The Healing Read online

  He continued turning the pages of the ledger until he reached the end of the cuttings. Two clean white pages stared up at him. He went to the sideboard where newspapers were stacked in neat piles. He searched through one of the piles until he found the paper he was looking for, and from a drawer took out a small pair of scissors and a pot of paste, then returned to the table. Straightening the paper on the table, he squared it up as if it were a deck of playing cards, then carefully, with his tongue peeping out the corner of his mouth, cut out the photograph on the front and pasted it onto the blank page. He had put too much glue on and some oozed out the sides. Taking his handkerchief, he dabbed at it until the excess had been soaked up, then sat back and studied it. He looked mainly at the boy, scanning his features, touching him gently with the tips of his fingers as if absorbing him through touch. Soon he would come. The wait was nearly over. He smoothed the photograph one final time with his handkerchief, then read the caption aloud, slowly and carefully.

  ‘THE WIDOW OF MURDERED UDR SERGEANT THOMAS ANDERSON COMFORTS HER TWELVE-YEAR-OLD SON SAMUEL AT THIS MORNING’S FUNERAL.’

  Then he closed his eyes, clasped his hands together in front of his bowed head and prayed silently for a long time.

  When he had finished he closed the ledger and returned it to the top of the pile, then carried them to the drawer of the sideboard where they were kept. He locked it and placed the key behind the clock which sat in the middle of the fireplace. It had stopped raining and pockets of brightness were beginning to edge out the smothering greyness of the afternoon. He had many things to do and he listed them in his mind. He began by taking the newspaper from the table and spreading it on the tiled hearth, then shovelled the previous night’s ashes onto it. He piled a little heap in the middle, then folded over the corners of the paper to make a scrunched-up parcel. Leaving it on the hearth, he took the ash-tray through the kitchen and out the back door to where the dustbin stood. A breeze blew ash onto his clothes and a fine film of white layered his hands. As he emptied the ashes into the bin, ash puffed up into the air until he smothered it with the metal lid.

  He set down the empty tray, went to the wooden shed and found a hatchet. Its head was loose and he banged the handle on the ground until it was jammed tight then used it to cut sticks, slicing slivers of wood from an assortment of off-cuts and scraps he had gathered. Sometimes the blade struck on a knot and he tapped the ground until it forced through a path. Carrying the sticks in the empty ash-tray, he returned to the fire and placed them on a bed of crumpled paper, then positioned the cinders carefully, mindful not to pile them too deeply in case they smothered the flames. He took the box of matches from the fireplace and tried to strike one, but it broke in two and he dropped it onto the cinders. When the second match sparked into life, his hand shook a little, but he managed to light the corners of the newspaper, holding it until it almost burnt his hand. The fire spread slowly at first then gained a hold and the sticks started to crackle. Placing his face close to the bars of the grate he blew softly, making the flames flicker brightly. Soon all the sticks had caught alight and yellow-tipped flames poked through gaps in the cinders. He rubbed the side of his face with his hand, leaving a grey streak on his cheek.

  He sat down on his chair at the side of the fire and watched it closely. Soon he would add a few small pieces of coal from the scuttle, but not just yet. The fire’s light forced the final vestiges of gloom from the room. Cinders began to glow gently. He drew strength from its light. Often he felt the burden of his appointed task, the terrible weight of the work he must do in the face of darkness – so much darkness all around, more than one man could dispel. But he was no longer relying on himself for the bright flame of light – it would be given, if only he had faith, eyes to see, ears to listen. Sometimes he wondered why God had chosen him, picked him alone from all His servants. Like Moses, he had questioned God, doubted his own worthiness, said, ‘But behold, they will not believe me, nor hearken unto my voice for they will say, The Lord hath not appeared unto thee.’ For a long time he had tried to hide from the knowledge, tried to find reasons why he was the wrong choice.

  He lifted down his Bible and opened it at the marker. ‘And Moses said unto the Lord, O my Lord I am not eloquent, neither heretofore, nor since thou hast spoken unto Thy servant, but I am slow of speech and of a slow tongue. And the Lord said unto him, Who hath made man’s mouth? or who maketh the dumb, or deaf, or the seeing, or the blind? have not I the Lord? Now therefore go, and I will be with thy mouth, and teach thee what thou shalt say.’ The understanding of these words had driven away the doubts. He was waiting, his soul ready. Flames poked through the darkness. Soon a bright light of healing would burst through the darkness. Soon it would be time. God had given him the boy. He was finally coming and his heart gave thanks for the gift.

  Lifting the tongs from the hearth, he dropped a few pieces of coal among the cinders then set the fireguard in place. It was buckled and jagged ends of wire plucked at his knuckles. Then he went into the kitchen and washed his hands, having to rub hard at the thin tongue of soap to produce any lather, and dried them on the faded towel which hung limply from a rail at the back of the door. He sat down on one of the two kitchen chairs and reached for his boots. As he lifted them the heels swung together and a little crust of dry mud flaked to the floor. He folded over the toe of his grey woollen sock and squirmed his foot into the first one then laced it tightly, finishing with a double knot. When the second was almost on, he stood up straight and tested that they were securely on by pushing his weight into them and stamping on the spot like a soldier marking time. He put on his jacket which had been hanging on the back of the chair and searched aimlessly in the pockets for a few seconds. The grey mark on his cheek smouldered like a scar. Then he went out into the back garden.

  All traces of rain had seeped away and a pale yellow sun hung tremulously in the sky. Only the dampness of the grass and the droplets of water weighing down the heads of flowers indicated the heaviness of the earlier rain. He stopped occasionally to pull the dead head of a flower, crumpling the petals in his hands and letting them sprinkle to the ground like confetti. Where the wind had blown the clump of white-faced daisies he paused to push them together and straighten the stakes which held them upright. The grass would need cutting soon. His fingers felt the scented velvety softness of rose petals and without knowing why he slipped them into his pocket.

  The garage smelt of the rotting grass which stuck to the roller of the lawnmower. Along two of the walls makeshift shelves sagged under the weight of tins of paint, with crusted lids and thick drips striping their sides, assorted bottles of grimy liquid, rusted biscuit tins stacked high with nails, screws, door handles and tools. The brown-ribbed remnants of a threadbare carpet, its faded floral swirls splashed with oil stains, stretched into shadowy corners where rubbish piled up in tiered layers. Across the rafters rested planks of wood, an old door with blistered flaking paint and a bicycle frame. In the rotting corners of the window frames dead flies decayed among dense shrouds of web. Going to the window he pulled the curtains closed, making sure that they left no gap through which unwelcome eyes might pry. Grainy shafts of dust-flecked light fanned through the thin frayed curtains, spearing the gloom.

  He checked the door was tightly closed then sat down on a paint-splattered chair which nestled among the accumulation of debris. His eyes flitted nervously, resting briefly on some object before moving on again, exploring with curiosity the discarded remnants of a lifetime. They crossed oil-coated blackened pieces of machinery, deep boxes overflowing with mechanical parts, moss-mottled lengths of guttering, a ladder with broken rungs, and always they circled back towards the same spot. At first he was reluctant to focus on it, almost as if he wanted to disguise his desire to look, to confirm its existence by stealth. A fly buzzed behind the curtain, pinging the glass in its confusion to escape. As he sat straight-backed on the chair, both hands resting on his knees, a thin shaft of light lit up the ash-marked si
de of his face and dust danced weightlessly to some silent music. Then the sunlight suddenly died and he faded into the half-light, his motionless form drawn imperceptibly into a shadowy world where it blended with the discarded and the forgotten.

  He sat for a long time wandering in a world of dream and memory. The fly buzzed more loudly. His gaze turned to an old television set. It was almost completely covered by bits of wood and cardboard boxes. On top of it rested a coiled garden hose and a rolled-up rug. He stood up and walked slowly towards it, hesitated for a second, then began to remove the objects which masked and covered it. He did so carefully, removing them one at a time and setting them down on the floor in a kind of pattern. A spider scurried out from its stolen shelter. When he had cleared them all he turned the set round and looked at the back, then, with shaking fingers, prised it open. In the cleaned-out shell was a green shoe box. He lifted the box level with his chest and carried it back to the chair, holding it tightly in both hands as if afraid that he might drop it. When he had sat down he rested the box on his knees, lifted the lid and let it drop to the ground. Inside was an object wrapped in a yellow oiled cloth and tied up with two black shoe laces. He undid the knots and drew back the corners of the cloth, uncovering the barrel of the gun. His fingers touched its ridged length lightly, then pulled back as if burnt. As he bowed his head over it with closed eyes and mouth working wildly, strange fragmented images filled his head and above them all hovered a dark angel with wings of death. He stretched out his hand into the murky half-light, fingered the blood on the lintels then let his arm fall lifelessly to his side.

  His fingers fumbled with the laces, finding it difficult to retie the knots. He glanced at the curtained window and the closed door as he returned the box to its hiding place. Piece by piece, he returned everything as close to its original position as he could remember. When he had finished he stood back and viewed the arrangement. Once or twice he moved something slightly until he was satisfied that nothing looked disturbed or altered. Then he drew back the curtains and light skirmished with the shadows, forcing its way into the narrow gaps between objects and pushing into the webbed crevices of silence. He took one final look, then went out and locked the door behind him.

  As he dropped the key into his pocket his fingers felt the softness of the rose petals. He wondered how they had got there. Then the voices told him that the boy had given them to him – given them as a sign of his coming. He stopped and took them out, cupping them as if they were water in the hands of a thirsty man. His eyes stroked their velvety surface, explored their blemished beauty. The boy had given them to him. He counted them, blowing gently into his hands to make sure that none was covered by another. There were six. He counted them again. Six. It was a sign. The boy would come in six days. He lifted his cupped hands slowly to the sky then opened them until the petals scattered in the wind.

  Chapter 3

  He sat with his mother in the back seat of his uncle’s car, having pressed the locking button of the door, and slipped into the softness of the upholstery. His mother sat in her best coat, the white handkerchief which wreathed her hand pulled tight like a bracelet. At the rear of the car his uncle experimented with the suitcases, trying to work out the best arrangement, while his aunt supervised with impatient and exasperated gestures. The slam of the boot made him jump and dig his fingers into the seat. His mother glanced towards him and smiled a tight-lipped reassurance.

  ‘It’s for the best, Samuel. We could never manage the farm. It’s better for someone to take it over and look after it properly. It’s what your father would have wanted.’

  He looked up at the windows where the reflections of clouds addled in the glass. In his bedroom the hidden faces in the walls would stare now only into emptiness, the insidious, whispering voices would snake through the husks of rooms and fade into silence. He looked at the heavy front door with its black knocker and letter box, as it squatted solid and secure like the tight lid of a box, and wondered if it would be strong enough to shut in all the evil which sought to lay hold of him and ensnare his being. If it was strong enough he might escape through this journey, escape their clutches and vanish into some safer world where their sharp talons might not reach. If only he could run far enough, run fast enough, he might find some hiding place where their cruel eyes might not seek him out.

  ‘I just feel it’s for the best. There’s nothing here for us now – only bad memories. We’ve got to look forward and try to make a new home. You and me together in a new home.’

  She nodded her head and slowly transferred the handkerchief from one hand to the other, then turned her face away from him and looked out of the window. He stared at the back of her head. The sunlight coming through the rear window of the car lit up her hair, little wisps of grey veining the brown.

  As the car set off slowly down the long lane to the road, his uncle and aunt talked incessantly as if frightened of drowning in the deep pool of silence which had formed round their departure. His mother seemed lost in her memories and kept her face angled to the window, while he peered out at the world he had known and wished his uncle would drive faster. Some swallows plummeted – dark drops of speed – then looped back on themselves. Soon, they, too would leave. Empty nests under eaves. A long line of hedgerow unravelled past his window, so close that he could have reached out and touched it. Its deep pockets of mottled leaf and branch were riddled with blossom and its roots vanished into thick verges where the grass grew tall and wild. He searched it constantly for watching faces or camouflaged shapes screened behind the secret veil of hedge. He sank a little lower in the seat until his eyes were level with the bottom of the glass.

  ‘Are you looking forward to being a city boy, Samuel?’ his aunt asked, turning her head slightly towards him.

  The hedgerow vanished and was replaced by a stone wall, its surface weathered with whorls of yellow and white, while bearded ferns fanned around the base of the stones.

  ‘Yes, he’s looking forward to it,’ his mother replied. ‘There’s a lot more life in the city than the country, lots more things to do.’

  ‘It’ll take a while to get used to it,’ said his uncle as he increased the speed of the car. ‘But young people can adapt to things a lot more easily than us older ones. Isn’t that right, Samuel?’

  He met his uncle’s eyes in the mirror for a second, then looked away. They were reaching the end of the lane. He could hear strange noises in his head. He closed his eyes and held tightly onto the armrest. The door of the house was beginning to creak. Suddenly, a lightning-shaped crack splintered the wood and shot deep forks into the grain. It bulged forward, groaning under the black weight pounding behind it until screws popped out and it sagged forward then ripped open like the flailing skin of a drum. Windows shattered in a tinkling eruption of glass and curtains streamed into the yard like fluttering banners. They were coming! They were coming! He had been foolish to think that they would let him go so easily. He looked into the wing mirror of the car but he knew already that they could not be seen – they could not be seen and could not be touched, but they were always there. He closed his eyes and shrank far into himself.

  ‘You’ve always been a bit of a townie at heart, Elizabeth,’ his aunt said.

  ‘I suppose you’re right, Joan. I like the country all right, but I think it takes you to be born in it to really feel you belong.’

  She turned her face into the car and smiled a little.

  ‘Do you remember when we were just married? I cried my eyes out I was so homesick. It’s a wonder Tom didn’t pack my bags and send me straight home to my mother.’

  Then the smile faded slowly and she turned her head away again.

  ‘I mind it well enough,’ replied his uncle. ‘And what about that first Christmas when you insisted on dragging him all the way up to Belfast to do your shopping. We all thought he’d married a right Lady Muck.’

  His mother laughed a little at the memory and as the car reached the village she rocked hers
elf gently with a warm, lulling song of the past. People going about their shopping stopped and waved to them. They passed the church with its winding gravel driveway; the cluster of tiny shops; the public house with its green glass windows and window boxes. Leaving the main street, they found themselves stuck behind a tractor pulling a trailer, but eventually the familiar was left behind as the car sped on its way to their new life. Country roads gave way to main roads and then, in time, to the motorway. But never fast enough, never fast enough to leave his pursuers behind. They winged their steady way, watching and following with the insistent flapping of tireless wings.

  Along the side of the motorway crows pecked at empty cigarette packets and magpies scrambled across crash barriers to rest in white-barked trees. Long lorries hurtled by, making the car feel small and vulnerable and at times steep banks of grass channelled them to their destination. The further they drove from their old home, the more his mother’s thoughts turned to the future. She talked as if trying to convince herself that everything would work out well but occasionally little moments of doubt appeared.

  ‘I’m sure Belfast’s changed since I was a girl. There’s been a lot of redevelopment, a lot of the old streets knocked down. And even the centre of Belfast – I hardly recognized it the last time we were there. It’s all new shops and big stores. Very nice, like, but different from when we were young.’

  ‘There’s lots of changes all right,’ his aunt agreed. ‘Do you remember when we used to go every Saturday afternoon and spend the few bob we had gathered up between us over the week? Do you mind the times we used to make a cup of tea last an hour in Marshalls?’

  The conversation slipped once more into the past. His mother seemed increasingly drawn into the safe world of days long gone, almost as if she hoped that by going far enough back, she might be able to return to the present by a different road. The motorway reached the outskirts of Belfast. From his window he could see playing fields and houses, and beyond them the Lough burrowing its way into the mouth of the city. Through his mother’s window tiers of houses spread up the slopes of the black ridged mountain. Then the motorway merged with more lanes and drew them closer to the city. In the distance he could see yellow cranes perched at the waterside like birds about to dip their heads. They passed through a tunnel of blue-badged bridges and tall T-shaped lights into a nowhere world littered with the backs of factories and warehouses, wedges of land planted with young trees and shrubs. A train crawled along past rows of terraced houses. Spider writing moved across grey gable walls.