A Vagrant Story

by Paul Croasdell

  “So you tossed your wife and decided to invest in land instead. I have to wonder what business a man like the one you speak has coming to my church.”

  “She tossed me. I couldn’t do much else so investing’s what I did. Of course, time came when it bored me too. I decided to stop investing in other people’s companies and set about starting my own. That is to say I threw other people out of there’s. They were going under any way so I thought of it as a favour.”

  “You really did, did you?”

  “Not very reassuring of you there, father.”

  “I’m a priest not a shrink.”

  “I couldn’t think the way I used to. I became proud. I became arrogant. Remember that little click at the back of my mind I mentioned? Well it burrowed right into my skull and stayed with me 24/7 – the constant high. The only method of matching a buyout was planning the buyout. I had these schemes, see. I used to take the best employees from my rivals. That way their quality of service tended to decline. Add a few paid rumours and bribed technicians and it’d be enough for them to sell out at the first offer. It was like a giant board game and I was the only one who realised the game started.”

  “It did used to be a relatively sleepy city, at least, as I remember it from my childhood.”

  “And that’s who I am - the character of our story. I know it’s not the best character introduction but I hope it gives you some insight … or knowledge into the kind of guy I was. I need you to know these things so it’s easier for you to hear me out, and hopefully forgive me.”

  “So … have you thought of your first line?”

  “I’ll start with: it happened in a launderette ten years ago…”

  Through the dividing screen the priest’s silhouette shuffled up with renewed interest. He remained in such a position listening more keenly than he thought he might.

  ***

  Back then the man, who would later be known as Rum, had a fancy for suits. He’d buy one from each store, some in doubles if he liked the designs. He preferred suits. It’s all he started wearing since regular clothing became something of a drag to him, tattered rags like he wore in the past. He’d become a success and with it he needed to dress the part, which he did with proud avengeance.

  It was something of a hindrance, however, that with all his suits which held him in this lifestyle there were few launderettes in this whole city catering for them. Most considered it a risk to clean such expensive fabrice. He had just the one laundrette nearby. It was a nice little place at a nice little intersection which he seemed to always pass wherever his office of the day turned up. It was a prime location for a prime market. Naturally, even as the man relished their honourable service he’d being eying up the land since day one.

  So he continued to use their services, returning weekly for pick ups and drop offs. Time would come though, as it so often does for the snake in the grass, when he relinquished his devotion for their services. So he went from saying please and thank you, to angered screams and claims of disappointment.

  Rum couldn’t remember if there was something valid in his complaints or if he fabricated the whole dispute. With his mindset back then he’d do both and think the latter.

  He’d started complaining about damaged suits mostly, which, when seen by enough people couldn’t be good for public relations.

  On this one occasion when he complained, which was his fourth occasion, the store was empty save one clerk and a female ginger haired customer holding onto her newborn who cried persistently in her arms. Her older son, of perhaps ten years with a head of equally ginger hair, ran around the store playing imaginary aeroplanes. It was clear by the woman’s expression that she harboured no sympathy for that man in front of her and his inconsequential nit-picking.

  Rum could remember standing on the customer side of the counter, both staring and screaming down the weedy little clerk opposite with little regard for the red haired woman’s tried patience.

  Rum had an eye for people back then - at least he thought he did. There was a look about this be-speckled clerk. The way he wore that tight buttoned up shirt with those ghastly circular spectacles, the way he shied under his unkempt gelled down hair. Any sod could tell this fool wasn’t going to stick up for himself. The way he spoke confirmed it.

  “Now … hold on a second … you. I-I don’t want any trouble here. I keep telling you your suit is exactly as you left it.”

  Rum waved the bagged suit in anger. “The hell it is! Look at this thing! All these crinkles weren’t in it before. What about this rip here? What about the dirt? You have any idea how much this cost me.”

  “B–but we didn’t do anything. You won’t even show it to me.”

  Rum swung the suit straight to the clerk’s face then pulled it back as fast. “There, see the damage?”

  “I couldn’t see.”

  “Like I need your opinion.”

  With child in arms the red haired woman approached the clerk aggressively. “Look, I’m in a hurry here. Can I just get my clothes and go? I need it for a party in two hours.” She snapped back to her eldest who whizzed about making rattata sounds for an epic plane battle. “Sit down!”

  Rum turned to her. “That’s right, shut your eyes and let them rip you off. How many times have they tried this on you? Bet you always let them away with it. Of course that’s what you did. You’ve no other choice. There‘s not another cleaners for miles.”

  She looked straight over the man to the clerk. “Please, I need to go now. My friend will be here any minuet to pick me up.”

  From a backroom behind the counter a rather plump woman wearing a grey dress suit walked out to address the situation. Before speaking she finished tying her long black hair into a ball.

  From previous encounters Rum recognised her immediately as the store manager.

  “Is there a problem here, Leon?” the manager asked the clerk.

  “It’s this man again,” the clerk replied.

  “So I see. Has another suit been damaged on you? This is the third time isn’t it?”

  “Fourth.”

  “Leon, help the lady. I’ll deal with this gentleman … again.”

  “Help me by offering a refund.”

  “For the suit in your hands? May I see it?”

  “No.”

  “I can’t help if you won’t let me look at it, sir.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with it,” Leon could be heard mumbling as he attended to the red haired lady.

  “Shut up you bag of sticks!” Rum snapped him down.

  A heated exchange of opinion followed between the manager, the clerk and the man in his expensive black suit. The red haired woman merely combed fingers through her hair in frustration.

  Overshadowed by all the noise, the entrance bell over the door chimed with little attention for it. As they argued, a man wearing a dark blue hoodie entered and stood, for all they noticed at the time, passively in third place behind the red haired woman.

  Even as the three continued yelling it was oddly noticeable how the eldest son’s whirling and rattata noises ceased suddenly. No one but the mother herself noticed the boy when he spoke up.

  “Mommy,” he said.

  “Not now,” she replied, fingers massaging forehead to lessen the ruckus.

  The child ran to her side, tugging on her hand. “Mommy,” he said again, pointing at the hooded stranger.

  The mother carried a lazy eye down to her son, only to carry the same eye back up to the hooded gentlemen.

  The hooded man only allowed them to see the lower section of his face, which presented itself with certain calmness. Or as calm as a man could appear when holding a gun at three people too busy raging at each other to notice. There was a toothy grin too.

  That grin cut it most. That’s what sent the mother, with her children in arms, hurdling back safely into the black suited man, who turned in surprise. The clerk named Leon and the manager too turned in surprise.

  For all the hooded man’s
patience they’d finally acknowledged him. He held a gun which none of them could identify but it was small like a pistol and appeared capable of firing in rapid procession.

  “Money!” the hooded man yelled. “Now!”

  The manager curdled up like a scared hamster, shaking head as if unable to understand. By all appearance the clerk could do no better. He didn’t seem consciously aware when he opened the till and handed a bag full of cash over the counter.

  “You too! Give me your purse, your jewellery – come on, come on!” the hooded man yelled at the red haired woman.

  She obeyed, shielding the kids behind her.

  Then the gun turned to that black suited man.

  “You look well loaded. Show me your wallet.” His eyes rolled over the man’s clothing. “That’s some suit - looks expensive. Strip it.”

  The man stared quietly. Over shoulder he could hear the clerk’s voice begging for obedience.

  Rum shook his head against the suggestion.

  By some nervous response the gun man wiped his nose. At least that’s how Rum perceived it. It looked like panic rising in the gunman’s eyes too. Back then Rum thought himself good at reading people. And what he read told him this robber was bluffing. If he could hold out a while longer this punk would run away.

  So Rum grinned. “No. I’m not scared of you. You think that gun makes you look tough – I bet it’s not even loaded.”

  “Just give me your stuff man!”

  “I like my suit. It’s my favourite.”

  “Listen – man!”

  “No you listen. You’re just another sorry little punk brat out for some easy cash. I see that face under there, you don’t look twenty. I bet I could snap that gun out of your hand before you pull the trigger. What you gonna do? The cops are coming.”

  The gun man moved, or jolted, or twitched. In any case Rum read it as aggression and flicked the gun arm aside in an attempt to disarm.

  A string of bullets fired. Cries followed.

  When the bullet spray ended Rum stood there with a ringing in his ears. He heard the gunman cry something, which most certainly did sound like panic, right before he fled stumbling out the front door.

  In the field of vision granted by swirling gun smoke, the man could see bullet holes lined along the wall. The line gapped in spots where the blood splashed.

  The ringing in his ear died down for a horrible screeching of a young larynx. The eldest ginger haired son wailed, cradling his lifeless mother in arms, batting not an eye for the river blood flowing from a bullet hole in her head. It was something else to witness, or realise, that the child was not cradling her but attempting to lift her. She’d fallen flat down and the baby lay crushed beneath her weight. Blood too spurted from the thing. And it twitched too, and like its mother stopped shortly after.

  As if to escape this scene the man turned away to face the counter where the manager and clerk stood previously. They were gone now. One hand had slipped out from under the counter. It was a plump hand of female delicacy. It didn’t move.

  ***

  Old Rum finished the story with chin rested serenely on his palm. It didn’t matter in what tone he told the tale or how much he sobbed or what regret he could vent. All that mattered now was this priest had paid attention, and understood his words.

  A shrill silence resonating from the opposite chamber suggested the priest understood all too well. It took some time for the priest to speak up again.

  “Aubern … Nathan Aubern … is that you?”

  Rum contemplated then sighed before answering. “Yeah … it’s me.”

  Chapter 29

  Rum clicked the confessional door open and left for a pew in the front row. He gazed straight ahead at the altar in wait for the priest to follow. By all appearances Rum sat like a man waiting nervously for a job interview.

  In time the other confessional door did click open and Rum could again hear those hard bottom shoes tapping up closer from behind.

  “You came all this way, you could at least turn and look me in the eye,” the priest said. “It is you isn’t it? It really is you.”

  “I’ve changed a lot,” Rum replied, still without turning.

  “Your clothing has, at least,” the priest retorted. “You didn’t come here for confession. Why did you come here?”

  “I came on a hunch. I saw a donation request for this church over in the shopping centre. I saw your name signed at the bottom of the notice and figured it too high a coincidence to ignore. I couldn’t be sure if it was you but … I just had to come here.”

  “Well … I’m glad some use came of those notices – even if it does bring a man like you here … over someone more decent.”

  “Believe me, I’m not the man I used to be.”

  “I always thought you’d say that when did eventually make your return. I didn’t want you to either, to be honest. I don’t want to forgive you. I don’t want anyone to think you’re worthy of it either.”

  “I understand but…”

  “But you haven’t changed. The way you live has. As for the way you think, the way you act, I doubt very much those things have changed.

  “You won’t even let me speak.”

  “I don’t need to hear you. You come here with that stench of alcohol hanging all over your clothes and expect me to believe you’ve been trying to change.”

  “It helps me…”

  “It helps you forget. It makes hiding easier. Is this what you’ve been doing with yourself, Nathan? You spent these last ten years half dead down some alley hanging onto your bottles. Honestly, I’d have thought better from you.”

  Rum turned to confront the words but instead found himself staring vacantly upon meeting with that face again. The priest, with his ginger hair and turnip cheeks seemed not to have changed since Rum last saw him as a child, when he tried in vain to lift his own mother’s lifeless body. The eyes had changed. They’d changed from dripping tears to a stern glare which seemed never to have cried since. Rum could see his own reflection in them - he looked miserable under his beard and rags.

  “No … you can’t say anything, can you?” the priest continued. “Yeah, I thought with the life you had made for yourself you might present a little more dignity. Even though you dropped off the face of the Earth I always assumed you’d show up one day, just to apologise, but you never did. So Instead I started to look for you.”

  “You did? I never realised.”

  “Even from the very day it happened I went looking for you. I wanted you to see … I wanted to show you … Well, I don’t know what I wanted. I was only a kid back then. I didn’t know what I was feeling.”

  “How long did you look for me?”

  “Five years from that night I wandered the hospital with no mother to cry to. You remained at the back of my mind. With every morning newspaper, I would read it subconsciously scanning for your name. You didn’t appear in one until I was seventeen.”

  “I can guess which one. Found the paper lying on the ground with my own picture staring right up at me. It was about the millionaire who vanished off the face of the earth. I might have disappeared long before it was printed, but my stocks kept going up, along with my bank balance.”

  “People started wondering who you were, and more importantly, where you were. It hit me then, when all those people couldn’t find you rthat you really had disappeared. It left a hole in me to know I would never get a chance to face you down. It left me empty, like a huge space had been torn out of my soul. I actually stopped hating you then.”

  Rum perked up from his shame.

  “But the emptiness was worse than hate. I realised where I was standing in life, going nowhere without a plan for direction. I had wasted so much time looking for revenge. It was then I found my path veering toward God. The change happened so suddenly but when it did I knew the change had been in the works for a long time.”

  “I’m happy things worked for you.”

  “You came here looking for
my forgiveness … I can’t give it to you. Part of me would like to, but a larger part still hates you. I can speak some words and make you leave with a smile built on a lie, but instead I’ll tell you something … Nathan, it’s time you stopped drinking and started suffering. When you make an active attempt to grasp the things that happened, come see me then and I’ll try forgiving you.”

  “I understand.”

  “But remember what I told you … time isn’t as forgiving as God. You can come to my church and ask for God’s forgiveness but I am not God. God forgives you … so long as you are truly sorry. Unlike myself, who is mortal, God does not judge based on deeds but the testimony of the spirit. Don’t try concealing the spirit with phoney deeds, but understand the deeds committed to quell the spirit … that is the first step.”

  “It’s a long step.”

  “You’ll have to take it. And most often it is easier to take the next step forward by taking one step back.”

  “Father?”

  “Try returning to your past life and fixing the problems you left behind to grow. What I mean is, you’re company has become quite a burden on this city. It’s really gone quite out of control. Pretty soon I may even be getting offers to sell up.”

  Rum nodded understanding. “Yeah … I know. My own company’s been such a pain in my own ass for a long time. But it’s not out of control, far from it. It’s doing exactly what I told it. Before I left to the street I put directions in place, orders really, with the leading shareholders. I ordered them to follow my rules as I’d already put down. That’s all they’re doing now. But there weren’t any rules about going too far. The company continued to grow, swallowing anything it could, from hospitals to nursing homes. And it’s all my fault.”

  “It used to be. One could say the old you did those things.”

  “I thought you said I hadn’t really changed.”

  “Not really, but you did come to see me. Even if I would have appreciated the visit coming a lot sooner, it still stands as a sign of maturity on your part.”