The Mortal Religion

by Marc Horn

  ‘What a loser he is,’ Elizabeth hisses.

  With this my entire body is invigorated. I reach out and take hold of her damaged finger. ‘How does it feel?’ I ask, removing the plaster.

  ‘It doesn’t hurt.’

  ‘Tomorrow it will be two weeks since the nail was partially extracted.’

  A few days ago, before I applied a fresh plaster to the wound, I cut off the loose nail. There is no sign of a new nail, but the scabs have disappeared and all that is left is a red mark where the nail had been. ‘It won’t be long before a new nail appears.’

  The contact between us stirs me inside. I look up at her and that look is there, the one that freezes me, possesses me. A few entranced seconds pass before she speaks. ‘I should come on soon.’

  Come on? To me? It was expressed in a sensual way. The statement was filled with suggestion. But I will resist just as I did before. I will take control of myself and defy my instincts. I release her hand. ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘My period starts in the last week of this month.’

  My heart sinks, just for a second. ‘I have tampons,’ I say loudly. She smiles. ‘Just let me know when you need one.’

  ‘When will I learn of your revenge, Chalk?’

  ‘The next time we are together.’

  ‘And when will that be?’ she asks, her eyes full of hope.

  ‘Today,’ I reply, gaining inspiration from her cheerful and predictable reaction.

  31

  That evening, I hand Elizabeth a cup of tea, settle into my seat and sip from my mug. ‘My revenge, Elizabeth,’ I say, and her smile mirrors mine. ‘I told you that Victor called me shortly after ignoring me in the pub, two years after we finished Westwood Grammar.’

  ‘Yes, I remember,’ she confirms hastily, leaning forwards.

  ‘I did indeed return that call and duly accepted his invitation to visit him in his two-bedroom flat. He was on summer leave from university and was sharing the flat with a friend who had gone travelling. I had formulated my plan before he answered the door. Had I not, I may well have responded to his smug, condescending grin by wringing his neck. After hearing the low-down on my unremarkable life, he proceeded to illustrate with the conclusive proof of photos how much better his was. I was shown hundreds of glossy images of people and places, and an unworthy, egotistical imbecile posing in almost all of them. I listened to countless accounts of unforgettable nights, wild adventures and mind-blowing experiences. He showed me a credit card he kept solely as a status-symbol, which he left at home to prevent drunken purchases.

  ‘And then, just before five, Victor dressed himself up and told me he was going out with his friends. I was not invited, but simply told to lock the front door and post the keys through the letterbox when I was “ready to leave”. He emphasised those three words, and I interpreted them as meaning when I had satisfactorily let it sink in how much more he had than me – he wanted me to sit in his castle and admire his life. For me it was an ideal opportunity. I waited five minutes after his departure and then headed off to the shops, still in possession of his door keys.’ Elizabeth is riveted and it thrills me to relay to her my heroics. ‘I had the key cut and then I returned to Victor’s flat. I put on a pair of police search gloves, opened his drawer and took down the details of his credit card. Then I picked up a piece of mail and recorded Victor’s full address. Only then did I do what he asked of me – leave his flat and post his keys.’

  ‘May I ask a question?’

  ‘Of course, Elizabeth.’

  ‘How did you come into possession of a pair of police search gloves?’

  ‘Have I not told you that I am an immigration officer? I work with the police.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know.’

  ‘Anyway, I chose my times carefully. I needed to incriminate him when he was at home in order to crush any alibis. I knew Victor so well – he was dead to the world after a night out, at least until midday. So on Sunday morning, at nine, I let myself into his flat. I could hear him snoring in his bedroom. I accessed the internet on his computer, which was located in the lounge. Then I searched for child pornography and used Victor’s credit card to access some obscene websites.’ Elizabeth looks shocked. I nod slowly. ‘The content was sickening, but such was my need for revenge that I endured it. I had braced myself for the worst. He deserved it. I printed out several contemptible images and hid them in his drawers. Then I left.’

  ‘So he was arrested for downloading child pornography?’

  ‘Eventually, yes. I went round twice more during the next couple of weeks and did the same thing, used his credit card to pay for more websites, printed out more porn and concealed it in different places.’ I smile. ‘His arrest was recorded on the criminal intelligence database that one of my colleagues could access. This colleague had entrusted me with his password and username, as the database contained information useful to me in my role. I learned that Victor had maintained his innocence following his arrest, and argued that his computer must have been hacked. The images found in his flat would have disproved that idea. And the fact that he had never used his credit card for any other purchases would have rendered the likelihood of it being cloned very slim. The fact that the websites were accessed when he was at home, and in his mind, alone, would have allayed any suspicions that I was the culprit. Besides, I had never once stood up for myself against him. All I had to do was…keep my mouth shut.’ I bow my head.

  ‘Why do you say it like that?’

  ‘Because the other night I did something very stupid.’

  ‘What?’ Elizabeth’s face fills with concern.

  ‘Victor’s now a vagrant. I became so angry when I thought about the past that I visited him to gloat about what I had done.’

  ‘But he wouldn’t remember that. Not if he’s an alcoholic.’

  I sniff. ‘But he did. He stopped drinking and told the police what I had said.’

  ‘But...but how can they prove that you did it?’

  ‘They can’t.’

  ‘So why are you so disappointed with yourself?’

  ‘Because, Elizabeth, it will give police the power to search my property for child pornography. Of course I have none of that, but I do have...you.’

  I watch her reaction. I am sure it is a temporary look of horror. ‘They would have to have my consent to arrest you,’ she says boldly.

  I look at her quizzically, the implications of her comment slowly sinking in. ‘Are you saying you would not have me arrested?’ I ask.

  ‘Of course I am saying that. Chalk, I am here by my own choice.’

  I gawk at her. I want to stop, but I can’t. I know she has changed, become a good person, but to say she chooses to stay here with me is unbelievable. But I believe her. I feel her hand rest on my knee. Now is not the time to react in a sexual way, now is a time for uplifting reflection. I stand up and head upstairs. I am bursting with energy. I almost feel the need to run around the block. I splash my face with cold water and return to the basement. I do not want this mood, this feeling, to end.

  ‘That is a beautiful thing to say, Elizabeth.’

  ‘I am glad that you did that to Victor. It is a horrific punishment, but he deserved it.’

  ‘Yes, I know.’

  ‘Why have the police not yet visited you?’

  ‘Because they don’t believe him. He’s a drunken sex offender. But if he persists they will probably investigate me.’

  ‘Well that won’t matter.’

  I smile. ‘It will. You are too young to make that decision. It would require your parents’ approval.’ Elizabeth shakes her head, looking a little deflated. ‘But that doesn’t concern me, Elizabeth. I just want to finish our discussions. That is all I want. I brought you here to change you and it is the threat of having my time with you taken away that troubles me. Victor, being arrested, and the subsequent sanctions are the least of my worries.’

  ‘There’s a chance the police won’t listen to him though.’
r />   ‘That’s true, but there is a chance that they will. I have to expect that our time is limited. I have to be quick.’

  ‘I am a quick learner.’

  ‘I know you are.’

  ‘So what sentence did he receive?’

  ‘I know he was thrown into prison for a while. He was expelled from university and placed on the Sex Offenders Register. I knew his friends would disown him. They were, like him, too shallow to believe his claims that he was innocent. His family probably reacted the same way. I had to hide my delight when I next saw him, begging for coins outside a tube station. He asked if he could stay with me. I told him I did not have room and gave him fifty pence.’

  32

  I am always thinking of mankind and its injustices. I find little that is positive or encouraging. Perhaps I am too cynical, but even acts of apparent charity do not appear entirely selfless to me. I am more optimistic now than I have ever been, thanks to Elizabeth, but still I see through the good intentions of many high-profile figures who choose to help their fellow man or animal. I unearth less-admirable priorities such as increasing their exposure on television, repairing a damaged image, easing boredom, or improving self-esteem. It almost always comes down to a need to impress someone, even if it is themselves.

  As I lie in bed, I find that I do not want to explore my feelings alone. I feel I am being selfish in excluding Elizabeth and that I must share everything with her. She has developed into a fine young woman who is delightful company. I need not hold back anything from her; I have bared my soul and she has responded in a beautiful way. Elizabeth knows me like no other and is the most important person in my life. No one else would approve of my treatment towards Victor. No one else would care what he had done to me. Elizabeth understands my pain and my needs. She will save me and many, many others.

  Lying in bed is futile. I do not sleep anymore – I’m conscious there is too much I have to do and I cannot switch off. My head feels so heavy and my mind so numb that I should be able to sleep. But when I try, anxieties, excitement and pressure keep me awake. I feel foolish, that I am playing into Victor’s hands, wasting the little time I have left. But I cannot deprive Elizabeth of sleep. She deserves to rest.

  Before I went to bed, I collected the mattress from my spare bedroom and carried it and a duvet down to the basement. It was a huge concession, but Elizabeth no longer deserved to be punished. Her eyes would have melted the hardest of hearts. I picture them now and they take me to a tranquil place. Maybe they will help me sleep. When I was a young child I used to have nightmares. My parents told me they would stop, but they did not. As I lay trembling in bed night after night, I pretended I had a brother who would protect me. He told me to think of things I loved just before I fell asleep. So I thought of ice-creams and the nightmares ended.

  Unfortunately, even Elizabeth’s perfect eyes cannot divert the distractions. Surely there is something constructive I can do? Perhaps I should create a list of topics to discuss with Elizabeth. We have so much to talk about. But that seems unnecessary. I know exactly what to talk about and when to do it. No, it seems that I am just going to have to lie here till the morning. I will wake Elizabeth a little earlier, perhaps at six.

  I think about visiting online forums, but they no longer interest me. Elizabeth is now my only interest. I stare at the ceiling. This is agonising, as I can’t pass the time by thinking about anything that I could share with Elizabeth. The minutes pass like hours. I close my eyes and keep them shut. I roll over and bury my head in my pillow. Minutes later I turn onto my side and then my back. I continue this routine throughout the night until five a.m., and then I get up. When I masturbate, Elizabeth constantly crops up in my mind and I have to forcefully replace her with my favourite fantasies. But she is relentless and towards the end I have to succumb to her in order to maintain my rhythm. When I have finished, I feel disgusted with myself and angrily throw the tissue down the toilet.

  After taking a shower, I prepare an English breakfast for the two of us. At six I enter the basement with two trays laden with fried eggs, bacon, sausages, beans, tomatoes and fried bread.

  ‘Something smells wonderful,’ Elizabeth says as she pushes herself up and then onto her feet.

  ‘How was the mattress?’ I ask as I set the trays down on the floor.

  ‘I slept very well, thank you.’

  ‘You must have made an impression on me, Elizabeth. I very rarely cook. As you know, I favour microwave meals. It took me a long while to make this.’

  ‘I am very grateful,’ she says as she sinks into her seat, ‘it looks delicious.’

  It does not look that good. The eggs are hard, wrinkly and black around the edges and the tomatoes too are burnt. The rest looks edible, but then I had just grouped the bacon, sausages and tomatoes in a large frying pan and drenched them in sunflower oil.

  ‘I imagine you often ate full English breakfasts,’ I say.

  She shakes her head. ‘No, I ate very healthily – fruit cocktails, live yogurts and wholemeal cereals... with pure fruit juice.’ Oddly enough, this makes me feel a little guilty so I focus on my meal. ‘This tastes much better,’ she adds, lifting my spirits.

  ‘My diet is very poor, but I want to look forward to food.’

  ‘I agree, but eating like this too often can cause health problems.’

  ‘Is that the only disadvantage?’ I ask, testing her, but knowing she will pass.

  ‘Unless you are vain, yes.’

  ‘Vanity...’ I muse as I stab my fork into an egg yolk. ‘About a year ago, while I was browsing in a book shop, I noticed that a What Not To Wear book was being promoted on a stand. Have you ever watched the television programme?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did you think of it?’

  ‘I liked it...back then.’

  I nod. ‘I watched one or two episodes and I found it sickening.’ I swallow a piece of bacon and egg. ‘It was one of the most shallow, narrow-minded broadcastings I had ever seen. Two pretentious women preaching to some misguided person that changing their wardrobe would boost their confidence and enhance their life...’ I place down my tray. ‘But it was a cunning idea that could only succeed because people are image-obsessed. They hit the right market with the right product. Never mind attempting to correct the infectious sickness society passes around that causes it to mock and crush whoever it sees, let’s just make its targets more pleasing to the eye and therefore less of a target. It’s like advising a bullied child to pay their bully not to bully them – forget about curing the bully, let’s find ways to appease them.’ I stare at Elizabeth, who has stopped chewing.

  ‘You’re right, Chalk, it’s a despicable programme. I had never thought that way until now.’

  ‘I flicked through the book What You Wear Can Change Your Life out of curiosity, to see how low these girls could stoop. I expected bad, but what I read amazed me.’

  Elizabeth pleasingly sets down her tray too. ‘What did it say?’ she asks keenly.

  I shake my head and smile. ‘I could not believe it. A section titled How to Look Good in Holiday Photographs explained in detail ̶ and with illustrations ̶ how to disguise body flaws so that the camera would not capture them. There were remedies for flat-chests, fat deposits, short necks and limbs to name a few. Readers were being advised to become comfortable with posing, to conceal certain areas, achieve certain stances and use certain objects. The photographer received training too, having to take certain shots from specific angles. The poser was warned that at times they would experience pain in holding a certain position long enough for the photo to be taken, so that had to be masked with a jolly expression.’ I look at Elizabeth. ‘My jaw dropped. I found the advice deeply depressing and thought to myself that if someone had lost faith in humanity and wanted to end their own life, then reading that book would convince them they were right. This book taught the reader how to manipulate people into thinking they look better than they do. Abandon any idea of feeling content with your
natural look; deficiencies are unacceptable. I’d like to hear their recommendations for me.’

  Elizabeth picks up her tray and shakes her head. ‘That’s low of them.’

  ‘I have been teased my entire life because of my appearance. These authors have tackled the right problem in the worst possible way. They chose to conform and thrive off the general consensus, and make huge amounts of money out of it, and in the process help it flourish. They have kicked people like me while we are down. The real solution lies in educating people, encouraging them to face their mental flaws and embrace their victims.’

  ‘Only you can do that, Chalk.’

  ‘No, Elizabeth. That is your mission. I cannot engage with society. It does not want to listen to me. It will only hear one of its own.’ Elizabeth smiles shyly and cuts the end off a sausage. I pick up my tray and resume eating my meal. ‘I read in a recent article that calls to Childline from victims of bullying have increased twelve percent in the last year. This is where we stand in this world.’ Elizabeth places her cutlery down on her tray. Her meal is only half-eaten. ‘What is it, Elizabeth?’