With and Without, Within and Without

by Euan McAllen

  ‘Thought what through?’ asked Lady Agnes.

  ‘Don’t know. Haven’t thought it through yet.’ Stupid woman.

  It may have been shame: shame that he had acted so cruelly; or mistrust, not really sure whose side the ex-king was on. Just on his own side at the end of the day?

  Later still, Mutz would order the doctor to do likewise, else suffer the consequences - consequences he did not spell out. On hearing the news of Helmotti’s appearance, Doc asked if he was in good health. Did the king need a check-up?

  ‘Ex-king, you fool,’ said Mutz severely.

  ***

  Ricardo paid Tassilo - still his vicar - a visit, not looking for spiritual help but to offer it: he was worried for his man, and the sight of a smashed window increased his anxiety. He found the disgraced vicar in his private quarters as if hiding from the world, which made perfect sense to Ricardo. The crowd was turning nasty. He could smell it in the air; taste it; sometimes see it in the faces as they flew by.

  Ricardo knocked on the bedroom door and announced himself. He heard Tassilo say ‘wait a moment’, followed by the rattling of metal objects whereupon his imagination took him to a dark place and he rushed on in; not waiting for permission, not afraid to be persecuted. Tassilo, ex-vicar, homeless, was sitting on the floor; down and out, slightly crazed. Startled, he looked up. The look of guilt broke out across his face.

  ‘You should have waited.’

  ‘I was worried. Thought you might be hurting yourself.’

  It was a convenient lie. Ricardo knew what he had heard exactly: the sound of the artefacts; and he saw one sticking out from under a blanket. His heart sank.

  ‘Tassilo, no. What were you thinking?’

  ‘They owe me. These are mine now.’ Tassilo looked like he was about to burst into tears, and he was.

  ‘And what exactly do you intend to do with this stuff? Sell it? You know you can’t. Hide it away for the rest of your life? Let it rust or keep polishing it? And every day worry that you will be found out. You know what our village is like for keeping secrets.’

  Ricardo had one more thing to add. ‘And I will not have that stuff in my home.’

  The weight and logic of Ricardo’s argument sank in, and made Tassilo see sense - but it also made him want to cry even more. Yes, it was a bloody stupid thing to do, he could see that now. Ricardo knelt down and took his hand: the hand of the man he still loved despite the public exposure.

  ‘You said not in your home?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So I can stay with you?’

  ‘Of course, you can. I would not have it any other way. Do you think I would just abandon you?’

  Ricardo pulled back the blanket to reveal all the artefacts, in all their timeless glory and mystery, and abandonment.

  ‘We have to put this back.’

  ‘Back? Back where? The hall’s burnt down?’

  Ricardo thought a moment still holding Tassilo’s hand like he was holding the hand of a lost, frightened child.

  ‘Back in the church where you first put it.’

  ‘But I said they were stolen?’

  ‘So we say the thief put them back - they may even get stolen again, for real. Either way, you’re covered.’

  Tassilo was not convinced. Nor was Ricardo. He thought even harder.

  ‘Let’s bury them,’ he said.

  ‘Good idea.’

  They hugged again, to celebrate the good idea, and the artefacts were hidden away under the blanket: to be smuggled out into the dark of the night, to be buried; perhaps to be unearthed one day in the far off future, perhaps when The Village or the Maze ceased to exist. The hug was sweet, honest, and solid, but it was brought to an abrupt halt by a banging on the door next door - the door which was the private side entrance. Tassilo nearly jumped out of his skin and had to be calmed down.

  ‘You answer it. Tell them I’m not here.’

  Ricardo did as requested, and he too nearly jumped out of his skin: it was his younger brothers; still in their standard black and grey but bigger, meaner. His past had just slapped him in the face and now threatened to bite his head off. They looked surprised. They looked unhappy like they were unhappy not only with the universe around them but their own internal existence. It was not a good family reunion. The brothers of Ricardo took a step back and looked at each other, clueless as to what to do or say. They stopped looking mean and became nervous instead. They did not like such close proximity to their expelled brother. Disgust crept up on them and throttled their throats. Father had always told them to stay away from him, and now here he was, in their face. Disgusting.

  Ricardo held firm, refusing to be intimidated, and decided to get the first word in. He spoke with a chill in his heart as well as in his voice.

  ‘What are you two doing here?’

  The older brother, Eli, would do the talking while the other would nod as if to say ‘that’s what I would have said had I spoken’.

  ‘Not to see you.’ Eli spoke as if each word had to be individually baked and moved to the front of the mouth before being spat out for consumption.

  For now it was all the two brothers would say. They stood uncomfortable in front of their older brother: the black sheep of the family, expelled from Heaven. They felt uncomfortable within themselves. And then the hate kicked in. It was automatic. It had been put there, and nurtured, by their father. They could not bear to set their eyes on him, let alone talk to him. As to why he was there in the home of The Village vicar: that was a question they did not need to ask. They wanted him gone, to not be reminded of their past association for such reminders were too uncomfortable to digest. They just wanted to speak to the vicar - even though he too was one ‘of them’ - for he was their enemy’s enemy.

  ‘We’ve come to see the vicar,’ said one, finally, as if it was a distasteful thing to say.

  ‘Is he here? We were told he was.’

  ‘What do you want with him?’ asked Ricardo.

  ‘It’s about Sinead.’

  On hearing that name, Tassilo suddenly appeared at the door and leapt into the conversation.

  ‘What about her?’

  The two brothers stalled as they looked at him, again struggling to contain their disgust. But they had to deal with him.

  ‘Can we speak to you in private please?’

  ‘Why not in front of him?’

  ‘We’d rather not.’

  Ricardo made it clear that he didn’t give a damn and left. He had no time for hate, only love, and survival.

  Alone with Tassilo, the brothers explained their mission, as if asking for permission from the church. They were after the one who called himself Grimble: to right a wrong; to seek vengeance, God’s vengeance. Why? Asked Tassilo. Not that he needed any reason.

  ‘Because he nearly killed our father,’ said one.

  ‘Left him paralysed,’ said the other.

  ‘Paralysed? How? Did he physically assault him?’ asked Tassilo.

  ‘Yes. But it was the aftershock.’

  ‘We think his heart stopped, then restarted.’

  ‘Left him paralysed.’

  ‘And what will you do to this Grimble once you catch him?’

  ‘Have him locked up.’

  ‘For a long, long time.’

  ‘Perhaps break a leg.’

  ‘An eye for an eye.’

  The thought of Grimble locked up with the crazy Sinead appealed to Tassilo. It would also be his vengeance. Yes, God approved - and he told them so.

  ‘God allows such a wrong to be put right. You are doing the right thing.’

  That came as a blessing to them, a bonus: to have the blessing of The Village vicar. Unfortunately he had no idea where the scoundrel was.

 
‘Watch out for him and his gang, sooner or later they will turn up, possibly smoking some foul green leaves and out of their heads. Best wait until he is back home, without his gang.’

  ‘That will be the time to take him then,’ said one brother.

  ‘Definitely,’ said the other.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Sinead? She’s under arrest, locked up. She’s a danger to the community.’

  That made sense to the brothers and they took their leave, conscious that talking to a sodomite had not been the awful experience they had expected. If anything, he came across as rather normal, almost bland. Still, every rule had an exception.

  Meanwhile, Ricardo went straight to jail, to see his sister, to tell her of the news, but she refused to see him. So be it, he told himself. Let that family stew. Time to start my own family. We could get a puppy, he thought. Me, my Tassilo, and our puppy. That would be a start. He went home, satisfied in some things, dissatisfied in others; sat down and looked around at the state of the place as if he had just moved in. Would Tassilo want to change anything? Would they take turns doing the cooking? Would each wash their own clothes or take turns to do it all? So many little questions - to avoid thinking about the big ones.

  ***

  A herd began to gather. Word spread. Words and high emotions pulled individual thoughts into the herd mentality. The misdemeanours and malevolence of the few multiplied. One man’s outrage was adopted, sometimes hijacked. A single thinking beast took form, made of many moving parts, but with one mob mentality. It began to move, to march, to shout, to trample; slowing only when it needed direction; only stopping when it ran out of breath. You could not be an onlooker: you had to join in; else hide; else be part of the problem. One thing led to the next. The party of protest became a riot, the ultimate fun time - but lacking all satisfaction. Like ice-cream, it tasted good but didn’t fill the belly or feed the body.

  The chains were off. Consequences were not considered. Self-expression was all the rage and became a rage within. Those who rioted wanted someone or something to kick, to blame. Some suddenly felt free, free to do what they liked; free to register their complaint against life by hitting someone or something and shouting loudly before, during, and after the act until the throat ran dry, or there were no words left to shout. They wanted to take control, just long enough to feel the power, to exercise it; before dropping it, in the mud, for with power came responsibility and no one wanted that - too much hard work. They just wanted everything to be right, to work, to be in their favour; to be cheap and always available. They wanted heaven but without a god making demands on their conscience or their time. They wanted it all.

  Farmer Giles stepped out of the bathhouse into the street, clean, smelling of roses and looking good, but slightly drunk from drinking in the bath; to be told by one of his men that trouble was stirring in The Village, the serious kind: a full-scale riot was starting. Let them, thought Farmer Giles. Then I come in and pick up the pieces, at rock-bottom prices. There’s a killing to be made today.

  Then he had a fresh, crazy thought: abduct the truly amazing, young, fit and healthy Lady Agnes Aga-Smath. She may not have the looks she once proudly flaunted, but she would be good in bed and produce healthy children. He needed her bloodstock if not her love. The more he thought about it, the more he loved his crazy plan. He had one prisoner - not counting the bear - why not make it two? And she was no villager. In times of anarchy, anything was possible, everything was illegal, so may as well go the whole hog and steal a whole pig.

  Farmer Giles hurried off back to his farm, with a spring in his step, to summon the rest of his men; telling those present to go to the brothel; to start trouble there; stone it, incite the crowd, place it under siege; scare the hell out of them: for his crazy idea had invoked a second, based on a long-standing business aspiration. He had always had the brothel in his sights: previous offers had been scorned, and then rejected by that cow, the brothel keeper. After today, she would come to him, begging him to buy it off her.

  It was a good business to have. Owning the brothel (and expanding the office space) would not only make him richer but increase his knowledge of what went on in The Village. He would have their secrets. And that meant the power to influence, to bring down those who got in his way of making more money, buying more influence. His dream was to die owning The Village, and passing it on to his first son, like a king - the ultimate businessman.

  Farmer Giles was lucky, for after he left the bathhouse some men broke in and urinated into the baths - and over the one bather they found there. He had a beard. He was an Elder. (Later, after he stepped back out into the street they would be waiting for him. They would throw him to ground and cut off his beard, and laugh as he ran off like a chicken.)

  The Village began to convulse, spitting out anger, frustration and setting light to old grievances. Feelings ran high, having run low. Faces were pulled, having been set sour. Threats were made, having been fed. The produce of the past, of hard work, of community cooperation and spirit, was trashed. Children, scared, were kept indoors by worried mothers - else grew up fast. No one knew what they were doing, only why, and they did not care to know. They just wanted it to hurt: to hurt others like it had hurt them. It felt great to hit something, smash something, blame someone; and cheer about it, and shout about it, and provoke others to do the same, and cheer them on. Here was justice. Here was revenge. Here was the moment worth living. Let the future take care of itself. Let that pay for itself. Let others clean up the mess. They owned the present. They could do what they liked with it.

  Some rioters vandalized the duck pond: put there by a previous generation of Elders, they found it annoying, so they set fire to a ceremonial wooden bench and dumped it in the pond, scattering the ducks. (In time the ducks would come back, having nowhere else to go.) Others vented their anger on the ‘Village Limits’ sign: it was kicked over and trampled on, just for the sheer joy of it. A new one would spring up later. It always did. The ancient statue of the ‘First Senior Elder’, thought to have been erected at the founding of The Village, lost his head which was covered in pigeon shit and moss; it was decapitated by the mob.

  Some turned their fury on to the reminders and remains of the Maze, attacking the walls which littered The Village. The Maze did not yield: it proved too much effort to dismantle the blocks of stone. They gave up. The Maze won. Today was not a day for hard work. They moved on, looking for easier targets.

  A few did have an agenda: to bring down those who ruled without a mandate, never having been democratically elected, who were too old. They wanted elections. They wanted to take charge. They raised the crowd against the Elders and organised a ‘spontaneous’ march on their houses.

  They marched through the streets on towards the houses of the Elders, stopping at shop premises to vent their fury on overpriced goods and services, and to steal. Some traders ran for cover. Others, like Corbelli Shuman The Village cobbler, defended their premises to the last: the price for which would be a nasty blow to his head, and stolen stock. Unlike others, he would not go back to work the next day and clean up the mess.

  Elders, on hearing the rumours, then the developments, were first outraged, then alarmed, then worried. They hid themselves away in their homes, their guards patrolling the gates. The mob laid siege to the houses of the Elders: telling them to show their faces; happy to rattle the gates and throw rubbish over the walls, but not storm those high walls, not take on the guards. The Elders might ignore the petition, but they could not ignore them. It was a stand-off, mostly.

  The Village Hangman was also outraged by the lawbreakers but he did not hide away: he went out on the street with his men - men now on triple time - demanding it stop, only to be jeered. But he did not try to arrest anyone - the men were there to protect him, not make arrests - for the cells were full. He could only look on, feeling useless. Tom the village pickpocket
saw it all in a more positive light: this was a time for rich pickings.

  The two gangs, with nothing to protest about, no long- held grievances, protested about each other; and soon their protests turned into fights: random, fragmented outbursts as they chased each other up and down streets for no good reason, other than it felt good, and no one was yelling at them to stop. The Village had never been as much fun: mums and dads and old people were all shouting and screaming and causing trouble just like them. It was a free-for-all. Suddenly they felt the equals of those who tried to control them, contain them, rule them. Festez, now a full-blown member of the Skinned Heads, loved it. His sister nearly died. When she tried to stop him leaving the house, he punched her away, at which point she gave up on him.

  The church took a serious beating. There was a fever, like a Saturday night fever. There were looks, startled or frozen. There were double-takes, repeated. There were whispers, getting louder. There were denials, few to mention. There was temptation, too much to ignore. It all got out of hand.

  It started with a lick of paint, then big letters, then big words: big words which read ‘give us our bingo’, in capitals, with an exclamation mark added afterward. It followed with windows being smashed, at which point Tassilo nearly shit himself and ran off to hide in his bedroom, his inner sanctum: under the bed blanket, petrified, he was angry with God. The Village people had gone mad. God could not contain them. The cat was let out of the bag, snarling, scratching, scathing.

  He thought they were coming for him. But none of those attacking the church gave a damn about him. He was history. No, they just hated the church and the taxes it generated, and the lack of bingo. They would not renovate it: they would demolish it. Enough of God. Enough of vicars. Enough of Elders.