Death's Sweet Echo

by Maynard Sims

  He had tried to sleep away from the house: hotels were best, as he could remain private; bed and breakfast meant other people, and those he wanted to avoid. Wherever he went, it was the same. As soon as his eyes closed, and he slept, they came for him. Even when he woke, he tried to keep his eyes shut for as long as he could, but whether at home or elsewhere, eventually he had to open his eyes and they were there. Sometimes just a few, but on the worst of occasions it was all of them. So many he lost count. His mind couldn’t contain them any longer, he knew that. He really did need help, or else he knew they would overwhelm him, and if that happened, he had no idea what would become of him or his sanity.

  He switched off the television and slung the remote onto the chair, a futile gesture of irritation born out of fear. He put his empty plate and glass in the kitchen and poured another measure of whisky into the glass. He had already drunk far too much, but it had little impact these days. The pain of it all was getting worse, and each time he added another layer to the hordes rampaging in his mind, which he couldn’t stop from doing, the pressure built just a little more.

  If only he could have learned to control his temperament, but it was impossible. Far too late for that now, in any case. His character had been forged a long, long time ago and he was a martyr to it. What he had sown so he was now reaping, and had been doing for longer than he cared to recall. If it had reached a tipping point, it was his fault and no one else could be blamed, try as he might to lay the fault at the door of someone other than himself. It was thoughts like those that caused his problems in the first place, but even though he recognised what he had done all his life, and was still doing, there was precious little he could do to stop.

  And now he felt as if he was going to explode.

  His tread up the stairs was heavy and laboured. The doors downstairs were locked and bolted, and he knew the windows throughout the whole house were closed. It wasn’t a threat from outside that he was becoming scared of, it was what was already here. He left the landing light on, as if that was going to help at all, and switched on the side lamp next to his bed.

  He put the whisky glass down next to a book he had tried to read as a distraction, but that was another pointless exercise. They intruded, whatever he attempted to do. Whatever cloak he donned, whatever barriers he erected, whichever masks he wore, they always found a way through. How could they not, when he kept them so close and warm? It was all his fault, and the knowledge only made his torment more intolerable.

  He slipped into bed and debated whether or not to turn off his lamp. He did, thankful that the light spilling into the room from the landing was bright enough to reassure initially. Then he lay, staring at the ceiling. He was tired, oh so tired, and he didn’t think it would be long before he was asleep. His exhausted mind was already running through lists from his past. Surely he should get some release, some time off for recognising that he was the one at fault, the single cause for his predicament? Guilty of so many things, by accident and by deliberate act, but always with knowledge of what he was doing – knowledge that he was behaving badly and hurting others. Did that make him amoral? He couldn’t be sure, just that he seemed to lack a pause button when it came to the emotions of others. He didn’t have a sense-check system in his brain that might filter behaviour.

  He must have fallen asleep without being aware of it, because suddenly his eyes flickered open at the sound of something shimmering around the room. The sound was partly whisper and partly soft movement, like silk over rough skin. He glanced at his bedside clock and saw he had been asleep for just under two hours. A good sleep for him, but one that left him dull of eye and mind.

  The illumination from the landing light was obscured and he flicked his eyes to the doorway. There were some of them there. Standing, lolling, as if they had the impudence to do more than just mock him. The shadows were wisps of darkness, floating in the air as if they were blown by a breeze. Undulating like exotic dancers, without form other than an inky blackness that extinguished all light.

  A coldness penetrated the room and he saw the window was open, the curtains blowing in and flapping soundlessly as more shadows crept up them, crouching at the top as if deciding whether to jump onto the bed or slither across the ceiling. They were silent, as they always were, their very presence enough to make him want to cover his ears, his eyes, to hide beneath the covers until they had gone.

  Except they never did leave. Even during the day when he might hope for some respite, they were a constant companion. Not as overt as at night, whenever he slept, but they were like a nagging ache, always there, forever needling him, making him recall the wrongs he had perpetrated, like the person whose career he had wrecked by not supporting them. There were so many, so many actions that he felt remorse over. He was getting tired of carrying it all around with him. His brain was rebelling. He had had enough.

  When the time came for him to admit that he needed help, he was at a loss about what to do, who to turn to, where he could go. That he chose a church came as a huge surprise to him. If by then he had any friends left, they would have reacted with amazement that he should seek solace in a place of worship. As it was, his decision passed by unnoticed.

  Many people may visit a church for a wedding, a funeral, a christening, perhaps occasionally at Christmas, if they or their family are of a Christian persuasion. Other religions can be more devout, worshipping not from social expedience but from an ingrained devotion that many find comforting. He certainly found the idea of comfort a welcome, although alien, concept.

  Martin tried hard to recall the last time he had been to church, but even after two coffees, a slice of chocolate cake, and last night’s episode of that soap that he enjoyed, he couldn’t recall a moment when he had attended. His parents had died some time ago and their funerals, a few months apart, had been simple affairs at the local crematorium. No church opened its doors to him on those days.

  He thought he might have been to the christening of his brother’s first child, but he couldn’t locate any photographs to confirm his suspicion. He could hardly call or email his brother and ask, as that would have meant breaking the vow of estrangement he had taken after their last disagreement. He realised now, as he did then, that he was in the wrong, but he had no intention of admitting it, at least not out loud, in words, to another person. Inside, in himself, he felt the guilt shifting about on a regular basis, never painful enough to require direct action, but providing sufficient discomfort for it to be a constant distraction.

  His brother’s wife, Angela, had answered the door, all those years ago, when he had arrived on their doorstep, unannounced, out of the blue, on a wet October afternoon.

  ‘Martin,’ she said, surprised, and he could see from her eyes that his sudden appearance wasn’t entirely welcome; she seemed pre-occupied.

  ‘Angela,’ he said in his most friendly tone. ‘I was just passing.’

  She hesitated a few seconds too long, but when she realised she was cornered, and had little option but to invite him in, she did so gracefully.

  ‘I was in the vicinity and I thought I would just pop round and see you all.’

  ‘Matt is out. Well, he’s at work, obviously.’

  Martin pretended to consult his watch, but he knew full well what time it was. He hadn’t so much planned to visit when his brother was out at work, but he hadn’t exactly avoided the possibility, either.

  ‘Perhaps I should go?’

  Angela suddenly smiled, and he got the impression she was actually pleased he was here, with her, alone. He had seen her smile at him at family gatherings, when he used to go to such events, and thought she was being slightly more than sister-in-law-friendly. He didn’t want to test his theory that she might like him in a non-family way, but on the other hand his brother had let him down over that car deal last month, and so Martin’s sense of justice had been damaged.

  ‘Let me get you a drink,’ Angela said. ‘I was going to have a glass of wine.
Join me?’

  ‘Why not, that sounds ideal.’

  When she left the lounge, presumably to go to the kitchen, Martin made his decision. Never one to undulate over his emotions, not a person to waver when he had a choice to make, he stood and followed her.

  He found her, as expected, in the luxury kitchen of the large detached house, unscrewing a chilled bottle of white wine. When he stood behind her, he knew he was standing too close, but it was now or never.

  ‘Oh,’ she said, when she became aware of him in such close proximity. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘Do you want a hand with that?’ He nodded to the bottle.

  ‘No, I’m fine.’

  He ignored her, and reached around with both his arms and took hold of the bottle, which was cold on his fingers. The actions made sure his body pressed hard against hers and, as he began turning the screw top of the wine, he waited for her reaction. If she was appalled at what he had done, she would protest, perhaps wriggle free from his enforced embrace, maybe even demand that he leave.

  What she did was close her eyes and sigh.

  ‘Where do you keep the glasses?’ he asked.

  Her eyes opened, and she turned her body as if about to go and find two wine glasses. Her movement meant she was all but facing him, his arms still loosely around her waist, his body still held closely and intimately onto hers.

  His eyes stared into hers and he knew she was trying to reach a decision of her own. He didn’t give her the time – after all, she might make the wrong choice. He leaned forward and his lips pressed against hers. There was hesitation for barely a moment before she welcomed his mouth and the kiss became one that was definitely non-family.

  The love-making that followed was wholly satisfactory from his point of view, and Angela seemed to find pleasure in it. Uppermost in Martin’s mind throughout was what his brother would think, what he would say, when he found out about the betrayal. Martin would make sure he did find out, as secrets were even more difficult to bear than guilt.

  The text, when he sent it, accompanied by a couple of photographs that he had taken discreetly when Angela had been unaware – though there was little that was discreet about the images themselves – the text was brutal in its seemingly confessed outpouring of atonement. I did wrong, we both did wrong, but surely you can forgive us? It irritated Martin that his brother managed to forgive his wife, or at least to stay married to her, but turned his back on his own flesh and blood.

  Another life spoiled, in the name of revenge this time, and another guilt to be stored away, to fester and rot against his soul.

  He remembered the taste of her mouth for some time. The coolness of the wine she had drunk. And the tang of salt. And sweet lipstick.

  He chose the church because he liked the look of the building. It was quite close to his house – a far more modest home than that of his brother – and so he could walk there quite comfortably.

  From the outside, it was an ideal example of church architecture. He knew from his recent research that it dated originally from the twelfth century, with revisions in the fifteenth and sixteenth, and intense restoration in the late nineteenth. Building materials were a varied assortment, rubble with stone dressings, several types of brick, and some flint. The medieval fabric was un-coursed rubble masonry with stone dressings, with some knapped flint, brick, and traces of render and lime-wash. He liked the feeling of being part of history, of something old still serving a purpose.

  The entirety was pleasing to the eye, and Martin admired it from outside the gates, one hand on the wrought iron railings that surrounded the exterior, and one foot placed inside the leaning lych-gate that adorned the main entrance to the grounds.

  The un-buttressed west tower stood proud, with a high plinth and a string course with weathered heads below the parapet. The tower windows were late fourteenth century with two traceried lights. The tower south door was nineteenth century, accessed by a short flight of external stairs. There was no stair turret, which, with the lack of buttresses, suggested an early original date for the tower. Martin found the history of such buildings fascinating, of far more importance than the services they provided for their parishioners. Except perhaps today, and although he would never describe himself as a parishioner, he did admit he needed help. He had never found the need for such an admission before. It worried him.

  He shut the gate behind him and walked along the gravel path, glancing at the inscriptions on the headstones as he passed them by. Many were faded and hard to decipher, although he did see one or two recent stones where he noticed loving messages from those left behind. He wondered, without much concern, what his headstone might tell about him, and decided it would reveal very little.

  The huge oak doors opened easily enough, and as he shut them behind him he fancied he heard a whisper, as if he had disturbed someone or something inside.

  The interior was more spacious than he had imagined it might be, and lofty as well. The internal core of the church, he knew from his internet searches, was fourteenth century, although the windows were late medieval or nineteenth. The nave arcades and chancel arch were of late-fourteenth-century type, with quatrefoil piers, moulded arches, capitals and bases. The chancel chapel arcade piers were similar, but the capitals were slightly less complex, suggesting different campaigns of work.

  Most of the stained glass in the windows was destroyed in the Second World War and so had been replaced shortly after that great conflict ended. On this fine and sunny day the images seemed to shimmer in the dancing light, so that from different angles they seemed to be moving as if to get a better view of this interloper into their church. He didn’t like the idea of being watched; this was a private moment, and his resolve was not as strong as he had hoped it would be, now that he was here inside the hallowed building.

  Martin rarely felt discomfort from his attendance in places, but he was close to a feeling of disquiet here. The history of the place was shouting out at him from every pew, column and panel. It was as if the church was rising up against him, as if it recognised him for what he was.

  He had learned to shy away from his emotions, found methods to avoid his secrets, to keep them locked inside his mind, never shaking the box that contained them in case they invaded his thoughts and made life even more unbearable.

  He walked to the front pew, conscious of his footsteps echoing through the large and empty space, and sat. He waited. He had no appointment, and so it would be by chance if he were to encounter the person he sought. He fully expected to have to make several journeys before he could be heard.

  It was not his normal lot in life to experience good fortune, but that day seemed to belong to him. He had sat for no more than five minutes when a man appeared

  Martin stood, and his movement attracted the attention of the man, who approached and extended his hand for Martin to take.

  ‘Good morning,’ the man said, and his voice was deeper than his face seemed to own. ‘Ashley Waters, vicar of St Andrews.’

  ‘Martin Tyler.’

  Martin appraised the vicar, assessing if the man was up to the task he was to be presented with. Waters was probably late forties, with longish, dark brown hair that found a natural parting on the left of his head. He wore glasses that were neither fashionable nor embarrassingly quaint. His face was competent, with strong nose and bright alert eyes diverting attention away from the large ears and short neck. His clothes were casual, jeans and a blue shirt with sleeves rolled up. There was a tattoo of a heart on the left wrist that perhaps spoke of life outside or even before the clergy.

  Aware he was being sized up, Waters allowed a small smile of amusement to flicker across his lips. He had never seen this man before, knew he wasn’t a church-goer, and yet there was something about him that piqued the interest. The man was anxious, that much was obvious from first glance. His face was pale, his features pinched as if in intense concentration that had become too prolonged. Worry line
s furrowed his brow even when he appeared relaxed. That he was anything but relaxed was apparent from his posture. His legs were rigid, as if to attention on a parade ground; his arms were a blur of constant movement at his sides, as if he was unable to keep them still. The fingernails were bitten to the quick, and further on some fingers, dried blood on at least two that could be seen.

  ‘I wondered whether you would hear my confession,’ Martin said.

  Waters looked at the man and gestured for him to sit on the pew nearest to them, which he did. Waters sat beside him, but not too close. There was an aura emanating from this man that made Waters uncomfortable. He fingered the mobile phone in his pocket, making sure it was within reach if things began to get out of hand. This man had an air of desperation hanging over him, much as Waters had seen when he spent time at the local hospice.

  ‘Are you ill?’ Waters asked. ‘What I mean to say is, are you seeking a last redemption of some kind?’

  Martin shook his head, and resisted the temptation to laugh out loud.

  ‘No, I’m quite well. I just need you to hear my confession.’

  ‘You didn’t mean to inquire at the Catholic church? I know you don’t attend here. I wondered if they might be better…’

  ‘I don’t come here, no,’ Martin said, and fought to keep his voice even. ‘I know you practice confession and absolution as part of your corporate worship, especially at the services of the Holy Eucharist. I don’t want that. The crowd being exhorted to repentance followed by a period of silent prayer during which believers inwardly confess their sins. That’s not for me. I detest crowds, and I join no clubs or societies. That form of general confession said together, by all of those present, and then the pronouncement of general absolution, won’t be enough for me.’