The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  Resisting the relentless bullying of an image-obsessed society is an enviable achievement.

  Whenever I share a lift with an elderly lady, I feel awkward. My stop cannot come soon enough. Because I terrify them. I look like a man capable of doing very bad things. I am always tempted to tell these ladies that they needn’t worry; that I pose no threat. Of course I know this will increase their alarm, so I say nothing and stand as still as I can until the lift doors open.

  Society not only labels me a burden, but it makes me feel one too. At times I feel unworthy of the space I occupy. How should it be that a man of my talents must acknowledge that my absence would make many people feel safer? I resent this. I resent the fact that I am stereotyped with no hope of breaking free. Criminals break free. They can leave their thoughtless past behind, and leap into the world of acting, finance or something else profitable. I have never committed a crime. Well, until now. But, before I did this, my unblemished record meant nothing. In everyone’s eyes I simply hadn’t yet been caught. And now their narrow-mindedness has forced me to break the law. But I will not be caught. They will not satisfy themselves that they were right about me. Everything I am doing will open their minds. They will confront their own deficiencies and embrace change... All through Elizabeth. She will be the first and then they will all follow...

  Mankind’s cruelty progresses. When staleness sets in, he needs something new to keep his victim.

  Hundreds of insults have been thrown at me. The best-received ones lasted for a few months, then faded, then surfaced again after everyone had forgotten them. All the top boys racked their brains to find something new. Quite often, before registration, Victor rushed into the school playground with a smile on his face, then told everyone that I had a new nickname. It would be something he had conjured up the previous evening. Victor spent his own time thinking of ways to make my pitiful life deteriorate further. And he was my best friend; someone I had offered unwavering loyalty and companionship.

  I enjoy his illness. Steadily killing himself as he pours poison down his throat. Though he savours the taste, though he needs the drink to comfort himself, I know that deep down he screams for help. Pleads with himself to stop. He knows he is destroying himself over a false accusation. The root of his torment lies in the fact that no one believes it is false. No one except me.

  It is fitting that he has no one. His active life attracted not one person who cared enough to stand by him, support him and help him clear his name. His friends were as shallow and selfish as he was. With the right person beside him, Victor could have halted his decline. It satisfies me that he knows he has achieved nothing in his life. When he fell, no one helped. Ironically, Victor became the victim.

  We are taught to face the world confidently and be prepared to tackle the challenges ahead. The way we must present ourselves is driven into us: ‘Don’t hunch your shoulders, stand up straight, don’t blink so much, watch that squinting left eye; Stop picking your nose, leaning to the right, twitching, stuttering, looking away, relaxing your hand like a homosexual...’ Though it may feel unnatural, we all make a conscious effort to conform, especially when in the company of others. How can we engage in conversation when there is so much else for our brains to remember?

  If the world was just, it would not matter how we hold ourselves. We would be able to rejoice in human contact and effortlessly host a discussion, unhindered by the pressures of creating a suitable visual impression.

  I remember watching an awards ceremony on TV around nine years ago. Buster Merryfield, who played elderly Uncle Albert in Only Fools And Horses, fell over as he walked up to the presenter. He then started to cry in front of the audience and viewers. How can it be right that such a loved, popular personality should feel humiliated in front of his fans? It’s because we all constantly judge each other. It’s because of the crippling self-consciousness that is unforgivably drilled into us from birth.

  We like to see someone lose their balance, just as we like to watch dreams crushed on The X Factor. We pray to God and thank him for our own health, yet enjoy the pain felt by others. We are raised to be selfish and sadistic.

  Mr Merryfield felt that falling over made him look foolish, despite his celebrity status He felt that he had embarrassed himself and let himself down. He didn’t want to be a victim. I knew exactly how he felt. After all he had given, and after living most of his life, that is what he had been forced to feel. I cried with him.

  12

  ‘Today, Elizabeth, is a great day for you.’ I am pleased to see this does not excite her. ‘I must be turning soft.’

  I sit down the drawer I am carrying. I had removed it from a double wardrobe and then filled it with earth. Elizabeth stares blankly at it.

  ‘Now you are one step closer to a civilised life,’ I say. ‘Now you can enjoy the same waste facilities as wild animals.’

  ‘I want to go home,’ Elizabeth whispers. Then she manages to scream it twice before I get to her and slap my hand over her mouth. She claws at my arms with her nails, and I struggle to restrain both her arms with my one hand. The jug and beaker fly onto the floor. She has drawn my blood, but I am more furious with myself than her. How could I let this happen? How could I be so stupid? I have misjudged my progress. She is not yet under my control. And my complacency might have jeopardised everything. I clamp my fingers around both her arms and squeeze as hard as I can. My other hand blocks a stifled scream.

  ‘I will break your wrists,’ I hiss. ‘When I release your arms you will keep them still or you will never use them again.’

  I open my hand and her trembling arms remain in place. I move my other hand away from her mouth and all she does is quietly cry. Cautiously, I reach down for the piece of tape on the floor and seal her lips shut with it. Then I remove the plank and tie her wrists to the arms of her chair. I sit opposite her and take a deep breath.

  ‘It was thoughtless of you to force a man in my condition to hurry like that.’

  I lift up my arms. Rivets of blood glisten where she had carved my skin. ‘I had not thought this would get physical.’ I jump up from my seat, run upstairs and return with a pair of pliers. Upon seeing these, Elizabeth’s eyes explode with fear.

  I have decided to do what I am about to do, so I do not hesitate. I force open her fist, grip her fingers and snap the pliers shut on her forefinger nail. A jolt of nerves consume me for a second, but I quickly overcome them by ripping off her nail with all my strength. I look up at her as she tries to scream and thrashes her head about in pain. For another second I feel awful, then grit my teeth, look down and grip her middle finger nail in the pliers. I rip this off and then move onto the next one. My sweat drips onto Elizabeth’s knees. I can hear myself growl as I butcher each finger. Now I am focused. Uninhibited. Effective. I do not care about this girl. She is a repulsive specimen, she represents all the people who have made me suffer. This is for them. I grip each finger so hard that it might break but I do not care. She caused this. She abused my trust. Just as everyone does. I trusted her and she took advantage. My palm holding the pliers throbs with pain, such is the pressure I am applying, but I like it. I like what I am doing to her, of course I do. She is less than human. She is an animal...

  I am done. Exhausted, I stagger backwards onto my seat. I reach out and drop the pliers on the floor. Elizabeth is hysterical. She looks at me as if I have just murdered someone. Suddenly, I slip into a trance. The writhing form in front of me is just a blur. I am in turmoil. I should not have done that. There were reasons to do it, but it is not what I do, nor what I want to do. I had to lose control and suffocate myself in aggression to accomplish the act. And now I can hardly breathe. I feel sorry for her. I manage to stop myself from apologising to her. But I can feel my eyes watering. I must leave. Then I look at Elizabeth’s nails on the floor and my vision sharpens. I squint my eyes and lean in closer. Still unconvinced, I pick up one of them.

  ‘They are fake,’ I announce.

  Elizabeth wh
impers under the tape. I look at the nail. It is identical in shape to the rest on the floor. Many of the ends had cracked under the pressure of the pliers, but otherwise they match.

  ‘You made such a fuss about fake nails?’ I ask incredulously.

  I get up, still out of breath, and study Elizabeth’s fingers. Each sports a chewed, jagged, short nail, except for the first forefinger I had worked on. This nail is hanging on by one side. This is what must have caused her her pain. Somehow I had ripped out the real nail. The others are unaffected, but beneath this nail is a cup of blood. Some has dripped onto the floor. I do not like the sight of it. ‘It is your fault, Elizabeth,’ I snap. ‘You do not learn.’

  She mutters something. Though it is futile, she continues to speak. It is obviously something important. I remove the tape.

  ‘You are a beast!’ she screams. ‘You thought they were my real nails!’ I quickly replace the tape.

  ‘Yes I did,’ I say, becoming calm again. When I lose composure, I am a great danger to myself. ‘The blood secreted beneath those nails can identify me.’ Actually, this does not worry me. But I want Elizabeth to believe I plan to evade the law. That makes her fate more uncertain. That will keep her afraid. ‘And clearly you still do not respect my authority. You have insulted me. So there will be much more, Elizabeth.’

  I walk up to the drawer filled with dirt. ‘You fail to see the appeal in this because you are still resisting me. So you will continue to carry your own waste, rather than deposit it.’ I move closer to her and look in her hate-filled eyes. ‘You were foolish, Elizabeth, to underestimate the threat I pose. So now I will leave your life in the hands of Eddie. He will decide if you die tonight.’ She is mumbling sporadically. ‘Do you like snakes, Elizabeth?’ Again her eyes expand in terror. ‘Eddie is my ten-foot boa constrictor. He will keep you company tonight.’ She screams under the tape. All I hear is a muffled whimper. ‘Eddie is a member of the python family. I am sure you know that pythons suffocate their prey. Should you feel Eddie start to wind himself around your ankle, then the only way to save yourself is to unwrap him. It takes a calm and fearless mind, but the alternative is death.’ I smile as I look at each of her immobilised wrists. ‘If you are unable to unwind Eddie, then do not exhale. If you do he will tighten himself around you so that air cannot enter your body. That is their art – they starve you of oxygen.’

  I turn out the lights so it’s pitch black and then, five minutes later, return to the basement. Crouching down by the bottom step, I whisper, ‘There, there, Eddie. Be kind to her tonight.’ Then I ascend the stairs.

  13

  The next morning I wake up in a cold sweat. I went too far. I may have killed her... I slip on my dressing gown and head for the basement.

  Anger had determined my actions. She made me furious and I utilised knee-jerk tactics to bring her back under control. But her death will achieve nothing. It will put me in a far worse position. I kidnapped her to improve my life...

  I fumble around for the basement lights. My heart thumps like thunder as I race up to her. ‘Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!’ I cannot help whispering. Her head, slumped on her chest, terrifies me. Her eyes are closed. Though I am certain she is dead, I check her neck for a pulse. But my fingers are too unsteady to detect a life signal, so, desperately, I place my ear against her nose and listen. But all I hear is my own rapid breathing. This is futile. I grab the pitcher of water lying on the floor and throw the contents in her face. It is just a few drops of water but she tips her head back, her eyes open and she stares at me like a rabbit in the jaws of a fox.

  She checks the floor frantically. Turns her head as far as she can to check behind her, then left and right of her and then in front. She does not trust her eyes and repeats this sequence. She is paranoid. She will not stop until I reassure her that she is safe.

  I sit back in my chair, relieved. She is alive. That is the most important thing. But her current mental state also pleases me. She is frightened of shadows. Now she will be obedient. Now I can initiate phase two of my plan.

  She mutters a stream of words. Perhaps I should tell her that the fear she had felt had been caused only by her mind. Snakes fascinate me, but I do not own one. Just her delusions shared the basement with her last night. I knew the fact that she would neither hear nor feel the snake would not hinder the effect. She was tired, exhausted, weak and expected punishment. All I had to do was feed her imagination. As the night progressed and her terror magnified, her mind would replicate the snake’s hiss and the feel of its smooth, dry scales against her skin. That is why she had lost consciousness.

  No, I will not let her know I had played a bluff. Her reaction to Eddie had been too important. It is the most fear she has felt. The threat that she might share another night with Eddie is too useful to forfeit. Now she will behave.

  ‘I have returned Eddie to his tank,’ I say. ‘He chose to keep you alive, Elizabeth.’

  I walk up to her and remove the tape. ‘P-p-please do not bring him back,’ she pleads hysterically. ‘P-please, I will not insult you again I p-promise. Please do not bring him back. Please, Moonface, please, I beg you, I will not insult you again-’

  I stop her midflow by reapplying the tape. I decide to ignore her use of my nickname.

  ‘Then you will be spared a further night with the deadly serpent. But I will not hesitate to throw him in here should you defy me again.’ She shakes her head furiously and mutters something. I do not need to hear it. I place the blanket over her body. Though I had spared her the misery of the air conditioners, her fear had frozen her. I remove the tape from her mouth and the wrist restraints. Then I go upstairs, fill the jug with water and prepare a mug of soup. I dissolve a multi vitamin in the soup, carry everything down to the basement and sit the jug, mug and a cup on the floor in front of her. ‘Dig in, Elizabeth.’

  She takes the jug, spills water on the floor as she clumsily fills the cup, and then swallows the contents. Ravenous, she grabs the mug and tips the soup down her throat. I study her broken nail. One of its edges hovers above the skin.

  ‘May...I have more?’ she asks.

  ‘You are not Oliver Twist, Elizabeth. He had a conscience.’ Satisfyingly, she does not respond. I point at the drawer six feet away. ‘Would you like to have this facility available?’

  ‘Y-yes p-please.’

  ‘I thought you would. It smells like a farm in here.’ I place a bell on her lap. ‘When you need to use the facility, ring the bell. I will then remove your restraints and you will relieve yourself. Two minutes later, you will be sat back in your chair, I will return and reapply the restraints.’

  ‘O-k-kay.’

  ‘I will not be summoned more than once a day. So, like a dog, you must discipline yourself to be regular.’

  ‘Okay...’

  ‘I think it is time for you to have another shower, Elizabeth.’

  I release her. Again, she cannot find her balance and wobbles. She is still as weak as a kitten. I must increase her rations slightly. I have to assist her to the bathroom. This time I do not impose a time limit on her cleansing as I know she will not waste time. She will not take advantage of me again, I am certain of this.

  From outside, I hear her gasp. She is looking at herself in the mirror, I surmise. Her alarm particularly satisfies me. The division between how she looks and how she wants to look is huge. Since being here, her beauty has deteriorated daily. Now she is as white as a sheet, dull and tired. Still attractive, but a world apart from her obsessive standards. Eventually, she will accept her natural look.

  I hear her scurrying about. ‘Do not forget to wash your clothes, Elizabeth.’

  I hear her retch just before she flushes the toilet. I imagine that the thought of Eddie had turned Elizabeth’s pants into something very foul, which she is now rectifying.

  A couple of minutes later Elizabeth emerges and we return to her home. I tie just her ankles and waist to the seat. She fills her cup with water and drinks.

  �
��I am curing you of a terrible illness, Elizabeth. Soon you will accept how you look.’

  ‘I know I am p-plain,’ she says unsteadily.

  ‘And that is such a disappointment for you?’

  ‘Not when I can correct it.’

  I laugh. ‘Your mind is poisoned, Elizabeth. If I was to let you go, within hours you would live just as you had before. You would have learnt nothing.’

  ‘I have learnt something...something v-very important...’

  ‘Enlighten me,’ I say, engrossed.

  ‘I have learnt to be-be considerate towards those who are...who are...less fortunate...’

  ‘I thought we had decided that we both lack beauty?’

  She bows her head and mumbles, ‘I will treat everyone as my equal...’

  Again, this tickles me. ‘You are very cunning, Elizabeth. That is what I want to hear, isn’t it? But, the truth is, you will take nothing from someone you hate. And you do despise me, Elizabeth. You would enjoy watching me die, even though you made this happen.’ She looks away from me, at her cat litter. ‘So, if you are cunning, then it would benefit you to access my appeal.’

  She is careful with her expression. It remains neutral.

  ‘Why can you not live your life as you now look?’ I ask.

  She mouths a word but does not speak.

  ‘Tell me the truth, Elizabeth. Don’t ever lie to me…’

  ‘Life is too...competitive,’ she says.

  I stare at her almost in awe. I am warmed and slightly emotional. This is more than encouraging. I am delighted.

  ‘I am impressed, Elizabeth.’

  I stare at her for a moment longer until a flicker of passion stirs inside me. ‘Goodbye...’

  14

  At work, I am now selfish with my time. A week ago, should you be an immigrant cheating the system, I was the last officer you would want assigned to your case. Now, I am probably the first. PC Collingwell will not believe his eyes when he reads Adam Abdullah’s custody record - the last line explains that I had him released.