Michael Gerard Bauer

  Caroline’s shoulders shook and she buried her face in her hands.

  Joseph took an awkward step towards her. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said helplessly.

  Caroline lifted her head and let her fingers slip to her chin. ‘Oh Joseph …’ she said warmly, reaching out and drawing him in to a tender embrace.

  ‘I’m sorry … it’s my fault.’

  Caroline placed her hands firmly on Joseph’s shoulders and looked into his worried face. ‘Don’t be silly, Joseph. Don’t you ever say that. You of all people have nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘But he did it for me … and it was too much … and if I’d just got his tablets straightaway … or got help … or done something … I …’

  ‘You might have saved his life?’

  Joseph nodded his head sadly.

  ‘Joseph, look at me. Don’t you understand? You already had.’

  With that Caroline leant forward and kissed Joseph on the forehead, then she threw her arm around his shoulder saying determinedly, ‘Come on, we’ve got a miracle to finish!’

  There were only two cocoons left in the bag. Caroline took them out and held them up. ‘Last ones,’ she said. ‘You finish it off. After all, you’re the miracle worker around here.’

  Joseph felt the two cocoons tumble lightly into his hand. He chose one and began pulling the loose, soft threads gently to one end, twisting and twirling them skilfully into a single strong strand. ‘I finished the portrait – last night,’ he said as he attached the first cocoon to a branch.

  ‘Really? That’s wonderful. I can’t wait to see it. I bet you get top marks.’

  ‘When I get it back, I want you to have it.’

  ‘Joseph, are you sure? You’ve worked so hard on it.’

  ‘I’m sure. Anyway, I can always come and see it, can’t I?’

  Once again, tears threatened to flow from Caroline’s eyes. ‘Oh yes, please do – any time. Any time.’ she said softly.

  ‘And I’m going to do another portrait … of someone else.’

  ‘Someone else? But who would you draw?’

  Joseph tied off the last cocoon and let the thin branch spring back into place.

  ‘I thought I’d try and draw Dad.’

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The mid-morning sun illuminated the long stained glass windows down the side of St Jude’s Church and threw a smudged kaleidoscope of colours on to the opposite wall. For the past three days Joseph’s life had been as blurred as that chaotic jumble of colours, and he hoped desperately that somewhere behind it all, if he knew where to look, he would find a pattern and shape that made sense.

  ‘Joseph?’

  It was his mother’s voice. When he turned, he saw the small white handkerchief that she was offering to him. He took it and dabbed his eyes, aware for the first time of the tears they held. Gradually the sights and sounds that had merely been the bare backdrop to his recollections came into clearer focus.

  On the other side of Joseph, Caroline sat lost in her own thoughts. When the last notes of a hymn faded from the organ pipes the priest motioned for Caroline to come forward, and she moved to the big marble lectern at the side of the altar. There she placed a single sheet of paper on the stand and looked out at the scattered figures gathered beneath the high, arching ceiling of the church. ‘I would like to thank each of you so much for coming. Most of you would not have known my brother, so I would like to introduce him to you briefly if I may. He was born Thomas Stephen Leyton in 1949, and we grew up together in our family home at number one Arthur Street Ashgrove. He was a loving, funny, kind, generous, wonderful brother and son, and his baby sister adored him. The Tom I knew was always full of life and made friends easily, treating everyone the same, and taking special care to include those whom others might shun. Tom’s dream was to become a teacher and to pass on his love of words. He would have made a wonderful teacher, but in 1969 he was conscripted into the army and sent to Vietnam.’

  Caroline stopped and looked down at the page in front of her. Her lips pressed hard together and she breathed deeply before continuing. ‘In many ways the Tom Leyton I knew – my brother Tom – died in that war. What came home was all the pain and horror he encountered there. He tried to teach, but the memories of what he had been through proved too much for him. When he returned to Arthur Street he shut himself away from the world with only his silkworms for company and hid so deeply inside himself that for more than thirty years even I struggled to recognise him. I thought I had lost my brother forever. I had given up hope of ever seeing him again. But I was wrong. Over the past two months he finally came home. It was my friend and neighbour Joseph Davidson who found Tom and brought him back to me, and Joseph, for that I can never repay you. Thank you, Joseph, for being there when Tom needed you, and thank you for your wonderful portrait of him. Through your eyes others will be able to see Tom as he truly was, a gentle and lovely man.’

  Caroline folded the sheet of paper with shaking hands, returned to her seat beside Joseph and squeezed his arm.

  Joseph looked again at the coffin that stood at the front of the altar. Mrs Gardiner from St Jude’s Primary had organised her class to write thank-you notes to ‘the Silkworm Man’ and to draw pictures of caterpillars, moths and cocoons. All these now fluttered like bright and colourful leaves on the sides of the coffin. Caroline had fashioned a few leafy branches from the mulberry tree into a wreath and decorated it with some of the cocoons she had saved. In the centre of the wreath, at the front of the casket, stood Joseph’s final portrait of Tom Leyton. A gentle smiling face filled the frame, and looked out with eyes that shone with the wonder of someone who had just witnessed a miracle.

  The same portrait graced the cover of the mass booklets. Beneath it was the line, ‘Sleep, sleep you shall be wrapped in me soon’. Around the border Joseph had drawn delicately entwined mulberry leaves and the lifecycle of the silkworms from egg to cocoon. On the back cover were all the verses of the poem.

  When the service ended Joseph walked with Caroline and his mother as they followed the casket down the long aisle of the church. Familiar faces came briefly into view as he passed. Mrs Mossop and Mr Cousins and his wife were there, as well as Mrs Gardiner and other people from around the neighbourhood whose names he didn’t know.

  Joseph had stopped wondering about the identity of the unknown members of the congregation when up ahead, one last figure caught his eye. In the very far corner of the church, a solitary mourner sat crouched over with his head bowed low. Even in the shadows, Joseph could not mistake the huddled, rocking form of the Running Man.

  The casket had only just reached the front of the church when the Running Man, clutching his battered hat to his chest, slid from his seat and shuffled out a side door. An inexplicable flush of panic coursed through Joseph’s body. There was no time to explain to his mother or to Caroline. As people began to mill around and offer their condolences, Joseph secretly threaded his way through the crowd to the big iron gates of the churchyard. Up ahead a stooped figure scuttled across the road and scampered down Ashgrove Avenue.

  Joseph clasped the cool metal and hesitated. His heart kicked wildly in his chest. Then, like an athlete responding to the crack of a starting gun, he pushed away from the gate and set off in pursuit of the Running Man.

  The exaggerated loping style of the Running Man was deceptive. In reality he moved along at little more than a steady jog and so, as Joseph sprinted down the street he had visited many times in his darkest dreams, the familiar dishevelled form grew rapidly larger and closer with every stride. When he had closed to within a few metres, Joseph slowed down. They were close enough for Joseph to hear the scuffle of the Running Man’s battered shoes on the footpath; close enough to see his long wispy hair tossed by the wind and by his own jerky movements; close enough to feel the laboured pain of his flight.

  Doubts and fears like a mass of dark, flapping bats erupted in Joseph’s mind, but he forced himself to call out. ‘Wait!’

 
The word had crept limply from his mouth and was quickly swept away by the wind.

  Joseph edged nearer. He could hear the Running Man’s breathing and their footsteps pounding together like heartbeats.

  ‘Could you wait, please!’

  Still no response.

  Lengthening his stride, Joseph moved to within an arm’s length of the Running Man and reached out.

  As Joseph’s fingers touched the hard bone of his shoulder, the Running Man swung around in alarm, his eyes dancing with fear. Joseph stopped quickly to avoid a collision and the Running Man staggered backwards, holding his hands up like an apprehended criminal.

  ‘Sorry … I … I didn’t … I …’Joseph stammered.

  The Running Man swivelled his head from side to side and his eyes darted erratically as if blind to the boy who stood before him. Meanwhile Joseph struggled for the words that would explain to the Running Man, as well as to himself, why he was there.

  ‘I … I saw you at the church … the funeral. I just …’

  Even though the Running Man had stopped, it seemed there was some part of him that was still running. He continued to rock from foot to foot while his hands wandered aimlessly, desperately searching for some place where they felt comfortable.

  ‘My name’s Joseph.’

  The Running Man’s eyes continued their restless sweep.

  ‘The man who died – Mr Leyton – was my friend.’

  Joseph searched for some sign of response, but the Running Man maintained his agitated movements like a wild animal waiting for the one unguarded moment that could mean freedom.

  ‘We’ve met before … in the bus shelter. It was raining. I had some silkworms.’

  For just a second the Running Man seemed to pause, and his head swayed back then settled slowly forward. The movements of his body continued, but now they were slower and more controlled, and even though his eyes roamed the space above Joseph’s head, he appeared to be listening.

  ‘I remember you said something. It was a line from a poem.’

  Joseph waited for a reaction, but the Running Man remained distant and silent. Joseph had almost given up hope when he remembered the mass booklet he had carried with him from the church. ‘From this poem,’ he said, folding back the pages.

  The Running Man’s eyes flicked only briefly on the booklet that Joseph held up to him, before they took off again in their mad flight. Joseph was about to concede defeat when the long thin fingers of the Running Man reached over.

  At first Joseph wondered if the Running Man was going to read the poem at all. He seemed totally unaware of the booklet in his hand. But more and more his eyes drifted to the words on the page till eventually they settled and began to trace the lines. His lips parted and closed occasionally as he read. Joseph watched and waited. The Running Man’s movements became less extreme, until finally all that remained was the slow rhythmic rocking of his head. A strange calmness descended on Joseph. He studied the Running Man closely. Behind the puffy eyes and the stubble he saw the anguished face of a young husband and father raging against unspeakable horrors. When he had finished reading, the Running Man patted the page lightly with his fingertips as if it were Braille.

  ‘You can keep it if you want,’ Joseph said gently.

  Without looking at Joseph, the Running Man roughly folded the booklet and pushed it into his shirt pocket so that a border of mulberry leaves protruded. Garbled sounds like half begun words came from his mouth. He clasped his hands together high on his chest as his rocking and the shuffling of his feet grew more jumpy and pronounced. With increasing frequency the Running Man shot fleeting glances to where the footpath continued behind him. The effort it took to remain still was tangible.

  ‘I’m sorry … I shouldn’t have … I know you’ve got to go. I just wanted to thank you … for coming to the funeral. I know you’ve never met him, but Mr Leyton would have been glad you came.’

  The Running Man had already turned his back and had begun to lurch his way down the footpath before Joseph even realised he was leaving.

  ‘Wait! Please don’t go …’

  The shambling figure continued to move away from him.

  ‘Mr Jamieson!’

  The Running Man stopped and shuffled around. He continued casting his eyes everywhere but at Joseph. Then, when he had half-turned to leave again, he placed his right hand over his shirt pocket and turned back. ‘All their lives …’ he said, staring blankly with eyes still haunted by the scars of ancient flames.

  Tom Leyton’s last whispered words hung on Joseph’s lips. He held up his hand and called back to the Running Man, ‘God’s speed, Mr Jamieson!’

  Simon Jamieson hesitated a moment then spun around, and without once looking back, made his way down Ashgrove Avenue towards Mr Cousins’ shop. Joseph smiled as he watched the dwindling figure until it was lost in the curve of road. Among all the terrible baggage he carried with him, Joseph thought, at least there was a poem close to his heart.

  ‘God’s speed, Mr Jamieson,’ he whispered again to the empty street before him.

  EPILOGUE

  There would be no more nightmares about the Running Man for Joseph, but that night, somewhere not too far away, Simon Jamieson dreamed. He dreamed as he always did – that he was running, and the more he ran the lighter he became, until his feet barely brushed the pavement and the wind rushed against his face in a smooth unbroken stream. Then all at once the ground fell away, and he was flying as the footpath streaked by below.

  Up ahead he saw bright orange flames. They came closer and closer until at last he was peering down into the very heart of an inferno. And there, circled by licking tongues of fire, were his wife and children. They were smiling, and their faces broke into laughter as their hands reached up for him.

  In his dream, the Running Man swooped down and cradled his wife and baby daughters in his arms. Their eyes blinked shut as they lay their heads against his chest, and they slept. They were as light and as soft as clouds and the Running Man lifted them swiftly into the cool stillness of the night.

  Higher and higher they flew and the fire beneath them grew smaller and smaller, till at last its soft yellow glow was lost forever among the thin threads of streets and the box-like houses below.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To everyone at Omnibus Books, especially Dyan Blacklock, for her enthusiasm and support for the novel and for giving me the best phone call of my life; Celia Jellett, whose thoughtful and expert editing made me a better writer; and David Kennett, who captured the Running Man so powerfully on the cover.

  To my beautiful wife Adriana, for being my first reader, editor, critic and publicist; for crying in all the right places; for continuing to ‘bring home the bacon’; and for so much more.

  To everyone – family, friends, colleagues and students – whose interest in the novel kept me going.

  And finally, to Douglas Stewart, for the inspiration of his beautiful poem.

  The author has quoted from John Milton’s Paradise Lost,

  ‘The Homecoming’ by Bruce Dawe, and

  ‘The Tyger’ by William Blake.

  ‘The Silkworms’ from Collected Poems by Douglas Stewart is

  reprinted with the permission of HarperCollins Publishers.

  Published by Scholastic Australia Pty Ltd

  PO Box 579, Gosford NSW 2250.

  ABN 11 000 614 577

  www.scholastic.com.au

  Part of the Scholastic Group

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  SCHOLASTIC and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  Text copyright © Michael Gerard Bauer, 2004.

  Cover artwork copyright © David Kennett, 2004.

  Print edition first published by Omnibus, an imprint of Scholastic Australia.

  This electronic edition published by Scholastic Australia Pty Limited in 2012.<
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  EPUB/MOBI eISBN: 978-1-921-99064-9

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, storage in an information retrieval system, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of the publisher, unless specifically permitted under the Australian Copyright Act 1968 as amended.