by JT Lawrence
The priest turned his back on the old man so he wouldn’t notice if his fingers shook while pouring. He would have poured himself a drink before the impromptu meeting, to steady his nerves, but he knew he’d be driving that night, so he had reluctantly abstained. When he sat down, a sigh escaped the priest’s lips.
“I assume you know why I asked to see you,” said the bishop, his long wiry eyebrows knitting in an accusing way. His raptorial eyes were unblinking.
“Yes, Your Excellency,” Father Sanderson said. “It is unfortunate.”
“Unfortunate, indeed,” said Bishop Francis. “This report could be a significant problem for Stuart Hall.”
"Yes," agreed the priest and took a shaky sip of his sherry. Despite the clear crimson liquid on his tongue, his mouth remained dry.
“I’m going to have to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course,” said Father Sanderson. Suddenly impatient with his trembling hands, he threw the rest of his sherry down his throat and was glad to be rid of the glass. His foot was still vibrating.
“As you know, Sister Agnes had a complaint from one of the boys.”
The priest and the bishop locked eyes.
“Inappropriate conduct,” the grey-haired man continued, his mouth a hard line, “in the vestry.”
“I was informed,” said Father Sanderson. “But apparently the boy—Ethan—would not say who perpetrated the act.”
Perspiration continued to spread beneath his cassock, and he could now smell the sourness emanating from his body.
“Father Sanderson,” said the bishop. “I can see you are going through a dark night of the soul. I have to ask you. Was it you who interfered with the boy?”
“No,” said the priest, without hesitation. “It was not me, Your Excellency. It will never be me. I have within me neither the desire nor the brutality to do such a thing.”
The bishop seemed satisfied with that, although he had not yet leaned back in the chair or touched his sherry. “Of course, it’s possible that the boy is being dishonest.”
“Yes,” said Father Sanderson.
“Jesus loves hidden souls,” said the bishop. “A hidden flower is the most fragrant.”
Sanderson wondered where his car keys were, and how much fuel he had in the tank. The bishop was waiting for a response from him. Eventually, he said: “The boys at Stuart Hall are not always honest.”
Bishop Francis finally relaxed in his chair with a slump. “Not even his own parents believe his story. They say he deserves a good beating for making up such terrible things.”
“Beating? He’s seven years old.”
“Ethan’s had his share of troubles. He’s not the most trustworthy boy in the school, is he?”
“I suppose not,” said Sanderson.
“They said he shouldn’t be allowed to go home this weekend.”
“The parents said that?”
“Yes. It was no shock to Ethan. I’ll spend some time with the boy tomorrow. See what I can do to stop this from happening again.”
Sanderson nodded. “Good idea.”
“I think we have this figured out, then.”
“All right,” said Sanderson, relieved. “Deo gratias.”
“Deo gratias.” Bishop Francis swigged his sherry and stood up to leave. “I’ll see you at mass. I pray that God may preserve your health and life for many years. All our blessings come to us through our Lord.”
Sanderson walked around the table. “Thank you, Your Excellency.”
When the bishop left, it felt like the whole room exhaled. Father Sanderson checked the corridor to be certain he was gone, then turned back to face the room.
The boy’s pale face surfaced from beneath the gold tassels that hung from the tablecloth covering the front of the desk.
“Ethan,” said Father Sanderson. “Come.”
They hurried down the corridor which had just moments before hosted the bishop's footfall. The priest bundled the boy into his car, an old Toyota with paint chips and a small crack in the windscreen. He lobbed a black satchel onto the back seat, then clicked the boy's safety belt in, made him lie down, and covered him with a blanket. The car started on the second try, and the priest did not switch on the headlights. They drove slowly out of the Stuart Hall grounds. When he was sure no one had noticed their departure, Father Sanderson rolled down his window. He took in huge gulps of fresh air, so fresh-tasting compared to that in his claustrophobic study.
Two hours later, they reached the motel the priest had booked ahead of time. He always used the same motel; this was his seventh visit. He woke Ethan, and they went inside the dingy room. They both sat on the ends of their single beds, facing each other. The priest's foot was tapping the floor again.
“You ready?” asked Father Sanderson.
"Yes," said the boy and began to take off his clothes.
“Wait,” said the priest. “We’ll do your hair first.”
The priest opened his satchel and took out a pair of scissors and a box of black hair dye. He coloured the boy's hair, washed it, then cut it short. It wasn't the best haircut in the world, but it would do. When Ethan stripped, the priest threw his clothes in the bin and gave him the new outfit he had bought. They snapped off the price tags together. Once the boy had dressed, Father Sanderson boiled water and made them both some of the motel's cheap hot chocolate while they waited. It tasted thin and too sweet, but it was a comfort all the same.
Finally, there was a knock on the door. A woman’s soft voice said, “Saint Nicholas.”
Ethan looked up at the priest, and he nodded. The password they had agreed on was correct: the patron saint of children.
Father Sanderson opened the door and handed the boy over to the woman who stood there.
“This is Sister Lindsay,” said the priest.
She was smiling as she took hold of Ethan’s thin shoulders. “It’s just Lindsay. I’m not a nun anymore.”
The boy looked up at Father Sanderson, an indecipherable expression on his face.
“Go well, Ethan,” said the priest. “May the Lord protect you.” He put his hand on the boy’s head as if it were a last benediction. “You’ll never have to see Bishop Francis again.”
Ethan began to sob; his whole body seemed to sag in relief. The woman’s eyes shone with tears as the priest handed her the small black rucksack and looked at his watch. “I need to get back before they notice I’m gone.”
“Of course,” said the social worker. “Travel safely.”
It was a difficult thing to do in life: travel safely. Especially when the people who were supposed to be protecting you were the ones inflicting the wounds.
“Thank you,” he said.
“It’s a good thing you’re doing, Father,” she said, and bundled Ethan into her car.
It’s a good thing. He wanted to find some kind of satisfaction in this. Still, as he thought of Bishop Francis's predatory eyes, he knew it was not enough.
8
Schrödinger Dream
This story is an adapted excerpt from the ‘When Tomorrow Calls’ series.
If you’d like the prequel to this series (‘The Sigma Surrogate’) as a gift, please email me at [email protected] and I’ll send it to you.
***
A well-built man in grimy blue overalls waits outside the front door of a Mr Edward Blanco, number 28, Rosebank Heights. He's on a short stepladder and is pretending to fix the corridor ceiling light, the bulb of which he had unscrewed the day before. Just as he knew she would, the old lady at the end of the passage called general maintenance, the number which he has temporarily diverted to himself.
He would smirk, but he takes himself too seriously. People in his occupation are often thought of having little brain-to-brawn ratio, but in his case, it isn't true. You have to be smart to survive in this game, to stay out of the Crim Colonies.
Smart, and vigilant, he thinks, as he hears someone climbing the stairs behind him and holds an impotent screwdriver
up to an already tightened screw. The unseen person doesn't stop at his landing.
The man in overalls lowers his screwdriver and listens. He's waiting for Mr Blanco to run his evening bath. If Blanco doesn't start during the next few minutes, he'll have to leave and find another reason to visit the building. He has already been there for twenty minutes, and even the pocket granny would know that you don't need more than half an hour to fix a broken light.
At five minutes left, he rechecks the lightbulb and fastens the surrounding fitting, dusts it with an exhalation, folds up his ladder. As he closes his dinged metal toolbox, he hears the movement of water flowing through the pipes in the ceiling. He uses a wireless device in his pocket to momentarily scramble the entrance mechanism on the door. It's as simple as the red light changing to green, a muted click, and he silently opens the door at 28. In the entrance hall of Blanco's flat, he eases off his workman boots, strips off his overalls to reveal his sleeker outfit of a tight black shirt and belted black pants.
The burn scars on his right arm are now visible. The skin is mottled, shiny. He no longer notices it; it's as much a part of him as his eyes or his nose. Perhaps subconsciously it is his constant reminder why he does what he does. Perhaps not.
He stands in his black stockinged feet, biding his time until he hears the taps being turned off. Mr Blanco is half whistling, half humming. A small man; effeminate.
What is that song? So familiar. Something from the 1990s? No, later than that. Melancholy. A perfect choice, really, for how his evening will turn out.
He hears the not-quite-splashing of the man lowering himself into the bath. Tentative. Is it too hot, or too cold? Or perhaps it’s the colour of the water putting him off. Recycled water has a murkiness to it, a suspiciousness. Who knows where that water has been, what it has seen? The public service announcements, now planted everywhere, urge you to shower instead of bath, to save water. It does seem like the cleaner option. If you insist on bathing, they preach, you don’t need a depth of more than five fingers. And then, only every second day. His nose wrinkles slightly at that. He takes his cleanliness very seriously.
Mr Blanco settles in and starts humming again. The man with the burnt arm glides over the parquet flooring and enters the bathroom. Even though his eyes are shut, the man in the bath senses his presence, his face stamped with confusion. The scarred man sweeps Blanco up by his ankles in a graceful one-armed movement, causing water to rush up his nose and into his mouth. As he chokes and writhes upside-down, the man gently holds his head under the water with his free hand.
It's a technique he learnt from watching a rerun on the crime channel. In the early 1900s a grey-eyed George Joseph Smith, dressed in colourful bow ties and hands flashing with gold rings, married and killed at least three women for their life insurance. He would prowl promenades in the evenings looking for lonely spinsters and pounce at any sign of vulnerability. His charisma, likened to a magnetic field, ensured the women would do as he told them, one of his wives even buying the bath in which she was to be murdered. His technique in killing them was cold-blooded, clean: he'd grip their ankles to pull their bodies under—submerge them so swiftly that they would lose consciousness immediately—and they would never show a bruise. But where such care had been taken in the actual murders, Smith was careless with originality and was caught and hanged before he could kill another bride in the bath.
A moment is all it takes, and soon Mr Blanco is reclining in the bath again, slack-jawed, and just a little paler than before. The man in black turns on the taps and fills the tub. It turns out five fingers is enough in which to drown, but it would be better if it looks like an accident.
Mr Blanco's face is a porcelain mask, an ivory island in the milky grey water. Perhaps the person who finds him will think he fell asleep in the bath which he has, in a way. The man washes his hands in the basin, wipes down the room. He throws on the white-collared shirt he brought with him, and within five minutes he is out of the building and walking to the bus station, dumping the dummy toolbox and overalls on the way. He hops on a bus just as it's pulling out onto the road. He's in a good mood, but he doesn't show it. This was one of his easier jobs. He wonders if the other six names on the list will be as effortless.
The man slides his hand into his pocket and pulls out the curiosity he lifted from Blanco’s mantelpiece: a worn piece of ivory—a finger-polished piano key. Engraved on the underside: ‘Love you always, my Plinky Plonky.’ It’s smooth in his palm and retains the warmth of his skin. A melody enters his head. Coldplay: that’s what Blanco was humming. The man finds this very satisfying.
***
The man dressed as a nurse puts his latex-covered fingers on William Soraya's wrist, feels his pulse. It is slow and steady. There is no need to do it: the unconscious athlete is hooked up to all kinds of monitoring equipment. He fusses about the room, rearranging giant bouquets and baskets of fruit and candy. He admires the medal—Soraya's first Olympic gold—on the bedside table. Its placement seems a desperate plea: You were once the fastest man in the world, you can beat this. Please wake up.
The man wearing the borrowed scrubs takes what looks like a pen out of his pocket, clicks it as if he is about to write on Soraya’s chart, and spikes the tube of the IV with it. It is slow-acting enough to give him the ninety seconds he will need to leave the hospital. No alarms will go off while he is still here. He takes the medal and slips it into his trouser pocket as he moves. It is cold against his thigh.
It’s a bitterbright feeling for him, leaving while his mark is still breathing. Doesn’t feel right, especially after the accident he engineered hasn’t proved to be fatal. Still, there will be others. He walks down the passage as quickly as he can without alerting anyone. He breathes hot air into his medimask, requisite for any doctor, nurse, patient or visitor in the hospital. It’s large and covers most of his face, which is most fortunate. Hospitals are one of the easiest places to kill people. His borrowed scrubs cover his other distinguishing characteristics, apart from his generous build, and height. But no one will say: there was a nurse in there with a burnt arm.
***
An attractive platinum-haired woman sits on a park bench at a children's playground in uptown ChinaCity/ Sandton. You can see that she is wealthy. She's laser-tanned, wearing SaSirro top to bottom, some understated white gold jewellery, and has a smooth, unworried forehead, but that's not what gives her wealth away. She is watching the ultimate status symbol: her white pony-tailed son, playing in the sandpit next to the jungle gym. He holds a dirty grey bunny—a stuffed animal—under one arm as he builds a sandcastle with the other. The toy goes everywhere with the boy.
The perfectly made-up woman may look like a bored, stay-at-home mother, but she is in fact on her office lunch break. She was top of her class every year at Stellenbosch University and was fluent in 26 languages by the time she was twenty-one. She didn't finish her degree: she was poached by the top legal attorney firm eight months before she graduated, won over by a huge salary and the promise that she would make partner by twenty-five, which she did.
The woman opens her handbag, takes out a pill, pops it into her mouth and washes it down with a gulp of Anahita, saying a silent prayer for whichever drug company it is that makes TranX. She should know the name—she can tell you the capital city, currency and political state of nearly every country in the world—but today she can't picture the label on the box of capsules in her head. She wonders if she is burnt out; she definitely feels it.
Her son begins a tentative conversation with another little boy in the sandbox. Always the charmer. Her heart contracts; she loves him fiercely, every square millimetre of his skin, every pale hair, every perfect bone, she loves. The scent of his little-boy skin. His cow-licked crown. She has such dreams for him, wonders what he will be like at ten, sixteen, thirty. She never thought she’d feel this way about another person. She’d grown up feeling aloof, alone, her parents blaming it on her stellar IQ, but when her son was born that
sad bubble burst. It hasn’t taken away her anxiety or depression, but it has given her quiet, exquisite moments of joy she hadn’t before imagined possible.
Satisfied that her son is playing happily, she opens her lunchbox. She takes home 32 million rand a year, but she still packs her own lunch every day. Today it is a mango, pepper leaf and coriander salad, humble edamame with pink Maldon salt, and a goose carpaccio and kale poppy-seed bagel.
She takes a few bites of the bagel, enjoying the texture of the expensive meat, the tingling of the mustard. Soon there is a slight tickling at the back of her throat. She tries to swallow the irritation, but it lingers. Trying to stay calm, she opens her bagel and inspects the contents, assuring herself that she had made the sandwich, and that there was no place for contamination. The itch becomes stronger, furring over her tongue too.
She drops the bagel, starts to hyperventilate, presses the panic button on her locket. It sends a request for a heli-vac and a record of her medical history, including her severe peanut allergy, to the nearest private hospital. Her airway is closing now, and she clutches her throat, desperate to keep it open. She searches for her EpiPen, but when she can't see it, looks for a straw, a ballpoint, anything she can force down her throat to keep breathing, but her hands are shaking too much. She loses control over her fingers.
She stands up, lurches forward, waves blindly trying to attract someone’s attention. Her vision becomes patchy; there are sparks and smoke clouds blotting out her son. She tries to call him, tries to call anyone for help, but it’s too late for that. One arm outstretched towards her son, she sinks to her knees on the grass, blue-faced, and topples over.