I Am The Local Atheist

by Warwick Stubbs

  “Yeah definitely,” I replied.

  “Sweet.”

  We followed him up the stairs as it rounded the wall of the building and then plateaued on the next level. “Cal went to the park. She didn’t say you were coming over. I think she took a book with her.”

  “How long ago?”

  “About half an hour. She doesn’t usually spend more than an hour there.”

  “It’s fuckin freezing out there.”

  “Yeah I know. But when she’s determined, she’s determined!”

  He let us in through the door which opened straight into the living room with a three-seater to the left and a two-seater to our right; a large red rug covered the floorboards that peeked out at the edges. There was an empty canvas on a stand in one of the corners.

  Dean walked into the kitchen area turning the jug on and grabbing two extra mugs. “So what’d ya come over for?”

  Lucas sat down on a stool at the breakfast bench. “I missed the exhibition and wanted to see the painting that got vandalised.”

  Oh damn. An empty canvas… Cal…lassandra…

  Dean chuckled. “Defiled would be a better word for it. Should definitely be suing for damages.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s one possibility. I guess.” Lucas gazed around the living room, stopping on the empty canvas perched in the corner. “Where’s the painting?”

  Dean finished filling the mugs with coffee and started spooning excess amounts of sugar in afterwards. “Oh, it’s in the spare room. Just head on down.”

  Lucas jumped off the stool and walked down the hall, turning left near the end.

  I looked down the hall. A strange sickening feeling stirred in my stomach. “How’s the coffee going?”

  “Yeah good mate.” Just head on down if you want. Cal’s all good with people looking at her art when she’s not here.”

  “Oh,” I said, stalling at the stool and looking at the jug as it finally reached boiling point and clicked off.

  “Don’t worry, dude. We might just be flatmates, but she always says I’m allowed to let my friends look at her artwork if they come over.”

  “Ok.”

  “Usually, she has paintings spread around the flat and whatever she’s currently working on in her bedroom, but left this one propped up in the spare room. I guess,” he laughed, “this one’s special.”

  “Uh huh.” I watched him carefully pouring milk into the mugs and then the boiling water. I struggled to find something to say. “It’s pretty cold outside.”

  “Fuck – ain’t it? Guess y’ dying for a hot coffee then?”

  “Uh huh.” I said, eyeing the coffee like a hawk as he placed it down in front of me. I wanted to burn the sickening feeling down, drown it in steaming caffeine, but I drank a little too quickly and spluttered a little.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” I said.

  “Hah! Man, you really were desperate for that coffee. Come on down to the room.”

  “Sure thing.”

  He moved out in front of me with Lucas’ coffee in his hand, while I stood there looking the other way towards the door that we had come in through. I could run. Now. The coffee warmed my hands as the wind outside rattled the windows as a clear reminder of what I’d be going back into. But that would be really weird. I looked back down the hall.

  My feet almost moved by themselves.

  “So this is it?” Lucas said, sipping at his coffee.

  “This is it,” Dean said, sipping at his coffee.

  “This is the painting?”

  “This is the painting.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Kind of.”

  “Somewhat explanatory.”

  “She never explained the paintings to me.”

  “You know, this could bring her the fame she’s been seeking.”

  “Either that or just plain notoriety.”

  Lucas chuckled.

  I stared at the painting. Red wine had soaked into the canvas but had left a clearly faded splash over the original image and had made dribbles down most of the right-hand side.

  “What do you reckon?” Lucas pitched a thumb at me, turning to look at Dean. “This guy’s a bit of an art critic.”

  Dean asked. “Oh yeah? Is the painting any good?”

  “What? No, I’m not an art critic. I guess it’s good. Any art that provokes that kind of reaction has to be good. At least, in some sense.”

  Lucas was fingering his lips, almost as if he was expecting a cigarette to be there. “I don’t get what’s so offensive.”

  That sickening feeling wasn’t going away.

  Dean offered: “She said something to me about the series of paintings needing to be viewed together, but this was the centrepiece. I’m not that into art, so she doesn’t really bother explaining it to me.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Properly.”

  Thoughts of the exhibition were trying to flood their way back into my head as the sweet aroma of caffeine swirled around me. I took another desperate gulp of my coffee unsure of what anybody in this room knew.

  “But, I’ll tell you about this conversation we had once. Apparently,” Dean stressed, “she found out about a guy who burnt a cross in his own church.”

  Oh shhhiiit!… I closed my eyes – just for a moment – and saw the cross swinging in front of me, flames smoking the alarms, the burlyish men of the church rushing the stage and knocking me down as if I had been brandishing a weapon…

  I snapped my eyes open again, wavering on my feet.

  Dean continued on. “Something about him being stood down from church duties, for this or that reason. I don’t know. Fuck knows how she found out though – I didn’t even know about it and I’ve lived here most of my life.”

  Lucas smirked. “I’ve never heard anything about it.”

  I folded my arms, trying to hold the nausea in, coffee cup pressed tightly against my chest. “Maybe it was in the paper.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Well, there you go then. Who the fuck reads the paper?”

  “Yeah that’s it.” Dean clicked his fingers. “I remember she went through this period where she was reading all these papers to find out what was going on in this town. I think she was looking for inspiration.”

  “Oh yeah,” Lucas said. “I remember that. Long hours of going through the library records. Found something did she?”

  “Yeah. I thought she would have mentioned something to you about it Lucas.” He winked. “I know how much you love talking about this shit.”

  Lucas shrugged. “Meh, haven’t really seen her much the last few months. I’ve been pretty focussed on enhancing my own uniqueness through a variety of jobs – some volunteer and some paid.”

  My head was swirling with the memory of what I had done, why I had done it; what the consequences had been…

  Lucas pursed his lips. “I’d say this painting is pretty unique… now.”

  Dean laughed. “Hah, yeah. Wouldn’t it be funny if she kept it that way and decided to re-exhibit it like that?”

  “Hah, that’s not a bad idea, Dean. I was almost going to agree with you about suing for damages – it’s certainly within her rights. But she would definitely be better off with re-exhibiting.”

  I forced some words out of my mouth. “I don’t know. It seems like a pretty strong grievance to have your artwork damaged like that.” I tried to laugh, but it made me feel sick again. “I know I’d be pretty damn angry if someone trashed something I had spent … so long on.”

  “You okay, David?” Lucas was looking at me a little concerned. “A bit pale there.”

  “Yeah I’m okay. Just not always good with… new apartments.” I tried to smile. “Good coffee Dean.”

  “Uh cheers.”

  Lucas turned back to the painting. “Yeah but it’s not like you wouldn’t expect something like that to happen if you were taking such a strong stance about something that everyone else who was witnessing it believed in. I mean to not be prepared for that ki
nd of retaliation, or criticism of your actions, is kind of, just asking for it.”

  “That’s true,” I said. My breathing was getting heavier. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep it together. “I guess, perhaps Callasandra felt, there was a perfectly valid reason to speak out … through her paintings; that reason, about the guy and the … cross.” I took the last gulp of my coffee. “Sometimes when things are so unjust… but people don’t want to know … about … feelings.”

  “I’m not against people speaking out, David. But I am saying that the consequences of speaking out should never be a surprise. The expectation of speaking out is that you are speaking against. And when you speak against, there is always a risk involved. The question is, are you in control of that risk, or is that risk in control of you?”

  I wasn’t in control. I had never been in control. I had just been the not-long-out-of-school kid Rickerton employed to help with and eventually take over Youth Group after running a far better programme that teenagers could actually relate to.

  Dean slapped his hands together. The echo bounced around the walls of the flat, clanging against my ears, like voices yelling at me in their confusion, demanding some kind of explanation:

  “Why David?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Satan be gone from this soul!”

  “She could do both! If she won, she’d have both money and vengeance.” He smiled.

  Lucas wasn’t convinced. “Why sue if vengeance is the goal, if self-satisfaction is the cause, if money is the outcome as though that was some kind of measure of self-hood, propriety and the right thing to do? All this would do is make her a slave to something lesser than herself, something to seek only as a reward or justification system, but would ultimately do nothing for who she is as an individual. She took a step forward by speaking out through her artwork and to identify the self that she is, the strong self that does not need to be pandered to or created by other people; now she needs to continue that step even further. Why not re-evaluate and reinvest in the mistake of another – would not that be the greater revenge? No need to seek revenge outright if living vicariously through someone else’s righteousness brings it’s own personal and self-esteem rewards.”

  Dean was silent.

  I was silent.

  We were both looking at Lucas.

  “Hmmm,” Dean murmured. “Try telling Callasandra that.”

  Lucas sighed. “She’s definitely a tough nut to crack, she is. But she’ll bounce back. I’m sure of it.” He pointed at the painting with a contemplative finger. “This painting is a new thing. It has transformed from its old self into a whole new piece of artwork. It’s true, she could sue for damages, but she could also display it again with the side note of ‘with contributions by Mrs. Stewart’.”

  “Mrs. Stewart would be shocked to know that Callasandra was displaying the painting with her contributions preserved.”

  “Or she might be interested, Dean. Or she might be happy to be an active participant in art. Either way, her reaction means nothing, only that there is a new piece of artwork in existence, and only insofar as her original reaction has helped identify it, and, if you will, ‘christen’ it. Callansandra has a new work to display – a work that I believe is worth continuing to display. What more could you ask for?”

  A chance for all of this to never have happened.

  Lucas took his cell phone out of his pocket and txted Callasandra that he was at her flat.

  I couldn’t imagine how I would feel when Callasandra turned up if I was already on the verge of bringing back up my entire day’s intake of food and coffee. It was bad enough having to stand around listening to Dean and Lucas talk about the painting and how it came into existence, and how my actions a year and a half ago had such consequences for another human being. Lucas made it sound all so rebirthy, and high and mighty, like what had happened to her was a chance to become somehow bigger and greater than she was. It was crazy. I felt sick knowing that when I spoke out everything had been taken away from me and then, finally, come back around to stab me in the back.

  A step forward?

  It just didn’t work like that.

  Lucas was wrong.

  A terrible shiver crept over my shoulders and down my spine. I felt cold, but I desperately needed the fresh air that was beginning to thrash against the windows outside.

  “Hey guys, I’m a bit beat. Not used to all the early morning rising for this job I’ve started. Probably what’s making me feel a little out of it. Gonna take off. Thanks for the coffee Dean. I’ll catch up with you laters.”

  Dean nodded. “Cool dude. Good to meet ya.”

  “Txt me,” Lucas said as I walked into the hall. “We’ll meet up at The Fraterniser tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Sounds good,” I replied without bothering to look at him while moving out of the room. I headed for the door, dropping the coffee mug on the breakfast bench on the way out. Down the stairs I went, taking each step blindly, and nearly slipping several times; hitting the door to outside with full force, and finding some kind of security in the wet and windy streets.

  I hadn’t noticed the rain start while I was upstairs, but it was a large breath of cold fresh air washing over me, and I opened myself to it; let it pour down my face, slide off my jacket and stream across my hands; falling their wasteful drops to developing puddles at my feet.

  The clouds above remembered like it was yesterday.

  It took some time to cool off, to try to forget, to try to remember to forget. To try to remind myself of why I was seeking something outside of the church in the first place.

  Maybe it was, like Mum had said, to put myself in other people’s shoes, to stop thinking about myself. Admittedly, during my time at Youth Group, I was still only just coming out of my teens; a young man, with little actual ‘worldly’ experience, just some kind of understanding about family and ‘lifestyle’ choices that I and the other teenagers younger than me had been experiencing. That had been enough then.

  It wasn’t enough now. I wasn’t even sure what I believed in anymore.

  I tried to pull the jacket in closer to my skin as I crossed the road, remembering when life was nothing more than a wet pavement beneath me, but lately my eyes had carried their gaze to at least shoulder height as though there was more to the world than just looking down and expecting the gaping hole of Hell to open up beneath and swallow me.

  But I had fooled myself.

  Hell was still there trying to take me down into it’s darkest depths, but I was wondering if I even cared. I was practically ready to embrace whatever this godless world was going to throw at me.

  Rickerton had refused to allow me to continue being in charge of youth group because of his petty morals, not because of anything that I had done as a consequence of my lifestyle. The man who had asked me to ‘have a go’ at it in the first place as well!

  So what if I had burnt a piece of wood with a statue on it?

  So what if I had offended other people’s sensibilities?

  Everybody knew I didn’t think much of symbols. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise.

  “…it’s not like you wouldn’t expect something like that to happen if you were taking such a strong stance against it. I mean to not be prepared for that kind of retaliation…”

  How come no one was willing to level that same criticism at Rickerton?

  I combed the rain out of my hair with my fingers, trying to brush my thoughts away with it.

  I no longer felt connected to the church – certainly not that church. Work offered something different, but I was still trying to figure out what that different was. Was it the fight with Satan that I had wanted? It felt like it.

  And it felt like I was losing. How could I have even thought that I might win?

  The rain tapered off but the clouds remained. My feet gently splashed each other in their playful steps. I didn’t really know where I was going. I was just going in an attempt to get aw
ay.

  But my feet took me past windows that constantly reminded me of the lives that other people were living: shop assistants trying desperately to please their customers with fake smiles and empathetic gestures, coffee baristas steaming hot coffees for multitudes of different people, mannequin dressers smiling as I walked past, bankers and buskers, the hopeless and the hopeful. Were these people all doing these jobs for themselves? They had to be. This is why I couldn’t do the volunteer work. It wasn’t for me. It hadn’t meant anything to me, not like the way it had to Lucas.

  I passed the theatre where someone was attaching new posters to the outside boards. He didn’t look particularly enthusiastic about what he was doing.

  If I was going to do something for myself, I had to do something for someone else – but it had to be someone that actually meant something to me. Something more than just “because children are worth it.”

  I knew they were worth it, but it was hard to believe in that knowledge as a force that would continue driving me forward. Where once God had been enough, with His disappearance I no longer had anything that could keep me going.

  I rounded the corner and crossed the road, passing the tinted windows of the government buildings and heading further down Tay Street.

  My feet had brought me to behind the building with no cross outside, just the name out front. I stood there for a while deciding whether or not to go in while slight rays of sunshine tried to crack their way through the thinning clouds, but without much luck.

  I didn’t want to talk to anyone inside. Just wanted to sneak in, get what I needed, and sneak out again.

  I casually walked around the side of the building, peering sneakily through the windows, reliving – to some extent – my pixelated SAS days. The foyer looked deserted. Hopefully I’d be able to get the leaflet without anyone seeing me.

  My shoes squelched against the wet gravel that I walked over. I raised myself on tiptoe to decrease the sound until I hit the concrete and made it to the double doors with as little noise as possible. There was still no one in sight, so I gently opened the swing doors and crept across the foyer to the rack of leaflets on the wall near Alice and Christie’s office. Their door was slightly ajar. Keeping an eye on it I reached my hand up for the Bridge Programme leaflet and lifted it out of the pocket that held it.