by Rick Wood
Oscar’s class had a talk on bullying a few days ago. These people from a local charity came in and spoke about victimisation. It meant that bullies were subtle, that they isolated the vulnerable, that they made you think something was wrong with you.
They said that you should always tell a teacher when you are being bullied.
Oscar had considered this, but he wasn’t sure what to tell them. Was he supposed to complain about some kid that kept staring at him? Was he supposed to say Bertrand had somehow made his book go up in flames from across the room when he was six years old?
He had believed it was Bertrand in the back of his mind — but whenever such ideas entered his immediate thoughts, he dismissed them. Even though, deep down, he believed Bertrand had done it; he had spent many years thinking it was not possible. Even in his young mind, which was predisposed to believing in magic and wild figments of the imagination, there was enough rationality to know it could not have been Bertrand.
Then there was that one day, when he was the last one to leave the classroom. He was just leaving the inner door, which led pass the toilets and to the outer door.
He paused, closing that inner door behind him, and saw a face in the glass pane of the door he knew he would have to pass through.
That same grin. That same chubby face. That same cocky facade.
Oscar had to go out that door. It was the only way out.
He could do it. He would be okay. Bertrand had never physically attacked him; all he did was stare. He had never thrown a punch, or even so much as barged into him.
Oscar closed the inner door behind him.
Took a deep breath.
Shuffled forward. Small steps, slowly edging toward the door.
Halfway there, he stopped.
Bertrand hadn’t moved.
Oscar couldn’t do it.
Bertrand laughed. A loud, bare-faced laugh.
“What’s the matter?” Bertrand mocked. “You scared, you dirty piece of shit?”
Oscar could remember thinking, even at such a young age, that Bertrand’s words had been strangely aggressive for a child. Most playground insults were petty, often with a sexually derogative insinuation that they were too young to actually understand.
But this declaration that Oscar was a dirty piece of shit felt far more adult than it should have done coming out of a twelve-year-old’s mouth.
Oscar backed up, reversing into the classroom, shutting the door with one last glance at Bertrand’s bloated, arrogant smirk.
“Oscar, are you okay?” came a kind woman’s voice from behind him.
He turned around. His teacher, Mrs Bellamy, sat at her desk, looking inquisitively at him.
Oscar just stared at her, wide-eyed, not knowing what to say.
“Oscar, what is it?” she asked.
After no reply was forthcoming, she added, “Why don’t you want to go home?”
Oscar still didn’t know what to say.
“Come here,” Mrs Bellamy said, waving him closer and pushing out a chair beside her desk.
Oscar walked stiffly to the chair and sat on its edge.
“Oscar, I am worried about you,” Mrs Bellamy said. “Your mum and dad are worried, too. You seem ever so quiet. What is wrong?”
Oscar looked into her eyes and realised just how heavily he was breathing.
“Oscar, are you being bullied?”
Oscar looked down.
“Just give me a nod if you are.”
Oscar gave a gentle, non-committal nod.
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
Oh, yes. He would. Very much.
But he couldn’t.
What was he supposed to say?
“Why don’t you just start by telling me who it is?”
Oscar’s gaze wandered to the table where Bertrand sat.
His teacher looked at the table and started listing all the children who sat there.
“Is it Jake?”
Oscar shook his head.
“Samuel?”
He shook his head again.
“Harris? Kabib? Christopher?”
Oscar still shook his head.
“Then why don’t you tell me, Oscar? I won’t say anything unless you are happy for me too, I just want to know who it is.”
Oscar stared at the space his bully occupied. Willing the words to his lips. Just two simple syllables, just one simple admission, and he would tell her who it was.
He decided he would. He took in a deep breath, prepared himself to say the name, then said it.
“Bertrand,” he said, louder than he intended.
“Who?” Mrs Bellamy asked.
“Bertrand.”
“Did you say Bert Land?”
“No, Bertrand. It’s Bertrand.”
Mrs Bellamy looked confused.
“Are you wasting my time, Oscar? Is this some kind of joke?”
Oscar was taken aback. That was not the reaction he was expecting.
“No,” he said. “It’s Bertrand. He’s been doing it for years.”
“Oscar,” she said, then paused. “There is no one in this class called Bertrand.”
Oscar stared at her, allowing the words to sink in. At first, he thought this was some kind of bizarre occurrence. Then he wondered if he’d been imagining things. Then he considered whether she was bullying him too.
Of course she was. Why wouldn’t she want to be in on it? Oscar bet they all had a good laugh about him in the staff room.
He rushed out of the classroom. When he reached the outside door, Bertrand was gone.
In fact, Bertrand was not there again the next day. Or the next day, or the day after that.
Oscar enjoyed this. In fact, he became used to Bertrand not being there, and grew in confidence. Even though he remained introverted and socially awkward, he was no longer the quiet, timid boy he was. He focussed on his GCSE exams, and started talking to others. He even made a friend or two.
But, of course, after the years had gone by and Oscar had found some self-esteem, Bertrand was not gone. He was simply waiting for the perfect time to make his next appearance.
NOW
43
“You were not supposed to do this,” Derek insisted. “This was Oscar’s task, and Oscar’s alone.”
“And you think I’m going to sit by and let Oscar die?” April bit back.
Oscar covered his face and shook his head.
He could not bring himself to witness anymore, yet he knew he could do nothing but witness it. Hell would give him no escape.
“Send me to Hell!” April was shouting. “Send me to Hell! I want to go to Hell!”
“Oh, April,” Oscar pleaded, knowing that they could not hear him. “You do not know what is going to happen…”
“It’s below us, isn’t it?”
She threw her fist downwards, and the bright white light beneath her cracked.
“April, please don’t do this.”
April threw her fist down with her entire body behind it.
“April, you are going to fundamentally end the world because of your stupidity!” Derek objected. “April, this is not what’s meant to happen!”
April looked up at him.
“Goodbye, Derek,” she said.
She punched the ground and fell, plummeting into the depths of Hell.
The bright white light of the room disappeared.
Oscar closed his eyes and covered his face. He felt wind gushing around him, could see the flames dancing between the cracks of his fingers, could feel the screeching of a thousand souls tortured by a thousand demons all around him, and then — nothing.
Stillness.
The familiar smell of April’s shampoo. The smell of her clothes after they had been washed. The smell of her sweat after an exorcism.
She was here, but he knew she wasn’t.
As soon as he opened his eyes, he would see her, but not as he wished. It would be in whatever way Hell had presented her, in whatever way wo
uld torment him most.
But he was wasting time, standing there, keeping his face covered. Who knew what state the world was in now? Who knew whether April was even still alive?
Whatever it was, he had to face it, and he had to hurry.
He took his hands from his face.
He was in the bedroom where he had kept April fastened to the bed. April was there, only she was not tied to the bed, nor did she look like April.
Her appearance was still that of the pale, dishevelled, tortured April with The Devil inside of her. She perched on the end of the bed, watching Oscar. As if awaiting a reaction. Like they were old friends reunited for a coffee.
Yet The Devil still had that look; that one where he knew he had the power.
“I am so fed up of seeing you,” Oscar said. “At what point can we end this stupid, pointless battle?”
“You think it’s gone on too long?”
“Yes. I’ve had enough.”
“My boy, I have been waging this war for eternity. You are merely a blip in the history book of this war.”
“You seem to think, because you are The Devil, I am not–”
“Call me Lucifer.”
“… What?”
“The Devil, it’s so tricky to keep saying. I prefer my fallen angel name that your religion provided. Lucifer will do just fine.”
Oscar huffed. It was all just words; constant conversation about good and evil and who was stronger. He was not lying when he said he was fed up. He was tired, both physically and mentally, from trying to learn from Om’s lessons, from trying to endure the reminders of his mistakes, from constantly trying to retain some kind of hope in a war he could not win.
He wondered what would happen if he just gave up. If he just told The Devil that he’d won. He could have the world. It wasn’t all that great, anyway.
But that was exactly what his opponent wanted.
“What do you want?” Oscar said, throwing his arms in the air and looking around the imitation of a room he knew too well. “Really, what do you want? To talk? Or should we fight? How about we throw a few punches, is that what you’re after?”
“Not at all.”
“Then what do you want from me?”
He felt his entire body lurch forward. He felt his voice break, his eyes grow moist, his breath shorten. This was exactly what his opponent wanted.
Oscar turned around. Grabbed mounds of his hair in his fists.
He needed to stop this petulant arguing. He needed to end this continual struggle. He needed to…
What? What did he need to do?
He had no idea.
He turned back to The Devil. Hands by his side, back straight, fists clenched.
“Are we done with this bit yet?” Oscar asked. “You’re making me relive something I’ve already relived every day for the past few weeks. What, you think showing it to me in your make-believe land will create any more kind of struggle for me?”
The Devil shook his head.
“Then what? What do you want?”
“I want to offer you something.”
“There is nothing you can offer me that I want.”
“I want to offer you everything you want.”
Oscar felt certain this was it — the final test. The part Om had anticipated.
The Devil would deliver him Parinirvana.
The Devil would make all his dreams come true.
“I don’t want it,” Oscar said, though it came out in a whisper.
“You don’t?”
“No. I do not.”
“Okay. Then walk through to the other side and return to your corpse.”
The Devil lifted April’s hand and indicated a small ball of fire. The fire expanded, and expanded, until the flames created the outline of door.
A door Oscar had to walk through. Once he reached the other side, he was free.
Then he would have defeated The Devil, and he could return.
Surely, after that, he would have what he needed to win. He would have defeated The Devil in Hell. He could return with the ability he needed to beat his opponent in his own world.
All he had to do was walk through Parinirvana and come out the other end.
That was it.
“You think this is easy, don’t you?” The Devil said. “You think walking through to the other side will be as simple as a Sunday morning stroll?”
“There is nothing you can tempt me with.”
A grin responded. “Then why don’t you be on your way?”
Oscar turned to the door of flames. Walked toward it. The heat was harsh outside the door frame, but inside of the doorway was cooler. Warm like a sunny afternoon.
He reached out a cautious foot, crossed the barrier with it, and placed it down in the blackness.
He glanced back at The Devil, who had not moved.
He placed his other foot in and stood there, at the beginning of wherever he was going.
He took a breath and walked on, entering the darkness.
44
They left the aeroplane, and Om followed Lorenzo, the pilot, and Oscar’s body to another helicopter. Lorenzo glanced back at him, as if he hoped that Om would have somehow gotten lost.
But Om would not miss this.
He had spent decades in that temple, knowing it was the only way he could be protected. He was much older now, however, and was ready to go out on his own terms.
He felt a little nervous, but quickly let go of any anxiety he felt. He wasn’t going to meet a formidable opponent; he was going to greet an old friend. He was being reunited, not challenged, and that was the way he chose to see it.
After a few minutes in the helicopter, Om wondered where they were going. They just seemed to be flying aimlessly, with no particular location in mind.
“Where are we directed?” he asked Lorenzo.
“We’ll know when we see it.”
Om was confused but, after looking out of the window at the streets below, he understood what Lorenzo meant.
“This is it,” Lorenzo said to the pilot. “Follow the crowd.”
A vast crowd walked aimlessly, all in the same direction, until they came to a stop behind a mass of people, all of whom were on one knee, then dropped to one knee themselves.
The helicopter flew over this worshipping crowd until they came to a figure on top of the hill.
“There he is…” Om whispered.
He may be stood inside a mortal woman’s skin, but it made no difference — Om would recognise Mara anywhere. Sparks flickered from his palms as he sneered at a young woman and a young man stood in front of him, their crucifixes out, ready to battle.
“Fools…” Om muttered — not antagonistically, but sympathetically. Once, he had thought he could use his religion to fight the most ancient, almighty evil.
How wrong he had been.
Mara simply lifted his arms, and those crucifixes rose into the air and burst into flames.
The woman and man looked at each other, joined hands, and turned back to Mara.
“They are going to die…” Om mumbled to himself.
They were both so young, with so much to learn. He could feel the rage burning inside of them, just as he could feel their hope diminishing.
“Let me out,” Om abruptly decided, turning to Lorenzo.
“Are you kidding?” Lorenzo said.
“No, let me out.”
“We are not putting this helicopter down until Oscar is awake.”
“I did not say put the helicopter down, I said let me out.”
Lorenzo rolled his eyes.
“And how would you like us to do that?” he asked.
Om looked around, trying to find some rope or something.
“Just lower the helicopter enough for me to jump out,” Om suggested.
“Did you not see what just happened with those crucifixes? We go too low and we’ll be set on fire.”
“You won’t.”
“Yes, we will.”
; Om glanced back out the window at the woman and man. They were cowering.
“They are going to die,” Om said.
“They are Thea and Henry, both Sensitives. They made their choice.”
“And I made mine.”
Without warning, Om unbuckled himself and rushed to the edge of the helicopter, where he perched.
“It’s too far!” Lorenzo shouted, but Om ignored him.
Om peered out. He readied to jump, then paused, looking back at Lorenzo — who was staring at him bemusedly.
He wondered why they had come to dislike each other so much.
“I do respect you, you know,” Om said.
“What?”
“I am glad we have had this opportunity to work together — to come together and make sure Oscar has the best chance.”
Lorenzo swallowed. He hesitated, then finally replied.
“Yes,” he said, cautiously. “Me too.”
“Thanks to the both of us, Oscar knows what he needs to do, and has a fighting chance.”
“Yes. I suppose.”
Om gave Lorenzo a nod.
“Good luck,” he said, then added, “now let me out.”
Om wasted no more time. He dropped out of the helicopter and hung from the landing skid, causing the helicopter to sag to the side.
“Fine!” Lorenzo said and turned to the pilot. “Just let him out!”
The pilot dropped a little, and Om took this as his cue to let go. He fell, his arms flailing, and landed on a hard mound of grass.
The helicopter returned to the air, leaving him alone.
45
Oscar stepped through the burning door and walked down the black corridor. It was not filled with darkness, but with black. He saw nothing but black beneath his feet, by his arms, and above his head.
But this would end. In the distance was a small ball of white light, growing bigger as he approached. His arm stretched out as he walked closer, wanting it more and more. The white light felt full of joy, while this corridor felt ominous and hopeless.
The white light grew bigger and overcame the black, and he found another door, this time made of bright light.