The Healing Read online

  For the children afflicted by dreams

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  A Note on the Author

  Also by David Park

  Chapter 1

  Silently, and face down, he scuttled like a rat along the damp course of the ditch, trying to find its deepest safest spot. His toes and sharp-pointed knees gouged soft furrows in the matted bed of leaf mould. Tiny drops of water sprayed on to his back as he burrowed through the tangled wetness of beaded grass. He paused for a second and angled his seed-sprinkled head to listen. It was still coming. Curling tightly into a knot he closed his eyes. It was coming closer all the time. An insect flitted across his hand and dampness seeped into his skin but he held himself still and silent as a stone while the steady tick tick tick unwound towards him. It was almost level now and he could hear the squeak of the saddle and the whirr of the wheels as it laboured along the lane. The sounds tightened slowly round him like a noose, blocking out even the incessant beating of his heart. He waited motionless until they had faded then carefully raised his head to the top of the ditch and peered through a curtain of tousled grass as the black-coated figure hunched over the handlebars struggled up the rise and out of sight. A red ember of light glowed from the reflector. Checking that the road was clear he stood up in the ditch and pulled the damp parts of his trousers from where they had stuck to his skin. His eye caught the insect which had crossed his hand and he put his foot on it and swivelled it slowly from side to side.

  He clambered up the bank. The road felt hard under his feet. Thick hedgerows laced with honeysuckle and hawthorn bound each side of it. He picked up a stone and held it tightly in his hand, its cold hardness giving him a spur of comfort. He would go home now. Staying close to the safety of the ditch he made his way along the road, his senses raw and primed.

  Through gaps in the hedge cows stared out at him, their curious eyes deep pools of liquid. One stuck its head between the strands of wire and pulled at grass on the bank, while others followed his path, shadowy shapes behind a screen. Above him trees locked their branches and as he looked up they seemed like a web about to fall. Suddenly something burst from the mesh of leaf and branch and he flung his arm across his face and dropped to the ground, his heart skimming waves of fear. The magpie winged its way across the fields in a flapping flag of black and white. He stood up and walked quickly on, his hand still clutching the stone.

  He reached the barley field and stopped at the gate where his father had tied plastic bags to frighten the crows. They fluttered lifelessly like tired balloons. The forgotten scarecrow lurched drunkenly to one side, its arms stretched out in a helpless gesture of submission and its tattered clothes blown ragged by the wind. There were some crows in the field, black smudges against the yellow. He climbed on to the gate and holding the top bar with one hand, threw the stone in their direction. It fell hopelessly short, disappearing into the barley like a stone into water, but it sent the crows funnelling skywards like black smoke, their loud squawks plucking the air. He knew they would come back when he had gone, but it did not matter. Who would harvest it now? He climbed down and continued on, his hand missing the strength of the stone.

  He had not gone far when he crouched and listened. Somewhere on the road ahead was a car. Its sound sent a surge of panic through him. On either side unbroken hedgerows fenced him in. He looked behind, but the gate into the barley field was too far away and the ditch had disappeared. They were coming. They were coming back. He was trapped. He bounced from hedgerow to hedgerow before he saw a tiny chink at the foot of the hedge and in desperation forced himself into the gap. Thorns scratched his head and pulled at his clothes but he pushed on, indifferent to the pain. He had almost worked himself clear and into the barley field when he felt himself caught on the branches of hawthorn. He pulled and squirmed but could not break free. The car was almost on him, the noise of its engine roaring in his ears. Shivering with fear he lay face down and covered his ears with his hands, pushing so tightly it was as if he had cupped huge shells over them. When he took them away there was only a ringing silence. The car had gone. He turned and freed his jumper from the thorns – it was badly plucked. Then, still on his front he wriggled free of the hedge and into the cover of the barley field.

  He felt cold and sick, and the field quivered in front of him like a great quilted bed, inviting him to snuggle into its hidden folds. Defying one of the rules of the farm, he crawled towards the centre of the field, his body pushing down a track through the stalks. Sometimes he paused and tried to straighten them behind him in an effort to conceal his track. When he felt he had reached the very heart of the field he lay on his side with his arm under his head like a pillow and his knees pulled into his chest. He had stopped shivering now and he imagined the weak, watery sun beginning to warm his body as he rocked himself, the enveloping safety of the sanctuary lulling him into a fitful calm. Around him the wind swirled the barley, unravelling delicate traceries which whispered gently. He fell into a shallow sleep and did not dream.

  When he woke he stared at the sky. It seemed close enough to touch. He pushed a hand towards a passing cloud. A gull sliced through the air. There was a funny taste in his mouth and his arm was sore. His hands still carried the red scratches of the thorns and there were ears of seed speckling his woollen jumper. He stood up and brushed them off on to the flattened bed his body had made. His bladder felt tight and full and he urinated over the trampled barley, causing little puffs of steam to shoot up sharply. When he had finished he walked back along the path he had made, his hands plucking roughly at the heads of stalks and shredding the seed between his finger and thumb.

  He took the long way back, as always keeping well away from the big field. He skirted widely round it then left the road to cross the meadow where cow pats hardened in the strengthening sun and fine veils of midges shimmered about his head. Reaching the stream he knelt down and pushed his hand against the current, letting the cold water foam about his fingers. He spat and watched it float away. The water’s edge was pock-marked with the hoof prints of cows. He wondered where the herd was now. The slaughterhouse and the butcher’s knife. He thought of their yellow-skinned carcases hanging from shiny metal hooks, tiny drops of blood dripping on to sawdust floors. He imagined their blood flowing into the stream, turning it red, then snatched his hand out of the water and wiped it repeatedly across his trousers. Stepping carefully on the flat stones he crossed the stream and started to run. In the corner of the field he saw a rabbit, its fur discoloured and slimy, and when it started away to shelter it moved slowly and without urgency.

  As he climbed to the high end of the meadow he could see the farm buildings nestling in the hollow below. Grey wisps of smoke were coming from the chimney and above it spurts of swallows stitched the sky with sharp twists of black. The first pair had arrived a month earlier and had relined their old nest which cradled under the eaves of the barn. Then others had come. His father had said they did no harm and would only stay a short while. Once when they had been walking together they had stopped and watched their acrobatic flight. Now they wreathed the house. Soon they too would be gone, their nests under eaves and rafters the only reminders of their presence.

  There were two cars in the yard. People came to the house most days. He knew one belong
ed to their pastor and one to his uncle and aunt. When he touched the bonnets of the cars they were still warm. He wondered how long they would stay. Turning the handle of the kitchen door slowly and gently, he opened it just wide enough to let himself squeeze through. In the kitchen the tap dripped sullenly and the biscuit tin sat open. In the sink slumped two tea bags. A growing pile of unopened tins was stacked in one corner – each time someone called they brought something they had baked. The fridge hummed steadily and the stove gave a tiny creak. A petal fell from the wilting geranium on the window-sill and fluttered on to the work top. He could hear their voices in the living-room. The door was partially closed and he was able to drift by it and reach the stairs without being seen. With the advantage of intimacy he picked his steps carefully, placing his feet where he knew they would produce no creak or noise, and made his way to the top stair. He rested his head in his hands, then perched motionless. He could hear the pastor’s slow voice.

  ‘It’s no easy road you’re travelling on now Elizabeth. It’s a hard way the Lord has chosen for you but I believe the Lord never sends us affliction but he gives us the grace to bear it. In my own life I’ve found it to be so. If we put all our faith in Him we can draw on His strength to see us through. That’s what you must do now Elizabeth, cleave unto Him, and hold nothing back. None of us may understand now why this terrible thing has happened but one day when the light of the Holy Spirit illuminates our sight we shall see the Divine purpose behind it.’

  ‘It’s hard Pastor, it’s very hard.’ His mother’s voice sounded wavering and fragile. ‘He never did any harm to anyone – it wasn’t in him to harm a living soul and look what they did to him. Cut him down as if he was some sort of animal.’

  He could hear her sobs of pain and bitterness, drawn from a deep well which seemed incapable of running dry. His aunt was comforting her, talking to her the way she might have spoken to a child, consoling, hushing, gently scolding. He put his hands over his ears and screwed his eyes tightly closed, but he could not block out the sobs. It was as if they came from inside him.

  ‘What sort of people are they Pastor that can do these things?’ his mother asked, sounding like a child asking an adult to explain some terrible mystery.

  ‘They’re not people at all who can do the likes of that,’ protested his uncle angrily.

  ‘The Bible says the heart of man is exceedingly wicked,’ the Pastor replied. ‘There’s a spirit of evil loose in this land and the Devil has no shortage of willing workers. But there’s one thing we should all be mindful of and that is one day these men with their blood-stained hands will have to give an account of their deeds. It might not be in the courts of this land, or even in our lifetime, but one day they’ll stand before their Maker and the judgement throne, and answer for what they’ve done.’

  ‘It’s more than those two who have something to answer for,’ his uncle continued, unappeased. ‘There were others who put the finger on Tom, locals, maybe even neighbours, and they’re as guilty as the ones who pulled the trigger.’

  ‘That’s why it’s best to move away,’ said his aunt. ‘How could Elizabeth live here and look at people and all the time be wondering if they were the ones? Better to make a new start somewhere fresh. And at least now the Sandfords have bought the farm it means it’ll not pass into the wrong hands.’

  There was silence for a few seconds. A cup chinked against a saucer. He hoped they would go soon.

  ‘Then there’s Samuel to think of,’ his aunt continued. ‘Better for him to start somewhere new, somewhere he won’t see things every day to remind him. A new school in September, new friends – it’s for the best.’

  ‘And Samuel . . . how is Samuel, Elizabeth?’ asked the pastor, his voice edged with caution.

  ‘Much the same, much the same,’ she gasped, her strength ebbing with each word.

  ‘A terrible thing for any human soul to see but for a boy . . . his own father . . . It’s a terrible thing – there’s no two ways about it,’ the Pastor said.

  ‘And is he still . . . ? In the night, Elizabeth?’ his aunt asked.

  There was no spoken answer.

  ‘It’ll pass Elizabeth,’ his uncle affirmed. ‘I know it’s hard to believe but he’s a growing boy and he’s a tough boy. He’ll come through it, he’ll come through the other side. It just needs time.’

  ‘You’ve got to be strong for him,’ urged his aunt. ‘He needs you more than ever now and there’s not an hour of the day when the Lord’s family isn’t praying that you will receive the strength to cope.’

  ‘But I don’t feel strong,’ his mother whimpered. ‘I feel like I just want to lie down somewhere and die. Forgive me Pastor but I just don’t think I can see this thing through.’

  She was crying again and there was the sound of moving chairs. He stood up and peered over the banisters but could only see a few feet into the room. Sitting down again he stared at the angry red scrapes on his hands then licked his tongue along their ridged lengths. There were still flecks of seed on his clothing and he picked them off, letting them float to the bottom of the stairs. Then he heard the pastor saying that they would pray and he knew the visit was coming to a close. Without being able to see he knew they would be kneeling on the floor, elbows resting on their chairs, hands tightly clasped, and faces lined with concentration. As the booming voice forced its way into the silent corners of the house he turned away and entered his bedroom.

  ‘And as Father we bring before You this grieving family we beseech Your Holy Spirit to minister unto them in this their hour of deepest need.’

  He crouched down in the tight space between the wardrobe and the wall. Above his bed he could see bright squares on the wallpaper where once pictures had been stuck, and the dried-up crinkled bits of Sellotape which had held them.

  ‘Give them the grace and strength to bear their heavy burden. Take away this thorned crown and let them know Thy peace, which is the peace which passeth all understanding.’

  A tea-chest sat in the middle of the floor. There were still some small leaves of tea in the paper at the bottom. He had seen them when he was packing his books and possessions. All around stretched the patterned wallpaper where a hundred faces lurked, to emerge each night in the twilight world before sleep.

  ‘Guide them through the difficult days that lie ahead and bless Elizabeth as she seeks to make a new home in the city. Be near to Samuel and heal the wounds which now afflict his soul.’

  A swallow hurtled towards the window then looped back on itself in a black pulse of speed. Others followed it, darting into pockets of space.

  ‘We think too, O Lord, of our province at this dangerous time when each day there is more shedding of innocent blood. We feel that we are a people besieged in our own land and we ask that You may smite the enemy at our gate. The forces of government and state have deserted us and, in this our hour of need, we turn to You for our succour and deliverance. Pour down Your wrath on those who daily sow the seeds of death and destruction and confound their evil schemes. Finally, our Father, we ask You to support Your children with Thy everlasting arms, fill them with Thy Holy Spirit, and above all give them the strength to say like Thy servant of old, “The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the Lord”.’

  He put his hand to the bottom of the wardrobe door and flapped it back towards him so that it walled in his narrow little space, darkening and sealing it. He pulled his knees up tightly until only the tips of his whitened shoes were visible and shut his ears against the words, heard only the strange whisperings of his heart. He shut his ears against the words, heard only the whispering voice telling him to block out the screams, to hide in silence, wear it like a coat buttoned tight about his being. Grow small and safe, locked deep inside himself, small and safe like a silent stone in the ditch.

  Chapter 2

  He raised the edge of the net curtain with the back of his fingers and peered into the street. A man who had got out of the van parked outside the
house next door was screwing a SOLD sign onto the bottom of the estate agent’s board. Rain was beginning to fall and sullen clouds loomed overhead, darkening the afternoon. He was a young man with blond hair, dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, and he seemed to be in a hurry to get the job done. When he had finished attaching the SOLD sign, he straightened the post, which had been blown askew in the winter months of wind and storm, by hammering a wedge into the ground. The garden itself had grown wild through neglect, with weeds overwhelming the flower beds and the grass sprouting tall and ragged. The straggly privet hedge sagged in places where children had pushed each other into it, and in mildewed corners roses spurted sickly colours and dropped blackened petals into the wilderness which tangled about their roots.

  When the young man had finished his task he hurried off, letting the gate swing loudly behind him. He watched the van until it disappeared. The rain was heavier now and thick low clouds seemed to flatten out the lingering brightness of the day. Weighted drops splashed the window and raced into nothingness. He let the curtain fall and walked back to the table. He would come soon. He had waited a long time but it was almost over. It was nearly time. Soon he would come. He went back to the white-clothed table. In the middle of it sat a pile of identical green-backed ledgers. Edges of newspaper cuttings peeped out of them. Picking up the top one he slowly turned the pages, pausing as he studied each one, his mouth silently forming the words which his finger underlined. Sometimes he pushed his face close to the photographs as if lodging them deep in his memory. His hands delicately smoothed wrinkles and traced over the pages as if they were written in braille. Then, reaching some page deep in the ledger, he stopped and closed his eyes, his hands gripping the edges of the table for support. When he opened his eyes again he read the page deliberately, as if forcing himself to finish it. When he had done so, he sat back and glanced towards the window. It was still raining.