by Thomas Ryan
Alicia’s voice came at me in a scream. Spittle sprayed across her chin.
“No. Mending.” A gurgling suck of breath. The glare that had just fired a thousand barbs softened. “Helping is taking old ladies across the street. This is not like that.” She paused. “A nurse tends a patient. A vet fixes a dog. You know? When it can’t have any more little dogs?” Her tone was now patient. She could have been a teacher explaining logic to an imbecile.
I nodded.
Alicia’s gaze dropped once more to her furry charges.
“And when something is homeless like us, the spirit is broken. It’s the same for the kittens. The homeless ones. The spirit is broken. And when something is broken, you mend it. That’s the difference. You see that, don’t you?”
In reality I wanted to scream that no, I did not see. But I nodded once more, fearful of another outburst if I didn’t. Alicia produced a garden trowel and began to dig. I glanced around us. No one was watching. But then why would there be anyone else in the old cemetery? Nobody came here but junkies and mad people?
And Alicia was truly at home on both counts.
###
A bond developed between Alicia and me. I likened it to two wrecks looking for the same reef to crash on. For me it was a change from being alone. Our conversations were not particularly coherent. Years of addiction had curdled our brains. But somehow through hours of mumbled gibberish an understanding of a kind did grow between us. A symbiosis.
Each day I scrounged enough money to keep us in gin. But not drugs. For that, Alicia turned tricks. She used the water from the fountain to scrub herself up and from her second plastic bag produced a clean-ish top and skirt. She jumped guys in the back of cars for fifty bucks a time, sometimes for ten, Alicia never walked away empty-handed. Her earnings were never enough for anything stronger than weed. But it and the gin kept us on a tranquil plateau.
We were happy in a sad sort of way.
###
We ate every day at the city mission.
On a morning no different from any other at the mission, someone stole Alicia’s bag. She totally flipped and ran through the streets screaming for its return. When her limited energy levels finally failed her she slumped onto the pavement and howled like a wolf under a full moon. Her bag held all her worldly possessions. And, worse, without the top and skirt she wouldn’t be able to present her pitiful body to earn a dollar.
We made our way back to Barty. Alicia wrapped her arms around Barty’s gravestone and sobbed. I had two bottles of gin hidden in the bushes. I gave her one then sat back against a headstone a few metres away and slurred a greeting to Mrs Beatrice Donald and her two daughters.
Alicia explained her predicament to Barty. It was like watching a small child. Fragile. Innocent. After a time she stopped crying. She had gulped down half a bottle of gin and drifted into a coma. I was grateful that Barty could comfort her. With a sense of surprise I discovered her distress was distressing me. I had long ago begun to believe I could no longer feel emotion when faced with human tragedy.
I made a decision. I would find the money to replace Alicia’s belongings. Recapping my bottle I lay it on the ground beside her then walked off towards the city.
###
Thankfully, despite the warnings, some people still had faith in today’s society.
I stole the first bicycle I came across.
Three kilometres of cycling almost exhausted me, but I did make it to my destination. The iron-gate swung open with only the faintest squeak of protest. I stood under the drooping willow branches lining the drive and peered through the foliage at the two-storey house. My childhood home. Evening was approaching and lights were on, but the drapes had not been drawn. No movement anywhere that I could detect. That didn’t surprise me. My mother would be in the kitchen baking and my father would be in the lounge watching the news on TV.
A rough brush down of my jeans and a buff of the toes of my shoes against my denim legs would do. I had used the water tap in the public ablutions block on the beach to wash grime from my face and hands. An attempt to comb the knots from my hair, failed. The beard remained a tangle.
In this house there would be no welcoming arms for a wayward son. Few memories of my childhood came to mind and those that did were not joyous. No warm fuzzy feelings – the early years had seen to that.
But the thought didn’t faze me. I needed money for Alicia. When I had it I’d be gone.
I walked up to the back door and knocked softly. It opened.
My mother’s reaction was as expected. Stunned. Uncomprehending.
“Hey, Mum.”
I smiled and feigned a positive front that did battle with my true feelings. My mother saw through it, beard and all. Her face settled into a display of worry lines. She rubbed her hands on her apron.
“What are you doing here Jimmy?” She glanced behind her - an instinctive reaction. She feared my father, as I had done all through my childhood. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “You shouldn’t have come.”
Turning, she walked back into the kitchen. She didn’t slam the door so I took that as some kind of invitation to follow. Her back was still to me as she fiddled with a knob on the stove. She stooped and opened and closed the oven door. The delaying tactics were not working. I wasn’t going anywhere and she knew it. Not yet anyway.
Finally she gave up the pretense and confronted me. Leaning forward and grasping the sides of the wooden mobile bench. Her knuckles whitened, matching the blotchy spattering of flour across her face. For as long as I could remember, my mother’s face was covered in flour and the kitchen smelled of freshly baked cookies, just as it did now.
Shortbread was my guess. A tray covered with a tea-towel sat on the bench top.
“I need some money. I had nowhere else to go.”
Mother bowed her head. The inner demons were at work. Fighting the urge to turn her son away and fighting the desire to hold him to her breast. I knew this inner conflict because I had witnessed it many times. I should have felt shame but I felt nothing. All of that had been lost a long time ago somewhere in the city gutters with my vomit and my urine.
A mighty bang of a door behind us.
My father entered the kitchen. The slamming of the door had doubtless been an attempt to intimidate me. When I was younger, he used to beat me with his fists. Once he’d broken a rod over my back. Life before I grew strong was unbearable. But I did grow strong. Lifting weights after school built muscle. The gang kids taught me to box. When the time came, I beat the shit out of my father. It was a lesson never forgotten. Father never raised his hand to me again. That was a few weeks before I left home.
Of course, now I was a drunken junkie with a permanent crazy look. I could see the fear in his eyes. I looked at the block of wood on the bench that held the knives. He followed my gaze and shrank away. He looked as if he wanted to run. I suppressed a smile. I needed money and gloating would not open his wallet. Father’s widened eyes came back to my face.
“What are you doing here? Don’t tell me. Money. It’s always money.”
I nodded.
“Look at you.”
I stepped forward.
He stepped back.
“You going to hit me, you little shit. Go on, try it. “
“Bernie, leave him,” Mum said. “He’s your son. No matter what.”
“He’s not my son. My son was a fine, wonderful young man. He was athletic, intelligent, had a great future. My son was not a doped-out drunken bum stealing from his family, his friends and anyone else who tried to help him. My son was not a gutless loser. My son was not a disgusting piece of stinking garbage. That son died and it broke my heart. God will punish you! Do you hear me! Repent, Godammit!”
And there it was, the doctrine that had hounded me throughout my childhood. I had broken his heart. What a crock of shit. How many times had I been dragged before the pastor of our church? How many times had I been humiliated in front of the congregation? How many times did h
e tell me he loved me as he beat me until my screams became soundless, gagging? And my mother, my darling mother watched, sobbing, but holding still. She never interfered.
Well, fuck them both.
My father did what he always did. Pulled out his wallet and threw money on the floor. I bent down and scooped it up then turned and walked out. Neither of them tried to stop me and I never said thank you.
###
As I cycled back to the cemetery I drifted into a pensive mood. Thoughts rattled round in my head to the rhythm of the squeaking back wheel. The level of sobriety throughout the last few hours was testing my psyche. I had pedaled through purgatory to confront my parents and now, as always, the fortitude of then was surrendering to weakness. As I cycled through the shopping center, giant shadowy tentacles lashed out at me like a ploughman’s whip, slapping at me and finally entangling me in a net of sociopathic disorder. An insistent chorus of a thousand voices propelled me through the door of a bottle store. By the time I made it back to the cemetery I had blown Alicia’s money on gin and cocaine.
Utopia was now only a snort away.
Alicia had her arms wrapped around Barty’s headstone. A needle lay on the ground beside her. She had mainlined her emergency stash.
I let the bike fall to the ground and sat with my back against Ethel Blacksmith’s headstone. She had died in 1896. I screwed the top off the gin bottle and gulped down two mouthfuls, then trickled some coke along the back of my hand and sniffed.
“Who the fuck are you?” Alicia slurred, only one eye managing to open. “What are you doing with my bike?” A finger pointed at me. Then her arm dropped to her side. “Go somewhere else. This is my home.”
There was no surprise that she’d forgotten I was trying to help her. Junkies have no recall. No humanity even. Alicia’s head fell to her chest. Eyes glazed. Her body contorted knocking the gin bottle over. The contents spewed onto the ground.
“Nooooo,” she cried.
It was too late. She held it up by the neck and dribbled the last dregs into her mouth.
The empty bottle was tossed at me. I lacked the wit to dodge.
“Hey.” I rubbed my upper thigh. “What are you doing?”
“I have nothing,” she cried out and began to weep. She curled into the fetal position and sucked on her thumb like a baby. A light breeze caught a few leaves and blew them across her body. And at that exact moment a flash of moonlight splashed across her face. Nature was comforting this poor soul.
In that moment I knew what was happening. Alicia was being soothed by the hand of God. I hadn’t seen it before, but the coke made it all so clear. God had sent me a message. He was showing me what needed to be done. He was reaching out for this forlorn child of heaven. He was expecting me to guide her to His very own realm of peace and tranquility.
Kneeling beside Alicia I pulled her across my lap. She offered no resistance. I closed my hands around her neck.
And squeezed.
She thrashed about and the eyes of her tattooed snake bulged, but in the end its fangs were as ineffective as Alicia’s life had been.
###
I stayed watching until her grave was filled. When the men had gone, I moved forward and placed a flower on the mound.
Everyone deserved a flower.
It felt good having helped Alicia. She was now free from pain. Free from suffering. And in the company of her friend Barty. What an exhilarating and rewarding experience it had been to perform such an act of care.
Droplets of rain fell upon my face. A cleansing. Clarity of thought surged though me. The imperative was clear. To help other people who knew suffering like Alicia into the Kingdom of Heaven. Alicia would understand. It would be like mending kittens.
I rose to my feet and looked at the stars.
“I hear you God,” I shouted. “I hear you.”
When my euphoria had waned and I could think it all through, it occurred to me there were no two souls more tortured than my parents.
My eyes fell to the bike.
The End
Description
Thriller novelist, Thomas Ryan, is also a prolific writer of short stories.
Ryan’s short story’s span the spectrum of human emotions, from the creepy ‘Nightmares’, to the fun and humour of ‘The World’s Biggest Bun’. Ryan believes all good short stories should have unexpected twists and turns. Applying his thriller techniques he manages to achieve this end. Readers will find Ryan’s short story writing gripping and easy to read.
In this first collection one of the short story’s ‘Ruth’ was included in an anthology recently published in the USA.
Quoting a recent reviewer, ‘these are very intriguing, original stories, all well written and enjoyable. Ryan really gets inside his characters and makes their world our world, whatever its moral code or unwritten rules. These stories are powerful and stay with you once you've finished them.’
Short Stories by Thomas Ryan are a must read.
Acknowledgements
I need to thank my long time writers’ group who critiqued my work and helped guide me through the process of arranging my words into legible order, Trisha Hanifin, Sue Gee, Meemee Phipps, Karen Van Eden, Miles Hughes. Cover design is by selfpubbookcovers.com/RLSather. My gratitude to Stephanie Dagg from Edit-My-Book for proof editing and polish, and Ron Davis who helped craft the final touches.
Mostly I want to thank my long suffering wife Meg for her continuing support and who is owed such a debt of gratitude it would be impossible to repay.
