The Black Halo

by Iain Crichton Smith

  By the time he got into the car he was a tax inspector again.

  Everyone was deceiving everyone else, he thought, as he sat at his desk. In the old days people paid their taxes because it was the ethical thing to do, and they had some consideration for society. Now I am caught in a wave of deceit, I am like Canute trying to halt the flow of the water. And he felt on his head a phantom crown of paper.

  The sherry bottle had been opened, he saw, as he looked into the cupboard. But he couldn’t speak to her about it as her heart was bad. When his tea was over he began to work on his papers. She sat reading a woman’s magazine and studying diamond rings.

  ‘They get accountants now,’ he said. ‘Everyone has an account and we can’t nail them though they’re cheating.’ He was the hunter with the sword in a forest of paper sniffing and searching for theft. ‘I think,’ he considered, ‘that I am beginning to lose my sense of smell. And what will happen to me then?’

  They had fought over religion but that was long ago. At night he heard her tossing in her sleep, meeting the man with the black halo again. He wondered if she had found someone else and listened for the name, but no name was ever pronounced. Her hand searched blindly for his in the dark. The night seethed with malpractice and secret, deceitful people. ‘Are you, too, deceitful?’ he asked her in the dark, but she didn’t answer.

  ‘My rainbow is going out,’ she said.

  One day he decided that he had had enough. He wrote out his resignation. After all he was fifty-five now and without children and they had enough to live on. He would tidy the house and look after her. He drove home joyfully through the calm day among the autumn leaves. He was like a father returning to his daughter, for he was older than her.

  She lay on the bed, not breathing. He panicked and phoned for the doctor who came and pronounced her dead. The bottle empty of pills lay at her side, the sherry had all been drunk. He stood there in his dark suit while the doctor spoke some words that he couldn’t understand. ‘I am alone,’ he thought. ‘And outside in the darkness the thieves are prospering.’ That night he took out a blank form and filled it in. Where it said ‘Name’, he wrote, ‘Black Halo’. Where it said ‘Income’, he wrote, ‘I only want justice.’ His face fixed as a stone, he sat by the fire. ‘My God,’ he thought. ‘What have I done?’

  The cathedral didn’t have many mourners for the two of them hardly ever went out and they had few friends. The coffin lay surrounded by four candles. The priest was dressed in purple and there were two boys with bells in red and white gowns. He had come in from a strong wind and there was rain on his face.

  The Lord is my shepherd.

  There is nothing I shall want.

  Fresh and green are the pastures

  where he gives me repose.

  Near restful waters he leads me

  to revive my drooping spirit.

  A wooden carving on the wall near him showed Christ carrying his cross. Here there were no thieves, he thought. A hidden organ played. After all, one of the apostles was a tax collector. They are looking at me, he thought, but I shall not cry. It seemed to him that she was whimpering in the church, crying his name. ‘Black Halo,’ she was saying, ‘black halo.’ He sat, stiff and unmoving. Once the priest turned his back on him and then faced him with the bread and wine in his hand, and in that sudden flash and turn he thought he saw the black halo, the face.

  The incense scattered on the coffin stung his eyes. The pale boys rang their bells. The voice had said,

  I tell you most solemnly

  if you do not eat the flesh of the Son of Man

  and drink his blood

  you will not have life in you.

  It seemed to him that he had eaten her flesh and drunk her blood and there was no one in the coffin at all.

  I demand justice of these thieves, he said to himself. They have no concern for society, they care only for themselves. But he was confused by the music, the beautiful words and dresses, the incense.

  At the end he walked out alone, letting the gale pull at his coat and watching the sea hitting the rocks. He opened the door of his car to enter its dry glass case and was desolated by sobs. He shut the door and covered his face with his hands and the water poured out of his eyes. It was as if the pain was like another being inside him, wrenching him apart. In the east towards the sea he could see the rainbow, arched and colourful, a frail beautiful bridge. He stared at it as if he had not seen a rainbow before. It was not justice, it was mercy, it was a bonus, a concession made by the tax man. Above the waste of sea, raging and white, it curved. ‘My love, my love,’ he cried, ‘how can I sleep tonight without hearing your voice talking to the black halo?’ My hunting is over, he thought. I shall have to learn to live on my own. Others can search out the thieves. In the mirror he caught a glimpse of his face. It was set and fixed, a prow cutting the day. The rainbow had gone, the house was tidier than it had ever been. The women’s magazines were neatly piled at the bottom of the bookcase. He stood there as if in a flood of water now and again touching his head absently. Then he lay down on the bed fully clothed and slept. In his dreams he saw the priest in his purple robes and behind him the rainbow. It throbbed above the altar.

  The Crossing

  When she came down the stony path to the shore the boatman was waiting for her. He didn’t speak and neither did she at first.

  There was a mist over the water and no other boats on the river.

  Finally the boatman said, ‘What was it like, then?’ His cap was low over his forehead and she could’t make out his face.

  ‘It was a life,’ she said.

  ‘And is that all?’

  ‘I was teaching in a school for thirty years. That is what it was.’

  The mist was beginning to rise from the river. And in the distance she could see the long bare outline of the opposite shore.

  ‘Some say one thing, some say another,’ said the boatman.

  ‘There wasn’t on the whole much to it,’ she said. ‘It was often the same, day after day.’

  ‘And you never married,’ he said.

  ‘No.’

  There was a silence and then the boatman said, ‘I suppose marriage has its advantages and disadvantages. I always know those who are married and those who are not.’

  ‘How?’ she asked, trailing her hand in the water.

  ‘The unmarried ones do what you are doing now. They put their hands in the water.’

  As soon as he said these words she drew her hand out of the water and sat again silently watching as the boat moved along, its engine making a clear sound in the morning.

  ‘In the old days we didn’t have an engine,’ said the boatman, as if he knew what she was thinking.

  ‘I imagine not,’ she replied. She was wearing a grey costume and in the dawn it appeared pearly and appropriate. She was as calm and composed as she had always been. In her hand she held a small gift.

  ‘Some ask about the loneliness of it,’ said the boatman. ‘But you didn’t ask. That is another reason why I thought you were unmarried. And also because you have no ring on your finger.’

  ‘I was married to the school,’ she said. ‘That was my wedding day - the day I started there. And the pupils were my children.’

  ‘I see,’ said the boatman. ‘I can understand that.’ But she still could not see his face. Perhaps he was young, perhaps he was old. But if he had been young he wouldn’t have understood what she had been saying.

  ‘Some have gifts with them,’ he said. ‘Rings, bracelets. Others have nothing. Of these there are few, I mean of those who have nothing. But some there have been.’

  ‘It’s possible,’ she said. But she could imagine what it would be like to have nothing. They were now more than halfway across the river which was calm and clear though there was a strong current running through it like a muscle.

  ‘You will be quite happy where you are going,’ said the boatman. ‘I know. You are one of the people who don’t expect much.

&n
bsp; ‘Of course.’ She had never expected much and she had received what she had expected, except for the gift which she held in her hand. That, she had not foreseen for she had always been strict and severe.

  ‘It won’t be long now,’ said the boatman. ‘Most people ask me about the other side, but you ask me nothing.’

  ‘I take things as they come.’

  The boatman puffed smoke from his pipe. The smoke rose like a snake into the sky which was slowly beginning to brighten with a rose of fire.

  She could hear quite clearly in her mind the din from the playground, she could see the children, running, playing football, chasing each other, laughing. That ring of stone in which they moved had been her ring. And yet she wasn’t regretful, not at all. There comes a time when one must have an end to it, and the end has come. She hadn’t been unprepared. In her own way she had been well prepared.

  ‘Well,’ said the boatman. ‘Another two minutes should see us there.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. The only thing was that she didn’t want to wet her shoes but she presumed she wouldn’t have to do that. She trusted the boatman as she had trusted the headmaster.

  The mist had cleared away and all was serene.

  ‘May I ask,’ said the boatman politely, ‘what have you in your hand?’

  ‘An apple,’ she said. ‘A little girl brought it to me on the last day.’

  ‘Is that the gift then?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘that is the gift. It is enough.’ In the reddening light the apple seemed to redden even more.

  ‘It is what I got. I am content.’

  The boat reached the shore and she stepped out of it without wetting her feet. The boatman looked after her for a long time as she strode into the mist of the other land, composed and neat in her grey costume.

  The Beautiful Gown

  When their father and mother adopted an orphan child, Ben and Robert were pleased at first. The child’s name was Joe and he was quiet, respectful and undernourished. Because he owned nothing he was given everything new including shoes, shirts, coats, jackets and a brand new case for school; and this was the beginning of the trouble. For Ben and Robert began to think that their parents loved Joe more than they loved them.

  One day Robert, who was twelve, said to his brother Ben, who was ten, ‘Joe got a new dressing gown today. It’s made of silk. And it’s got pictures of animals on it.’

  Ben, whose own dressing gown was two years old, didn’t say anything but looked at his big brother whom he considered his leader.

  Robert continued, ‘He gets everything new. Mummy and Daddy say that’s because he’s got nothing. But now he’s got everything.’

  Ben waited. His brother always had a plan; he was the one who was always making up new games.

  At that moment Joe passed them in his shimmering gown coming from the bathroom. It glittered and seemed as if it were alive, with its golden lions and its striped tigers and its huge elephants. Joe said good morning in his polite way but they didn’t answer him.

  ‘We must do something,’ said Robert, ‘we must do something.’ His eyes were angry. Ben didn’t like it when Robert became angry, and he remained quiet.

  ‘We must have a plan,’ said Robert. He didn’t say anything more that day but he brooded. Who was this intruder in their house? They had got on so well with their parents but now Joe was the centre of attention. Their mother even told him longer bedtime stories than she told them. She said that no one had told him stories before and that he was very clever. He listened quietly and absorbed everything. Robert in particular seethed with anger but smiled openly. He thought of Joe as a stranger who wandered about the house in his dressing gown like a king.

  One day, Robert said to Ben, ‘I know what I’m going to do.’

  They were sitting at breakfast one morning when their father, who was a doctor, said, ‘I wonder if any of you have seen my cigarette case. I can’t seem to find it.’ He was very fond of this cigarette case firstly because it was made of silver and secondly because it had been given to him as a present by a grateful patient: in fact he no longer smoked. None of the boys admitted to having seen it. Their father couldn’t understand what had happened to it.

  They had a maid whose name was Marie; she was eighteen years old and came from France. She was cleaning out the bedrooms when she found the case under Joe’s pillow.

  ‘Madame, monsieur,’ she said excitedly, ‘I have found what monsieur lost.’ And she produced the cigarette case and handed it to Dr Fellowes.

  ‘In Joe’s room, you say?’ he said in a puzzled voice.

  ‘Yes, monsieur, under his peelow.’

  Dr Fellowes sent for Joe, who pleaded ignorance.

  Finally Dr Fellowes said to him, ‘I had thought better of you. Look at what I have done for you and this is the return I get.’ For the rest of that day he sat in his study in a sad silence. His wife too turned a cold eye on Joe.

  Ben glanced at Robert and realised what had happened. It was Robert who had put the cigarette case in Joe’s room.

  From that time the doctor and his wife became less friendly to Joe. They sent him to a private school almost as if they wanted to get rid of him. Joe said nothing in his own defence but suffered in silence. He knew, however, who was responsible for his disgrace.

  He was in a school different from that of his two foster brothers and was so lonely that he studied very hard, and became the most brilliant student in his class. While he was still in school his foster father died and only his foster mother was left. He often remembered his foster brothers and thought, ‘Well, it was natural. It was hard for them not to be envious.’ But nevertheless he did feel a slight bitterness.

  When their father died and only their mother was left, Robert and Ben, who were now sixteen and fourteen, began to show their real natures, although Robert was the worse of the two and also the leader. When they were home on holiday they would come in late from dances and also ask for large sums of money, and their mother, thinking that she had harmed them by her kindness to Joe, gave them what they wanted. At eighteen and twenty years of age, they began to drink and refused to go to university. They never saw Joe who was still studying as hard as ever; in fact they didn’t want to see him.

  When their mother died they were left a large sum of money as well as the house, which they sold. They squandered all their money and didn’t worry about the future. They bought fast cars and crashed them. They thought their money would last forever. As time passed, their memory of Joe grew dim. They never heard of him and didn’t wish to. They lost all their money and were soon very poor, reduced to living in cheap lodgings.

  It was a cold winter’s night with ice on the street. Ben, now forty, and Robert, thirty-eight, came out of the warm pub. They saw in front of them a jeweller’s window which blazed with jewels of all kinds. They stood in front of the window and studied them. Then they looked all around them; there was no one to be seen but themselves.

  They had no money at all; the week’s dole had been spent.

  Robert looked at Ben and Ben looked back at Robert.

  It was a most peculiar thing but the jewels in the window reminded Ben at that moment of the glimmering colours of Joe’s dressing gown and it came to him as if in a vision that all that had happened to them had begun with that, and he felt resentful towards his big brother Robert. But Robert didn’t seem to feel any guilt at all.

  Suddenly, while he was still standing in his dream, he saw Robert kicking the jeweller’s window, as if he wished to break in amongst the fiery jewellery. A star appeared on the window but the glass didn’t break. At that same moment there was the harsh jangling of an alarm bell and a policeman came running towards them across the ice. They stood there as if transfixed and then began to run. They might have got away if it hadn’t been for the slipperiness of the ice, for Robert slipped as he was running and Ben waited for him and before he knew where they were they were handcuffed and in a van.

  When they were in the p
olice station, the sergeant said to them, ‘You can phone a lawyer if you wish.’

  Robert replied gruffly, ‘We can’t afford a lawyer.’

  ‘In that case,’ said the sergeant, ‘the state can provide you with one. There is a Mr Agnew who is very good, they say. He spends his time helping poor prisoners.’

  All the time they were in the cell the brothers didn’t speak to each other, except that Robert once said, ‘That was bad luck. If it hadn’t been for the ice I would have got away.’

  The cell they were in was cold and miserable and they recalled more luxurious days. Suddenly a policeman opened the door of the cell and said, ‘Mr Agnew to see you.’

  At first they didn’t recognise him but he recognised them in spite of their ragged appearance. It hadn’t occurred to them that their foster brother Joe would become a lawyer. So the three stood there in that miserable cell till finally Joe said, ‘Don’t you recognise me?’

  It was Ben who recognised him first.

  ‘You’re Joe, aren’t you?’ he said quietly.

  Robert raised his head and said in a bitter voice, ‘Now I suppose you’ll get your own back.’

  ‘My own back?’ said Joe. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You know it was me and Ben who framed you, don’t you? All those years ago.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘but it was my own fault too. It was hard for you, I understand. I’ve thought a lot about that incident.’

  Then in a change of tone he said, ‘I believe you were trying to break into a jeweller’s shop.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Robert, and then suddenly, ‘It was just me. Ben had nothing to do with it.’

  Joe’s face became suddenly radiant.

  ‘I see,’ he said. And it was only then that he embraced both of them and it was as if they really were brothers.

  Robert stared at him in wonderment.

  ‘You mean,’ he said, ‘that you are going to help us?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Joe, ‘why do you think I became a poor man’s lawyer? Now sit down and let’s talk. I feel responsible for you.’