by Adam Cloake
Marcus took up his scalpel once more, and proceeded to slice off a curved disk from the left ventricle of Brendan’s weakly-beating heart, the section where there are no veins or arteries. Ruby did the same with Annie. They then placed these two round pieces – each about two inches in diameter – side-by-side on a silver platter held by Sister Olive. Still praying quietly in Latin, the nurse picked up a scalpel of her own. She raised it above her head, as if showing it to Heaven for approval. She then lowered the platter slowly, and Marcus proceeded to slice the two pieces of heart into tiny fragments. With her gloved fingers, Ruby mixed these fragments together, blending them into one small pile of raw, purple meat. Everyone present in the room, including Tom, had by now joined in the ritual chant. In English, it was a plea to God to grant eternal life to whom the pieces of flesh belonged. As Tom recited the words, he looked at his parents, lying on the wooden slabs, their lives now finally extinguished.
His parents were dead, and he had allowed it to happen. He had driven them here, and had presented no resistance at any stage along the way. They had wanted this wholeheartedly, and it would have been a sin for him to disobey them and dishonour their wishes. Besides, he knew that they would have found ways to coerce him.
He started to move towards the bodies, wanting to do something to demonstrate his remorse, even just by touching their hands, but Olive stepped in front of him. She held the platter towards him, like an offertory. Meanwhile, behind her, Carlos was doing something with the two blood bags.
“And now, Brother Thomas,” Marcus said, moving into position beside him, “Take this benison, so that the souls of Brother Brendan and Sister Annie may live forever within you.” Tom almost laughed. For a moment, he thought the man had said “venison”. If he had indeed burst into a fit of giggles, his body would have collapsed in tears within seconds.
And so, the moment had arrived. His purpose in all of this was finally upon him. He was to offer himself up as the final conduit of his parents' existence, the final resting place of the eternal part of them.
He did not want to do this. The idea made him feel sick, but he pushed this thought away, rejecting it as yet more blasphemy.
With the chant in the room whispering in his ears and throughout his consciousness, Tom picked up the meaty mulch in the fingertips of his left hand – the one closer to his own heart – and raised it gingerly to his mouth. The flesh felt warm on his tongue. Without chewing, he allowed the spongy mass to slide down his throat. Once it was digested, his own blood would transport the pieces around his body. They would enter every part of him, washing through each one of his organs. The Ceremony, and the words of the incantation, would ensure that, in a brief time – in just a few hours – the souls of his parents would bond with his own soul. They would have a home within him forever.
To complete the ritual, Brother Carlos came forward, holding a silver chalice. He had opened the two bags attached to his parents, and had poured out a quarter of a pint of blood from each one. He held the chalice in front of Tom’s face.
Brother Marcus repeated the words about benisons and living forever. Tom accepted the chalice from Brother Carlos, and slowly placed it to his lips. Fighting his revulsion, he poured the thick liquid into his mouth. Still warm, it slithered its way down towards his stomach. His head pounded with thoughts of the tumour on his mother’s bowel, of the infection that had almost blinded his father, and of all the other illnesses, diseases, and impurities that had marred their aging bodies.
Although it took many seconds longer than he expected, Tom eventually drained the chalice. He had just swallowed half a pint of human blood. Trying to keep his nausea in check, he accepted the congratulations and blessings of everyone in the room. It was unusual for him to be receiving this much attention.
Tom noticed that all except himself had their backs turned to the two corpses on the blocks. This may have been a simple oversight, since so much of the focus was settled on him, but he knew that all these people believed the bodies were now just empty husks, and that Annie and Brendan were, in truth, right here before them, within the living body of their son.
Tom tried to make himself believe this too. It was what he had been taught. He knew these things, but he still felt heartsick at their passing. Even though their souls were now part of him, he would never see their living bodies again, never look into their eyes, never experience their rare touches. Even their harshness was gone from the world – their insults and their put-downs. Despite the heartaches they had caused him, he would miss them.
Brother Marcus said, “We'll look after everything from this point onwards, Brother Thomas. You just need to concentrate on getting a good night's sleep.” Tom was certain that he was now receiving not just more attention, but also more respect, than he had earlier in the day. Obviously, there are advantages to becoming a new trinity.
Brother Marcus and Sister Ruby each took one of his hands in theirs. They led him up the short corridor into the main house, leaving the two nurses behind to tidy up.
Tom and his guides emerged from the wooden panel in the wall, the one which Ruby had used earlier. As it swung open, they found two men standing near the foot of the staircase. They both wore dark clothing. One was tall and lean, the other short and burly. One of the men held a roll of black bin liners, the other a roll of black duct tape. Each had the same solemn expression on his face, an expression Tom had seen many times on the faces of the Brethren. As a child, he had believed that the more earnest people looked, the deeper their devotion was. As an adult, he knew that this earnestness can be faked.
Marcus indicated the two men. “Brother Anthony and Brother Gordon will be taking your parents' remains with them now,” he said, squeezing Tom’s right hand. As if automatically triggered, Ruby squeezed the other one. “We recommend that you take some time alone in your room,” he continued. “I'm sure you'll want to pray along with your parents. We won’t offer you any food. It may affect the assimilation of their souls. Goodnight, Brother Thomas.” With these words, Marcus seemed to be dismissing him. Both of his hands were released, and his two guides left him, disappearing again into the wall. Anthony and Gordon followed, politely nodding to him as they passed. The panel closed, leaving him alone.
He went up to his room, intending to spend some time contemplating the past lives of his parents, and to prepare himself for his own new life. He soon found, however, that he was too distracted to do any of these things.
Looking through the window, he could just make out a white van parked in front of the house, just beside the Toyota. Tom wanted to close the curtains and hide in the room, in the bed, but he remained standing where he was until he had seen the two dark-clad men carry out their task of disposal. In the light streaming from the downstairs hallway, he witnessed the bodies brought out one by one, each wrapped in the darkness of its own plastic bag, and sealed with tape. Without any further ceremony, they were thrown into the back of the van.
He hoped his parents would be buried in some peaceful place, but he had heard rumours from the other boys in the Commune that those who were offered up during the Ceremony were dissolved in acid in some secret lab.
It was only when the van drove off, and blended with the darkness, that he was finally able to think about falling asleep.
Despite passing a restless night, Tom rose along with the sun. It seemed important to him that he avoid meeting anyone before beginning the lonely journey back to the west of Ireland. His sense of loss and his dread of isolation were more intense than ever as he considered the prospect of returning to the Commune with no-one there for him. This immediately gave rise to more stirrings of guilt. He was thinking of himself again.
He had packed a flask of tomato soup along with his second set of clothes. Before bed the previous night, he had ignored Brother Marcus’s advice, and guzzled half of it, trying to wash away the thought of what he had just consumed. Standing in the morning brightness of the window, he now knocked back the rest, straight fro
m the flask.
Normally, Tom liked to shower every morning. Today, however, he decided against it, for fear the sound would disturb the rest of the household. He would just shave instead, as quickly and as quietly as possible. At least this would make him feel cleaner.
The razor he used was one of the old-fashioned type. His parents had given it to him for his 16th birthday. He paused at this thought. Eileen’s 16th birthday present had been expulsion.
The razor had a tiny metal wheel at the end of its knuckled handle. When he twisted this wheel, a double gate opened in the razor’s head, like the two halves of a drawbridge. Into this opening, he now inserted a fresh blade. He shaved in cold water, which he poured into a white metal basin, its rim painted with a thin blue ring.
Putting the razor back in the overnight bag, Tom mused how, just three years after that morning of opening presents – without fuss or sinful ostentation, naturally – a morning that had marked the earliest stage of his adulthood, he was now an orphan, without so much as a set of remains to visit.
He left the room, and crept down the stairs, the house silent all around him. Tom knew that its strange residents would consider it rude of him to leave so abruptly. They would be expecting him for morning prayers, but Tom had to get away, to be alone.
He exited the house silently, his feet crunching softly on the gravel. He opened the driver door of the Toyota. Although he was bringing the car straight back to the Commune in Mayo, he felt like he was stealing it.
Tom started the car and turned it around. As he crept slowly along the uneven laneway, he looked in the rear-view mirror for one last glimpse of the old grey building. Reflected in the mirror, he saw a magpie fly past the chimney. Tom wondered if it was the same one from last night. Returning his gaze to the front windshield, he saw a second magpie perched in a scrubby tree off to his left. So, at least one of his wishes had been granted. It wasn’t exactly joy the two birds brought him but, at least, a placid acceptance. In the distance, he heard the cuckoo again, hidden somewhere in the mysterious surroundings.
As he drove away, each turn-off bringing him onto a wider, busier road, the solitude of the morning felt lighter, more rewarding, than the sad loneliness of the previous night. Within an hour, he had arrived at the Cairngorms National Park, earlier than he had expected. The journey seemed to be going faster now that he was alone. Tom marvelled again at the magnificence of the peaks, standing far away from the road. Perhaps, through his eyes, his father could see their wonder now, as he had been unable to do the previous day. And, from within him, his mother could rhapsody about these great gifts from the Lord. These thoughts, along with the majesty of the scenery, made Tom feel calmer about the fate of his parents. They had, after all, undergone a miraculous transcendence, hadn’t they? The Faith had taught him that, since flesh rots away after death, leaving only inert bones behind, our mortal remains are worthless. Only the soul truly matters. Doesn’t this mean that a corpse has just the same value as a broken bowl, or a lump of old metal that’s been left to corrode in the rain? Surely, if the Brethren’s doctrine of the Everlasting Soul was correct, there truly was no need for him to mourn.
And yet, he wanted to mourn. He felt he should.
Born into a Catholic family, Tom could never know whether he would have continued in this faith had his parents not found their new one. The Other Tom may well have lapsed from Catholicism later in his own life, since he would have been allowed that choice. But such a choice had never been offered to himself, to the Real Tom. The Brethren had expected his unquestioning obedience. But shouldn't he at least have done his own contemplating, made his own decisions, whether allowed to or not? Tom was aware that many people throughout the world discarded their religion, like the clothes of a dying fashion. These people were spoken of by Tom’s mentors – beginning with Sister Marjorie – in a harsh, disparaging way. They were sinners, quitters, losers – people who had been handed a gift, but were too blind, and too wicked, to see its value. Tom had spent his teenage years harangued by such doubts. How immensely welcome his clever sister’s input would have been in moments like these!
Such were the thoughts that wrestled around in Tom’s mind as he drove along the A9, followed by the M80.
But then, when he was about twenty miles north-east of Glasgow, something began to happen to him. He couldn’t identify what it was but, slowly at first, then with an alarming growth in intensity, some change seemed to be taking place.
It started with a buzzing in his ears; this was followed by a throbbing in his head; then his eyes began to sting.
At first, he thought it was simply an impulse to cry, which seemed perfectly natural, under the circumstances.
He pulled the car over to the hard shoulder. Despite being visible to passing traffic, he needed to let all his emotions out before he could continue on his way. He would let himself cry until his tear ducts were empty.
But something was wrong!
This wasn’t just a healthy release of emotion!
It was something more bizarre!
As Tom sat, gripping the steering wheel, the buzzing became louder, as if his head were filling up with locusts. He told himself this was exhaustion, caused by suppressed grief. He just needed to rest for a few minutes.
But the sensation was deeper, more virulent, than a mere exhaustion headache. Whatever was afflicting him had a strange, unpleasant edge. There was some violent upheaval taking place within his very consciousness. It was like a dark curtain within his mind, separating the upper part from the lower depths. This curtain seemed to be bulging outward, and he knew that the thing about to be revealed from behind it was more dangerous – and more terrifying – than a mere plague of locusts.
He began to fear that he was having a nervous breakdown, although he didn't know what one felt like.
And then the voices came! At first, they were barely audible, reminding him of the whispered prayers back in the operating theatre. They gradually became more distinct, however, as if they were approaching from a distance. But they weren’t! They were right here, coming from inside him.
One of the voices hissed a single word at him.
“Sinful!”
He heard it, not in his ear, not even in his head, but seemingly all throughout his body. And he recognised it! It was his mother's voice, berating him as if he had done something wrong, or had thought something wrong. Within moments, it was joined by the equally familiar sound of his father's voice. Together, they vibrated throughout him, leaving no part of him unvisited. The dark curtain had been ripped apart, and his very being was under attack.
More words and phrases became clear, as both voices mingled together.
“Wicked!”
“Heathen!”
“Weakling!” “Weak son!” “Weak, weak little boy!”
He knew that these messages were coming from within his own soul, fed by the blood of his parents. Their very lifeforce was crowding him out of his very self, using his own veins as their conduits.
But they weren’t truly voices. They were rhythms and tones, crashing feverishly throughout him. All the way from his head down to his feet, it felt as if he were being played like some unwilling instrument. His tendons were tight strings picked and plucked by harsh, taloned fingers. His nerves were made to howl as if by the scraping of a rancid bow. His head thudded as if repeatedly struck by a colossal, deadening drumstick.
They swirled around inside him, like waves of nausea. Their emotions were accentuating his own, feeding off them. Tom felt exposed to a torrent of their worst emotions, mixed up with his own – guilt, remorse, anger, suspicion, self-loathing. The three souls within him were at war with each other. Numerous family conflicts had remained beneath the surface while his parents were alive, imprisoned by duty and faith. But death had shattered all barriers, all inhibitions. Being released from their physical bodies had transformed them both into a force of pure naked emotion. And their souls were attacking the soul of their own son.
> “You’re an evil sinner!”
“Lucifer loves your profane thoughts!”
Was this the gift which Brother Marcus had spoken about so lovingly? Was this his benison? Tom felt again the unwelcome hand sweating onto his face, saw again the man’s sickly pale face, framing the smile of the salesman. He remembered the small beads of heart flesh seething on the silver platter, saw the blood creep hungrily from the chalice, towards his lips. He could smell the clinic, the candles, the tools, the decay, the corruption, his own ruin.
He saw again the dark mirrored glass and, through it, the open maw of the white van consuming his parents in their anonymous black plastic. The thought of the window brought him a small moment of respite – the memory of the magpie on the sill, like a loving companion.
But then, he felt another jolt, even more intense than before. In this waking nightmare, the image of the single bird was split, became two. They came crashing through the bedroom window, flying at his face, at his eyes. Those magpies from the morning had not been flying together. He had seen them separately. They were not there to bring him joy – just two helpings of sorrow. Now, they became transformed again within his mind. They were no longer magpies; now they were cuckoos, like the one calling to him from the branches of that gnarled tree. Nest-stealing, home-destroying cuckoos! The Brethren were the cuckoos, settling into the midst of his family with their destructiveness. And they had placed two cuckoos inside him, in the place they called his soul. And he had let them do it!
“Sinful! Sinful! Sinful!”
His parents had no right to keep feeding off him like this. They were dead! They should be in their graves! They should exist only as part of his family memories!
They should just leave him alone!
He restarted the car, and pointed it back onto the road. There was only one idea in his mind now, and it terrified him. What he was about to do was either the bravest act of his whole life, or the most foolish. What he intended would have one of two likely outcomes. He would either be killed, or he would be saving himself.
