“I wasn’t always like this,” says the man.
“I used to be a successful broker.” He sniffs with a dignified air.
“Does that mean you broke things?” asks the
boy, interested despite himself. “Like a scrap yard?”
The man gives a brief laugh.
“Yes, well, that too. No. I used to buy
things. I used to buy and sell money. That’s what a broker does. I used to deal
with high finance.” He sniffs again and looks around him. “It has taken me a
long time to remember. When I first came here I couldn’t remember a thing. Then
over the years……I used to have a car. A very fast car. Red. I liked the speed.
It made me feel alive. The faster I went, the more alive I felt. Until one
day………well, here I am. No cars out here. Just this box. I loved that car. The
girls loved that car too,” he says, smiling at the old lady who is watching him
with disinterest.
“It used to get them all excited. No girls
around here though….except the one in the box,” he indicates with his eyes just
as the small door with the big pair of knockers goes by. A feminine hand gives
a slight wave through the crack. “But I don’t think she’ll ever stop for me,”
he says in a moment of self-honesty. Then he stares rather strangely at the
boy.
“You look familiar you know. I don’t think we’ve
ever met, but you do look familiar. Strange that, ‘cause I know all the corpses
in the cemetery.”
“I’m not dead,” says the boy.
“Ah, that explains it. Maybe one of your
relatives lives there….so to speak?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Yeah. That’s the worst of it. How much?”
“What?”
“How much do you want for me to spend the
night with your lady there?”
“Go away,” says the boy, fearing that he was
on the verge of another unpleasant incident like back at the gate. Another
sacrifice. “Go away. I don’t like you.” He wags his stick at him.
“GAARRRR.” The camel joins in too. She is
all too ready to take a chunk out of his hide.
“Alright. Relax.”
They all sit in silence for a while.
“That’s the worst really, when you start to
remember. All the stupid things you’ve done. All the people you miss.”
“Leave him alone,” says the messenger.
“You’re only making things worse.”
But the man’s words had already set the boy
off on a train of thought…well, a train of feeling really; a homesick kind of
feeling. Suddenly he wants to be alone and wanders off until he is quite by
himself and sits down behind a dune. Absentmindedly he begins drawing in the dust
with his stick.
Then without any warning he begins to cry. Overwhelmed,
lonely and lost, his tears begin to drop onto the desert like black dots. Through
his blurry eyes he sees the sand begin to move. At first he thinks it is his
imagination and wipes his eyes on the back of his wrist. But the sand is still
moving, rising up in front of him and turning into a shape. The boy waits, fascinated
to see what it is. In no time at all he sees a boy, about the same height as
himself, made of sand.
Somehow the sand seems to hold its
shape…but only just. When it speaks, bits of sand drop off its lips and face and
it has to continually reform itself.
“Why…are…you…crying…?”
“Who are you?”
“I…am…sand. We…are…many…” and true to his
word, more childlike forms begin to take shape all around him.
“Why…are…you…crying?”
“I miss my mother.”
“We…are…orphans…too...”
“You’re made of sand?”
“Yes.”
The sand boy stares at him with blind sandy
eyes.
“We…are…sad…just…like…you…”
The boy doesn’t know what to say to this.
Finally he has a brainwave.
“Do you know the way home?”
“Yes,” replies the sand boy.
“Well? Which way is it?”
“It…is…forward...”
“Yes but which way?”
“Any…way…forward…lies…home…”
“But what about you? Why don’t you go home?”
“We…are…sand. This…is…home…”
“But where is your mother?”
And with that the sand children begin to cry
sandy tears; and as they cry they disintegrate…crumbling to the ground. Soon
the desert is flat and smooth again…with no sign of the sand children.
He liked them. He hoped he would see them
again. And he must remember not to mention their mother to them again. They
just fell to pieces when they cried.
Feeling strangely better, the boy goes back
and re-joins the group. He is glad to see the old lady. He is glad she hasn’t
gone off behind the dunes with the dirty old man. He would hate that.
“There is dust on the horizon,” says the
messenger. They all turn to look. A thread of dust spirals up into the sky,
heralding danger.
The box turns.
“It can’t be her,” says the boy.
“It is,” replies the messenger. “Clytemnestra
can smell her.” And indeed the camel was dragging at her halter, eyes rolling
in her head.
“But how did she get through the gate?”
“She is a demon. They can do anything.”
“Can’t we just run?” asks the boy.
“There is nowhere to go. This is the
crossroads at the end of the world. We have to wait for the box.”
The box turns.
The man in the suit waits for his door to
come around again, while the camel keeps one swivelling eye on him and the
other on the approaching cloud of dust.
The messenger sits and waits patiently.
The boy stands and waits for his fate.
“What does she want with me?” he asks.
“You have something. A quality, I don’t
know.”
“Will she kill me?”
“There are worse things than death.”
“Like what?”
“Eternal torment,” he says, eyeing the old
man. “Other things.”
Then there is a shriek of a steam
whistle, like a train pulling into the station, and the box begins to rattle and
smoke like a mad thing. It shakes and shudders and soon they see that it is
slowing down. Not only that, it is descending towards the earth. Everyone moves
well out of the way should it suddenly fall on them. They watch in wonder as it
nearly rattles itself to bits. With much creaking and cracking it slowly
descends and settles on the sand in front of the foursome and their camel. When
the dust dies down, they see a closed door in front of them. Carved into the
door is a snake, twisting around a tree. A snake? To the boy it doesn’t mean
much, but the old lady is fearful of it. She remembers the snakes…and the coming
of the desert dancers. What can it mean? They wait and watch expectantly. The
boy is just about to speak when the cube begins to rattle and creak. They can
hear chains clanking and clonking hollowly inside somewhere…and the door begins
to open, squealing on its rusty hinges like an ancient coffin lid. Obviously it
has been a long time since this door opened.
The old church door creaked as Clara slipped
into the vestibule and closed it behind her with a click. Her mind was a whirl
with what had just happened: her mother, the old lady…her son. She had been
told to wait here for half an hour while the old lady made her escape. Randomly
she looked upwards at the carving of the cross with Jesus hanging on it. Why
was his suffering so sacred? She could imagine what his mother must have felt
though. Poor woman. She remembered the priest coming to visit her in hospital.
Well, no amount of holy water was going to fix this one. What kind of a world
was this? That these things could happen? And all this bullshit, she thought,
looking around her at the altar and the figures and the stained glass windows.
How is all this supposed to help her? How will all that bring her boy back?
What kind of comfort is she supposed to get from all this? Give her boy back.
That’s what she wanted. Perhaps she should pray…but the thought stuck in her
throat. She was too angry with God for what He had done.
Suddenly she felt claustrophobic…as if there
were things in the air…pushing in on her…trying to get into her. She turned and
fled into the open air, leaving the church door ajar. Wrapping her thin blouse
around her, she walked purposefully through the gate, turning her back firmly
on the Virgin Mary, still with her welcoming arms outstretched.
The three in the car watched with wide eyes
as Clara walked towards them, eyes down on the pavement, arms crossed tightly
in front of her. At first they were so stunned at having found her they didn’t
move. They had been driving all night looking for her and had only stopped to
decide where to go next. By some perverse chance they had pulled up outside the
church gate. Perhaps Samuel had been thinking of going in to pray…but with his
recent violent behaviour right under the Virgin Mary’s nose he believed he might
not have received a very warm welcome. Beulah’s cheeks still burned with the
memory. Not her finest hour either. The only one quite comfortable with all
this was Alice, who was enjoying everything immensely. Nothing sentimental
about our Alice.
For someone who lived in the shadow of death all her life…after all, loneliness
is a kind of death….or a not livingness, she wasn’t too concerned about someone
else’s death…or missing-ness. No one would have noticed hers. She did feel vaguely
sorry for Samuel but had no true empathy for him. She only knew she could make
him happy if he let her. So she sat back and watched the drama unfold in her
favour. Things were going so well. She smiled in the darkness. And then there
was Clara, barrelling down the high street towards them.
Samuel was the first out of the car, closely
followed by Beulah. Alice preferred to watch in comfort…from a distance.
“She was there,” Clara blurted out to him,
pointing back at the graveyard. “She has him. The old lady…the one I told you
about. She’s kidnapped him…her son is missing…she says….there’s a…..” Samuel
tried to slow her down and comfort her by putting his arm around her shoulders.
“There, there, easy now.”
“Don’t touch me,” she screamed. “Why don’t
you listen to me?”
“Come on now Clara, you’re not making any
sense. You need to calm down. Just get into the car and we’ll….” said Samuel,
but Beulah was quick to interrupt him.
“Dad shut up. Just shut up and listen….” And
then under her breath, but just loud enough for him to hear, she said,
“….arsehole.”
Beulah held her mother close.
“Alright Mom. Tell me what happened.”
The story spilled out in no particular order
or relevance – but by the end of it they had a pretty good idea of what was
going on.
“She says if I want to see my boy again –
then you must release her son from prison.”
“I can’t do that. It’s up to the courts…..”
“LISTEN TO ME!” she screamed….then very
quickly, “you have to get him out of prison by hook or by crook. You have to give
him clothes and money and drive him to the ‘City Limits’ motel.” There was no confusion
in Clara’s words now. “When he is safe the old woman will contact me and tell
me where Joshua is.”
Samuel looked at her but didn’t know what to
say that wouldn’t provoke her.
“Did you get all that?” she asked quite
matter-of-factly.
Samuel’s brain was in a turmoil. He tried to
make his mouth work but no words came out.
“ANSWER ME YOU MISERABLE FUCK – are you
going to do something to save your son’s life or are you just going to obey the
law and let him die?”
Although it was after midnight, people from
the nearby flats opened their windows to see what the commotion was all about. Others
began to come out and gather on the pavement….sensing that some awful tragedy
was unfolding. That’s what some saw. Others saw what they wanted to see and
judged it accordingly. ‘Low class’ some said, or ‘drunk’ or ‘cheat’ or ‘not the
done thing’. Only a few felt the real anguish of what was happening – but were
nonetheless as impotent as the others to help. The situation was too volatile;
the woman too distraught.
Clara waited for his answer. There was none.
“You gonna let someone else finish the job?
Let someone else finish off what you started with your hitting and shouting and
moaning and criticising. I bet you must be quite pleased about all of this? No
more weepy, over-sensitive little poofter hanging round the place giving your
tough-guy image a bad name.” Her words weren’t just spurious venom spat out in
her distress. She was referring to a very specific incident. Samuel felt a pang
of guilt when he remembered how he had lost his rag and smacked a very young
Joshua in front of his friends at the work’s Christmas party for bursting into
tears when he had lost a race. He still smarted from that one.
“Clara – you know I….”
“I KNOW NOTHING, except that you’re a bully and
a coward and a murderer….and oh, I almost forgot,” she said, spotting Alice in
the back seat. “An adulterer and an incestuous fornicator. Well. Your job’s
over. And I never want to see you again.”
For a moment she sobbed into Beulah’s arms,
then she turned beggingly to Samuel.
“Please…please help my baby….” She reached
her hands out to him. “He’s all I’ve got….please…”
“Clara I……
“Please, please my darling. I’m sorry for
what I said. We can make this right again. We can get him back. I know we
can……..we just have to do what this woman wants….it’s not much to ask now…….you’ll
help him to escape…”
“Clara…That’s crazy talk….”
“DON’T CALL ME CRAZY!”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he said trying to
placate her, painfully aware that they were standing in the high street and more
and more people had come out to watch.
“Look, can’t we do this at home…..you’re
causing a scene. People are watching.”
“People are watching? Is that all you are
concerned about. PEOPLE ARE WATCHING? WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?”
“You’re making a spectacle of yourself….”
Samuel was squirming all the way down into his boots now.
“I’ll show you how to make a spectacle you
fucking bastard….FUCKING BASTARD…..COWARD,” and then with all her strength she
hit him in the face and gouged deep grooves across his cheek with her nails. He
grabbed her wrists but she was super strong and broke free, raking his face
again….
“BASTARD – FORICATING BASTARD…CHILD
KILLER…COWARD…CHILD ABUSER……HELP….” Then she screamed and screamed until there
was no more breath in her lungs and collapsed into Samuels arms…choking and
gasping…seemingly on the verge of a seizure.
Samuels’s wits seemed to gather in that
moment and he bundled her into the car before she knew what was happening.
Beulah climbed in after her and held her close while Samuel drove them home at
full speed.
“Phone the doctor,” he said to Beulah as he
half carried Clara out of the car and into the house. Once upstairs he laid her
gently on the bed…took her shoes off and covered her with a blanket.
Then he lay down next to her and held her in
his arms.
