Whistleblower

by Terry Morgan

CHAPTER 37

  Tom was grateful for the whisky he'd drunk. He'd found a cushion lying near the boxes of paintings, lain down on the bone-hard, wooden floor and slept.

  It was still dark when he awoke so, hearing nothing outside, he crept to the door. The big yellow candle was still alight, flickering but steady, but Jim was nowhere to be seen. He switched the strip light on inside and checked to make sure Jim hadn't crept in during the night, but there was nothing, not even inside the net curtain in the corner which, he assumed, was Jim's usual sleeping quarters. He checked his watch. It was five thirty and just a faint light was showing over the distant hills. Feeling a little nervous, Tom went back outside and sat in the chair, the air cool but still full of buzzing and chirping from the ground and the trees. A bird was calling from somewhere.

  "Where the bloody hell is he?....... Jesus, I see why Jim talks to himself. I've started already."

  He found his trainers, went down the steps and then reached up and by touch only, found the torch. He shone it around Jim's so-called garden and spotted a bamboo hut which he assumed was the toilet. "But I suppose I can piss anywhere."

  Standing at the bottom of the steps, Tom pissed. It was just as he finished that he heard the motorcycle. He hadn't thought to look to see if it was there. A beam of light shone through the trees and Jim appeared. He drove up to the wooden steps and stopped.

  "Early start, Tom. Breakfast. We've a lot to do today." He pushed the motorcycle up against a timber support and went up the steps, carrying more plastic bags. "The food stall a mile or so down the road opens well before dawn."

  "That early, Jim? Christ it's still night-time."

  "Nonsense, it's nearly six o'clock and a good time to work. It's cooler. I always get a lot done before eight," he said, emptying the contents of the plastic bags into dishes in the light from the candle.

  Tom returned to the wicker chair. Jim sat cross-legged on the floor spooning rice and soup into his mouth. "Did you take your medication, Jim?"

  "No, not yet. Later. I was thinking during the night and have made some decisions. I am going to England. I need to check my email and book a flight. But first I would like you to view my paintings and decide which ones to take with us."

  "Us?" thought Tom as Jim stood up, wobbled on his feet and grasped the upright holding the roof. Tom jumped, ready to support him. "Are you sure you're up to all that, Jim?"

  "Of course," Jim said, "Ageing and sickness is inevitable. Youthful vitality diminishes with age. Our eyesight deteriorates, our hearing fails, we are exhausted more easily. Even our intellect is less sharp and our memories fade. Make hay while the sun shines. Loneliness deepens in old age as we start to understand our mortality. But death comes to us all. We come with nothing, we go with nothing. But we should not fear death and we should never regret our past life. Never. That is why I want to go home - at least for a while. There are things I need to do, things I need to say, wrongs that need to be put right. Do you understand?"

  "Yes - I suppose so," said Tom, realising that Jim was on a roll, talking as if he had a far larger audience than one.

  "None of us are immortal, Tom. At the end, money is nothing, possessions are unimportant. Yes, leaving loved ones to cope alone is painful. But what is important is to leave your mark on them so that they remember you with happiness and understanding. When we die, our body decays or is cremated. A dead human body is just an empty shell. It is useless and mindless. It was, in any case, just a temporary, organised, coming together of molecules. Accept it. Believe it. Live in accordance with it. The atoms, the molecules, are all recycled. Nothing is actually lost. Everything is, once more, re-organised, reshaped into other things. It is our thoughts, our opinions, our contribution and our actions that live on."

  "Mmm," said Tom, scraping his dish and drinking from the cup of rainwater that Jim had placed before him as if it was freshly squeezed orange juice.

  "What do you think, Tom? Do you sit and think? Do you ponder on such things? Do you worry about money, possessions, whether you have a big house, a fridge, a car, a TV? And those who already have all these things - what do you suppose they want? A bigger house, a better car, a newer TV, more and more money? Why? What for? Do they ever ask themselves what is really important? Do you, Tom? What is important to you?"

  Tom had no need to think.

  "Maeve was important to me and........."

  Jim immediately interrupted him. "No, Tom. Maeve IS important to you. Do not forget that. Please continue," he said, spooning rice into his mouth.

  "Yes, but she is no longer with me although I still feel she is. Even on the plane out here, I was thinking about her, how much she would have enjoyed the trip. She'd have sat beside me with her arm tucked around mine just looking down on the clouds. I know. I seemed to feel her. And when I go home? She's not there, but she is. Do you understand?"

  "Of course. There we have it, Tom. Maeve still lives. She lives in your heart. Keep her there. She is still around here somewhere." And Jim, still chewing noisily on his breakfast, waved his arms towards the trees and the distant hills where the sky was getting brighter by the minute.

  "What was her favourite colour, Tom?"

  "Pink, I suppose."

  "Then look over there beyond the hills. What colour is the sky?"

  "It's pink," Tom said.

  "Then show her, Tom. In your heart, quietly, to yourself, tell her to look over there and then just sit still for a moment and remember her - while I wash the dishes."