by Pat Young
‘I didn’t turn up for work a few times, if I’d had a skinful the night before. All I wanted to do in those dark days was drink myself into oblivion and stay there as long as possible.’
‘Is that why you only ever drink diet cola?’
‘Yeah, exactly. I wasn’t an alcoholic, but I stepped close enough to the edge to be able to look into the abyss. I never want to go back there.’
Marty touched his arm. ‘Were you reported to the General Teaching Council?’
‘No. It never got that serious. I cleaned up my act and got back to work, but by this time I had drawn Smeaton’s attention and he seemed to make it his business to get rid of me.’
Marty was nodding. ‘Now it’s starting to make sense,’ she said. ‘What did he do?’
‘He played dirty, of course. When he couldn’t get me for absenteeism, he dredged up what he called the assault case from all those years ago.’
‘Did you lose your temper and go for him? Come on, tell me you landed one good punch.’ Marty was like a child, bouncing in her seat and demanding the end of the story.
Joe couldn’t help laughing.
‘Nothing that exciting, sorry. I thought about resigning there and then, but I love those bloody kids. I really believe I can make a difference. You heard them today, two in the army, Dykesy going to college. They believe in themselves now, know they have choices that don’t involve drugs.’
‘And Smeaton and his council mates are pulling the plug on all that good work. No wonder you’re angry.’
‘It’s more than that, Marty. I decided, against my better judgement, to go and beg the man to keep the bothy open. I humbled myself for the sake of those boys. Smeaton humiliated me, in front of Morag Cooper and he made it clear how much he was enjoying every minute of it.’
‘Did you drop it?’
‘Nope. I don’t give up that easily.’ Joe told her about his attempt at whistleblowing to the newspapers, and how it was thwarted.
‘His friends in high places?’
‘Yeah, but can you imagine how angry he was when he found out?’
‘Incandescent, I imagine.’
Joe nodded. He rubbed hard at his face, trying to decide whether he should tell her the rest, not sure he could say the words.
Marty seemed to guess he had more to tell. She touched his hand, stilling its frantic motion. ‘What did he say to you?’
Joe couldn’t answer. He shook his head.
‘You can tell me,’ said Marty gently.
‘He more or less called me a paedophile. Said he would have me investigated if I didn’t back off about the bothy.’
‘Oh, that’s disgusting. Even for him, that is sinking to unplumbed depths. But I know where he got the idea. He accused me of the same thing. And it worked. He got rid of me.’ Marty shook her head, a look of revulsion on her face. ‘Don’t tell me that’s why you’ve resigned too?’
‘Nah, I just need to get away from here, Marty. I’ve had it with Scotland and the likes of him. I’m going to Bulgaria. Buying land there. Sally’s old uncle died a few years ago and left her a lot of money. And, I mean, a lot. We had been planning to sell the flat and go build our dream home outside Sozopol. Sally loved that place. We were going to live happily ever after. Just us, horses and dogs, ducks and hens.’ Joe stopped, unable to go on.
Marty seemed to sense that she needed to wait for him to regain his composure. ‘Let me guess. That’s when Sally got sick?’
Joe attempted to smile, nodding, ‘And that was the end of the dream. We woke up to a nightmare. Anyway, I’m financially secure for the rest of my life, provided I don’t do anything daft.’
‘And you want to sort Smeaton out before you go?’
Joe paused, ran his hand through his hair for a moment then said, ‘Marty. I’m like you. I wasn’t ready to be thrown on the scrap heap. I love kids and I wanted to keep on working. Smeaton has robbed me of that too. My job gave me a reason to live through the darkest years of my life.’
‘I was in a dark place too, believe me.’
‘Chance did us both a favour when he tripped me up that day by the canal.’
She gave Joe a beaming smile. ‘And now it’s poor old Smeaton who’s in the dark place and it damn well serves him right.’
***
CHAPTER 67
When he woke up, he remembered almost right away where he was. He opened his eyes to confirm. He had no idea how many days and nights he’d been there and that bothered him. With all the sleeping he’d been doing it could be one, it could be twenty-one. His hip hurt from the hard surface and his arm was numb from using it as a pillow. He rolled over onto his back then remembering he was bare, he covered his privates with his hands.
He’d got used to the cold, almost didn’t feel it any more. Same with the hunger. But wasn’t that what they said about fasting? After the first few missed meals, you really didn’t care for food. Anyway, the smell in here was enough to kill anyone’s appetite.
What he did long for was a drink of water. His mouth was desert-dry and tasted foul. Also, he was worried about how long he could go on without water. He must be seriously dehydrated by now, with all that vomiting and diarrhoea.
He did feel weak, when he thought about it though it had to be said, he wasn’t using up many calories, lying down all day. He imagined his muscles wasting away till he couldn’t use his arms or legs. He pictured the flesh dropping off his bones. His eyesight too would be affected, from living in semi-darkness.
Sleeping and waking to the same bad dream, over and over, reminded him of the film where a man had to keep re-living the same day of his life until he got it right. Maybe that’s what was going on here, except that every day was spent in this black hole, as if he had no life to live. How could he get it right if he wasn’t ever given the chance to try? It was beyond awful.
He started to cry. When he heard the sound, a mewling wail that echoed in this lonely place, he felt like an abandoned infant, but with less chance of being saved.
Whatever had happened to bring him here, it wasn’t a kidnap for ransom. He was being too neglected for that. A dead hostage was a useless hostage.
All he could do was hope for a miracle. Hope someone might happen by and find him, wherever he was, and rescue him from this hell-hole.
‘Help?’ he pleaded, noticing how puny and pathetic his voice sounded. ‘Can someone help me, please?’
There would be no miracle rescue.
It was hopeless, he knew that. Feeling utterly helpless, he gave up.
***
CHAPTER 68
‘What’s that noise?’ said Marty. ‘It sounds like a baby crying.’
Joe laughed, ‘I’d know nothing about that. Probably feral cats fighting. Or a fox.’
Marty concentrated on the screen. ‘It’s him. Can you hear it?’
Smeaton was curled up like a new-born, and as they watched, his shoulders shook in time with the pitiful cries coming from the speakers.
Marty watched Joe’s face. She believed you could tell a lot about a person from the way they reacted to another’s suffering. Joe looked sorry for Smeaton, but when she asked him, he answered harshly, ‘Sorry for him? Are you having a laugh? Rotting in there for the rest of his days would be too good an end.’
Marty told herself she would have answered in much the same way. But despite her hatred of the man, she felt an unexpected sympathy for him. She found it harrowing to see any human being in such obvious distress. Her reaction surprised her and she sought to cover it up, lest Joe see it as a sign of weakness. ‘Yeah, burning in the flames of hell would be better. For all eternity.’
‘Do you believe in that stuff?’
‘No, but he does, and that’s all that counts here.’ Marty was keen to block out the weeping. ‘Should we turn up the white noise for a bit? I hate his guts but I can’t listen to too much more of this.’
‘I agree, it’s not easy to listen to. Mind you, if we wanted to make some money, I know a
few folk who’d buy the CD.’
Even with the volume turned up, the white noise didn’t drown out Smeaton’s wails but it took the edge off and allowed Marty to think of something else.
‘David suspects I’m having an affair.’ She studied Joe, waiting for a reaction but his eyes never left the screen. ‘With you,’ she added, in a quiet voice. Joe seemed to be concentrating on Smeaton’s prone body. He said nothing.
‘He’s been reading my e-mails. Knows we meet in the park.’
Joe looked at her, ‘Where does he think you are right now?’
‘I told him I was going away with some friends.’
‘Did he believe you?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘How did you explain the e-mails?’
‘I told him the truth. That Chance introduced us and we discovered we’d known each other when we were kids. I missed out the part about the huge teenage crush I had on you, focused more on you being my big brother’s friend. Said I’d put you back in touch with Jim. I had already told him I was worried about my weight, thinking I might take up running. I used that as the reason for our meetings in the park.’
‘And what about your romantic trip to Paris?’
Marty could feel the blush warming her neck. ‘It was very nice.’
‘Romantic?’
The blush crept to her face. ‘He was trying very hard to please me, spoiling me. Now I know why.’
‘Because he suspected you of infidelity?’
‘Possibly, although he said it was just to cheer me up, show me he doesn’t take me for granted.’
‘How could any man take you for granted, Marty? You’re amazing.’
‘Yeah, well, we’ve been married a very long time. You know how it is.’ Marty cringed as she heard the words come out of her mouth. She wished she could swallow them down again. Looking at Joe she said, ‘Sorry, insensitive.’
‘I was worried for a moment you might have told him about our plans.’
‘Not a chance. He wouldn’t begin to comprehend what we’re doing here. David can’t understand why I’m not happy to pick up my pension and piss about with art classes and volunteering. Thinks I should be “glad to be out”, content to meet other retired ladies for lunch and gossipy chit-chat. Wants me to take up golf. I mean, can you see me in tartan shorts and a sun visor?’
Joe was laughing, ‘Oh Marty,’ he said, ‘You’re priceless. No, I cannot see you as a golfer. A mad cross-Saharan runner, yes, but a lady golfer? Never.’
‘You see? You hardly know me, and yet you understand why I need to be here, doing this.’
***
CHAPTER 69
Thomas Smeaton could remember no further back than driving his new car. He concluded, therefore, that he’d been in a fatal accident.
His mother wasn’t here with him so she’d either survived, or she’d gone to the other place. And rightly so. She was a lapsed Catholic, had lost her belief and rejected the faith. The last time his mother had attended mass was so long ago, there was no way she could have died in a state of grace. Fine. Hell was what she deserved.
It didn’t matter what he did for her, she was never grateful. It cost a fortune to keep her in Briargrove, but he had wanted the best for her, never mind that it was eating up his inheritance. Did she ever utter a word of thanks? Too busy complaining and moaning about how he had sold her house from under her. He’d spent ages looking for a nice care home, but it didn’t earn him the slightest bit of gratitude.
When he considered the possibility of his mother spending eternity in hell, he felt remarkably little sympathy for her. The rules of the church could not be clearer and his mother had chosen to ignore them. She must have known what lay in store for her. Perhaps she had been hoping to receive the last rites on her death bed. The final forgiveness of sins. She wouldn’t be the first, after all. Nor would she be the first to leave it too late.
He, on the other hand, had been safe. One of the last things he clearly remembered was being at vigil mass the night before the accident, so there was no doubt he’d died in a state of grace.
An itch on his belly demanded his attention and as he scratched bare skin he was forced to re-consider his situation. He was lying naked and thirsty, alone in a dark, almost soundless place. This was hardly the celestial paradise he had always imagined. He raised his eyes heavenward and was disappointed to see nothing more than a vague glow through the darkness.
He lay, staring at the meagre light, trying to discern the face of God in the gloom. If this was heaven, then everything he had ever believed in had led him here. A good and faithful servant of his religion should be able to look upon God’s holy countenance. That was his promised reward for a lifetime of never missing mass, always avoiding sin and confessing impure thoughts.
He clambered to his feet and stood, staring at the light, willing it to emit at least a little radiance. Perhaps, if he looked hard enough, it might take on the shape of God’s face. When he realised he was seeking the image of Jesus that every saint and sinner recognised, he had to remind himself that no one knew what God looked like. No one knew what heaven looked like either. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help thinking of all those religious paintings. He wasn’t expecting a welcome party of angels playing trumpets, but what he did expect was light. Blinding light. Radiant light. Glorious light.
How could this bleak, dark place be Paradise?
He felt outraged, cheated. A lifetime of goodness rewarded by this?
Had he got it wrong? Had he somehow committed a mortal sin in the moments before he died?
Did some mistake of his cause the accident that cost him his life? Had he taken some innocent driver or pedestrian with him? Terrifyingly, he simply did not know. But surely neither of those scenarios would make him guilty of a mortal sin? He would never have intentionally killed another human being. And anyway, with mortal sin on his soul he’d be roasting in the fires of hell, tormented by demons, not languishing alone in this cold, dark place.
Realisation struck him like a blow to the back of his knees. This wasn’t hell. It couldn’t be heaven. That only left one other possibility.
Purgatory.
How could that be? The Holy Father had decreed there was no such place as purgatory. Thomas Smeaton remembered Pope Benedict making his announcement, remembered feeling reassured even though he himself had never been at any risk of ending up there. He’d been so confident of that.
He looked around. There was nothing here but semi-darkness. He tried to recall the words of the Pope. The Holy Father didn’t actually say there was no such thing as purgatory. What he said was that purgatory was a process, not a place. Thomas Smeaton looked around, touched the cold, beaten earth of the floor, felt his hunger, his thirst, his nakedness. He listened to the near-silence. This was as good a definition of a non-place as he could imagine. Someone famous once said, ‘Eliminate all other factors, and the one which remains must be the truth.’
He tried to remember what he had learned about purgatory when he was young. Back then he had taken it all in, terrified of an eternity in hell for the occasional impure thought or night-time exploration of his own body. As he had grown in understanding and sophistication, he’d relaxed, confident he was a good man, guilty of few sins, and none of them important. When he transgressed in little ways, things like keeping too much change in a shop, he always confessed. That sort of thing wasn’t stealing, in his opinion, but he confessed it, to be on the safe side. That way, he kept his conscience clear and his soul unsullied.
And yet here he was, a devout man, in purgatory, deprived of God’s presence. He remembered an old hymn about souls in their agony. Yes, that would sum up how he felt right now.
It was time to calm down and think logically. He had never expected to find himself in this position. Nevertheless, because of his faith, he knew he would be assured of eternal salvation. Eventually.
The problem was, if he was imperfectly purified at the moment, he would need to undergo puri
fication, so he could achieve the holiness necessary to enter the joy of heaven.
That bit was straightforward enough. He knew where he was and he knew what he had to do to escape. Become purified. Repent his sins. Okay, first he would have to identify those sins. That was going to be difficult; he couldn’t think of any.
***
CHAPTER 70
He could start with an act of contrition.
On his knees, he took in a deep breath and spoke the words he had used at every confession. The difference this time was, there was no priest to listen and act as God’s representative. This time, it was God himself who was listening. God alone would decide whether he would be absolved.
‘O my God, I am heartily sorry for having offended Thee, and I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven, and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend Thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of Thy grace, to sin no more and avoid the near occasions of sin.’
That last line seemed a bit pointless, given he was dead and not in any position to sin? How was he supposed to know what to pray in purgatory? They don’t tell you that.
He waited a moment or two in the hope that one prayer might be enough for a good man like himself. He gazed at the light above his head and willed it to create the radiance he so craved. Nothing happened.
He racked his brains for another suitable prayer. Recalling the lines from Psalm 51, he prayed quietly, ‘Have mercy on me, O God, blot out my transgressions. Wash me thoroughly from my iniquity, and cleanse me from my sin.’ That sounded more appropriate. He went on, glad he could remember enough to make a meaningful prayer. ‘For I know my transgressions, and my sin is ever before me.’ He wished he could see his sin before him now, so he could work out why he’d been sent to this dark place.
Concentrate. Unless he prayed with all his heart, he might as well not bother. What was the next bit? ‘Cast me not away from your presence, and take not your Holy Spirit from me.’