The Soul Killer

by Ross Greenwood

  She used to attend confession. Afterwards, as she drove home, she would whisper to herself the same lines over and over.

  ‘I know that I am saved. I am born again. I am a child of God.’

  Confession stopped when she decided she knew better than those giving out the advice. Not everyone agreed with her views on eternal damnation. She believed that only a special few would be spared the wrath of God. The criteria to qualify were a shifting sand that I struggled to get my head around. More than once I found myself considering the kitchen table and what lay beneath. She’d shake me and explain that good people sometimes had to do bad things that would save their souls and banish others into permanent darkness.

  Occasionally, she’d shoot out of her seat and bellow at the pulpit and we’d have to leave mid-service, or I’d be hauled from Sunday school. She’d tell me on the way home about the brutality of life, and how everyone had their own interests at heart. She’d stop in the street and lean down to look in my eyes.

  ‘We don’t need them in our lives. Only those who are saved are worth anything.’

  ‘I was having a good time.’

  ‘We don’t worship to have a good time. Our goal is heaven and life everlasting.’

  ‘Are we going there?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘With father?’

  Her grip tightened and I was dragged along.

  ‘Of course.’

  I wondered what his last girlfriend would think about that. Whatever, it was serious stuff when I’d rather have been reading comics.

  She always said not to worry about this life because happiness existed a final heartbeat away. When someone maddens over years, it’s hard to see the exact point when they become crazy, as opposed to just different from the rest of us. Mother was lucid then, but, with my father gone, little outside influence crept within our walls. The gospel according to Marjory held sway and I was destined to be her disciple.

  At age twelve, I was plunged through the trapdoor for the final time. She’d burst into my room and found me enthusiastically exploring my puberty. My cheeks still burn when I recall that frozen second. For a long while, I thought of her whenever I became aroused. I wonder if I ever truly got over it.

  At that embarrassing moment, she screamed at me. ‘What do you think you’re doing in my pure house?’

  I assumed, correctly, that she didn’t want the actual answer.

  I fumbled for my clothes. Even though our heights matched by then, her determination overpowered me. She grabbed my ear and pulled me down our dangerously steep stairs. I almost tripped and plummeted down while trying to cover myself up. I stood with my hands between my legs as she dragged the table back and lifted the rug. Again, she thrust me in from behind. I didn’t reach for help, nor feel the cold. I only scowled into the darkness.

  3

  The Soul Killer

  My relationship with my mother changed after that incident. She left me down there until darkness fell; at least ten hours. When the trapdoor lifted, I returned her glare until she stepped away. I climbed out to an empty room. She never mentioned what had happened: her part in it or mine. I don’t recall her touching me again, in punishment or in love.

  I continued my education but tried to remain unseen and was mostly successful, although Jimmy’s acquaintances still bullied me. Their nicknames stuck throughout the years. Even now, if I hear the words mentioned, my body tenses. That said, some people started to include me, and I slowly made some friends. I even joined the cross-country team and excelled. It suited my nature to run ahead where no one could bother me.

  My mother didn’t insist I earn money to contribute to the household finances, but there were no free rides. Conversation and story time ended. Instead, washing and ironing the family’s clothes became my job. It took a year until I got the hang of it and stopped burning my hands and ruining things. I never minded the pain.

  I impressed the teachers with my exam results and told my mother I wanted to go to university. She left me gobsmacked by telling me God expects us to seek knowledge. Perhaps she wanted to see the back of me. I think she’d become confused as to the point of life. Cleanliness used to be next to Godliness, but mould crept into the corners of the rooms and surfaces gathered dust.

  By that time, Barney Trimble – her new partner – had been with us for a while. He was a dopey sort with a beaten expression, and the type of guy who you could see every day for years but never recall any details about him.

  He spent most of his time in my father’s chair. The similarities in looks were so strong, even down to the side parting that showed a glistening head, that I imagined he’d been grown in a test-tube for the role but errors had crept in. He had very few opinions of his own and was not dissimilar to a quiet dog, but their relationship was different. Muffled groans of violence escaped from their room at night. I contemplated investigating, but many of the howls were his. He stayed though, so perhaps he had nowhere else to go.

  Barney owned a white and black campervan: a real plus point. Of course, my mother believed it ungodly. She considered it some kind of sex wagon. But Barney and I took numerous weekend trips to a peaceful place called West Runton in Norfolk. We didn’t speak much to each other the whole time, but instead we relaxed in the peace and quiet away from Mother’s sermons. He worked an allotment, too, where he spent many hours. I don’t know what he grew there because he rarely brought anything home.

  I once pulled his leg about his name almost being Barney Rubble. A playful smile lit up his face for a second; an expression I only saw on a few occasions. He told me that his friends called him Flintstone at school. It seemed weird to think of him in that way: a person with a life and a future, when he ended up such a non-entity. But I liked that he’d told me that.

  Cambridge University disorientated me at first. I could barely cope with the people and noise. The halls of residence sometimes reminded me of the first day of the January sales, and I kept to my room away from the noise and purpose. However, I slowly realised that, despite the throng, there was an anonymity to the place. Busy people missed the silent soul among the thousands. I accepted a job at a bakery to pay my way. An old guy and I arrived at 5:00 and baked for when the store opened. We left when the other staff turned up, then I attended my lectures.

  I kept up with my running. Another jogger from the athletics club took a shine to me. Charlie wasn’t a particularly nice person and became a nightmare when drunk but we became some sort of couple. I think she enjoyed bossing around the club’s fastest runner. The coach encouraged me to attend national try-outs, but I sought no glory.

  Then a strange thing happened. Christmas came. You could sense the change in mood over everyone and everything. Trees and tinsel appeared. A palpable buzz grew as the big day approached. I’d avoided the fresher parties – people were more in your face under the influence of alcohol – but I succumbed to the end-of-year Christmas bash.

  Charlie’s family were rich. She bought me a tuxedo and I felt like James Bond. It was heady. She suggested I cut my hair short and called me Action Man, and I liked it. The figure of him she bought as a joke even had the same expression I wore when I ran. Her beauty reflected well against my cool distance. It brought us status. Nice clothes brought me compliments.

  To my amazement, the party flew by. Everyone seemed to want to talk with me and listened when I spoke. They interpreted my standoffishness and distance as drive. Many stopped and explained that they respected my commitment. They admired my focus on running at the crack of dawn. They were unaware I was running to work.

  Sometimes, I’d put my trainers on and disappear late at night. Exercise silenced the voices; the ones telling me I didn’t belong. But with Charlie by my side, I fitted in, and she resembled a movie star that night. I basked in the reflective glow.

  Later, she dragged me back to her room.

  ‘Fuck me. Hard!’ Rank brandy breath wrinkled my nose. I gulped, not having had sex at that point.

  Button
s popped as she tore the shirt from my back. Sharp nails scraped down my chest. It hurt, but the intensity was intoxicating. Perhaps that was the appeal for Barney with my mother. I’d never felt so alive. She pushed me onto the bed and straddled me.

  ‘God, God, yes, yes.’

  My thoughts strayed to my mother.

  ‘Screw me,’ Charlie demanded, frantic eyes boring into mine.

  Her language shocked me more than the naked proximity of our bodies. That was what dragged my mind into the present and made me respond to her requests. As a person Charlie was shallow, but as a teacher she was very effective. I wasn’t completely naïve, I’d seen porn before, but I followed her instructions.

  I enjoyed the workout. The power I possessed over her during certain moments pleased me more than the climax itself. I owned her. Those occasions with Charlie showed me that, by training my body and focussing on a woman’s needs, I could become something else. For the first time in my life, I felt I belonged in a way that I previously hadn’t. I had become a participant as opposed to an observer.

  For the last few weeks up to Christmas, the world and I were synchronised. I relaxed and looked others in the eye. I enjoyed the simple pleasures of hot chocolate in front of a pub fire and buying gifts to place next to a tree.

  Until, one day towards the end of term, early in the morning when I left for work, I froze as I caught one of our senior lecturers sneaking out of Charlie’s room.

  4

  The Soul Killer

  I followed him out to the exit and scowled as he cycled away on his rickety bicycle. I followed at a distance, which wasn’t hard. He didn’t go far, only back to one of the buildings that was near to the university. Perhaps his home came with the job.

  Afterwards, I sprinted through the streets, but I was unable to still my mind. Anger bubbled at the periphery of my thoughts but, initially, it wasn’t aimed specifically at her, or him even. After all, we hadn’t made a commitment to each other. She had been more like a training buddy. But I knew I’d miss the recent feeling of involvement, of being part of something.

  As I finally tired, I saw that they’d disrespected me. How dared they? Was I nothing? Would my university life mirror my school life? All these years, I’d turned the other cheek. To my mother, to bullies, to all. It had gained me nothing. Finally, I headed to work, happy in the knowledge that, if necessary, I knew where he lived.

  That night, I returned to the lecturer’s house and stood waiting under a tree in the distance as it rained. When he returned home, he kissed a middle-aged woman at the door and retreated into a cosy glow.

  The truth of the matter became even clearer to me in the run-up to Christmas Day. Having a beautiful partner had grounded me and made others look at me in a new light. Charlie wouldn’t figure in my future. However, I was sure such a girl did exist. I would train, get my degree, and find a good job until we met. Then I’d hang on to her and live the perfect life. Nobody and nothing would come between us. It would be us against the world, to the end of the world.

  Luckily, I hadn’t given Charlie the necklace I’d bought for her. I decided to give it to my mother instead. It would be a secret acknowledgement that I wouldn’t lose my soul mate when I found her as my mother did when she let my father slip through her fingers.

  I returned to Wisbech late on Christmas Eve to a silent home, regretfully with no place else to go. Obviously, there was no wreath on the door. Inside it was so dark, cold and still that it oppressed all life. Even the clock seemed to struggle to tick. I knew I’d have no presents again. My room remained the same and I crept up the stairs so as not to wake anyone and slipped under the duvet. I imagined the black mould on the walls rapidly expanding, covering them completely, and then engulfing me. Stealing from the bed, I turned on the light and took some deep breaths. Gentle snoring came from the landing.

  I walked towards their room and stood next to the bed. My mother looked frailer than I recalled. My eyes scanned the room for personal items, but there was nothing. I realised she had chosen this non-life. It was up to me to choose something different.

  The following morning, I came downstairs in a mischievous mood. My mother and Barney ate cereal in silence and the overriding impression I had was of grey lives. Their days were featureless landscapes where breathing was automatic, but actually living was not.

  What was the point to it all? Even if you were focussed on the next life, couldn’t you do something in this one while you waited? I was determined to. I planned for a life full of drama and excitement. I’d laughed the first time someone called an old people’s home God’s waiting room, but that was where my mother spent her days.

  Imagine wasting your entire existence with one foot in the grave. Why not live before you die? You can take risks, do what you like. In fact, if you believe in the safety net of heaven, then eternal happiness is yours even if you make the ultimate mistake. What a perfect truth. If life is a game, play it with purpose and enthusiasm. At least try to enjoy it.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ I said.

  I received a grin from Barney. My mother stopped chewing. I gazed around the spartan room. I knew I shouldn’t give her the necklace, but I thought of everything I’d missed out on in my life. The people I’d left at college were elated, laughing and boisterous in anticipation of Christmas, ensuring the drabness of my childhood became blisteringly evident. I’d returned to a scene from a Charles Dickens story.

  ‘Here you go, Mum.’ She hated that word. ‘This is for you.’

  I reckoned on her throwing it straight in the bin, and my mouth dried as she took her time with the unwrapping. Barney slowly placed his spoon on the table as though he were a western gunfighter lowering his pistol for the sheriff. There was just the dreaded tick from that infernal clock as she opened the box and stared inside.

  I sometimes kid myself that I saw tears. If they were present, she’d been blinded by wrath. I was surprised the clock didn’t blow up with the tension. She eased the box lid shut and hurled it in my direction. Somehow, I caught it one handed.

  Her righteous sneer still triggered a tremble in my legs. I backed away and clambered up the stairs. A few seconds later, a step behind me creaked. The urge to flee overwhelmed me, but I had only my bedroom ahead. She followed and stopped at the door.

  ‘Where are you going with that? It cannot stay in this house.’

  Without thinking, I looked at the wardrobe, which held the collection of my possessions, and I knew immediately where the necklace belonged. It also dawned on me that she couldn’t hurt me any more. Her punishments were over, her power gone. She might own this house but I could take my belongings and use my wages if she threw me out.

  My serene face must have betrayed my intentions because suddenly the doorway dwarfed her. Perhaps only then did I see her clearly.

  ‘Looking for your stash, son? Your horrible little things are gone.’

  Blood rushed in my ears as I yanked the wardrobe door open and searched for my secrets. With relief, I spotted the box in its normal place but it was too light when I picked it up. Placing the necklace inside the empty space, I turned with a smile. My mother retreated from my expression. She understood at that moment what her nurturing skills had created.

  As she stepped down the first stair, I returned to her the hearty shoves she’d bestowed on me, backed by decades of interest. It’s no lie to say she flew. Those stairs were steep. She made no sound until there was an almighty wooden crack as she hit the bottom. It could have been a floorboard, or her neck. Death was instantaneous, judging by the direction of her stare.

  A falling body makes a shocking clump, and Barney ran to investigate. That was the strangest thing about the whole experience. Barney rang for an ambulance in the same casual manner as one orders a taxi. We didn’t speak until the sirens sounded.

  ‘I’ve been telling her to put a rail on those stairs for years. I’ll sort it tomorrow.’

  Did he suspect I pushed her? My mother was a strange woman. It
made sense that she would have unusual friends. I listened to Barney inform the police about the terrible accident and explain that I’d been in my room. Our matter-of-fact responses must have been convincing. I think it’s normal to be stunned by such an abrupt end to a life.

  The police weren’t daft. Many a disagreement finishes at the bottom of a flight of stairs. The sergeant directed his questions at me.

  ‘Did you argue? Was she upset?’

  ‘Not at all. She seemed exactly the same as always.’

  His stare almost disarmed me, like my mother’s. He glanced at my scruffy college clothes and smiled.

  ‘I know what students are like. Did you come back at Christmas and get drunk with your friends? It’s easy to argue at this time of the year. The holidays can literally be murder.’

  Clever guy. It was like a game. Who’s the cleverest?

  ‘Not in our house, sir. We don’t celebrate Christmas.’ I gestured to our bare walls.

  The paramedic approached and checked me over. I recall her warm and gentle hands, motivated by more than just doing her job. She enjoyed her role, it was her vocation, and I thought one day perhaps I would relish a career I could love. I wanted to excel at something and be known for it.

  Once they removed the body and everyone had left, Barney and I sat together. I struggled to find suitable words. Probing into whether or not he’d intentionally lied to the police didn’t seem wise. I’d also had an epiphany. My life would be different now I understood the world, but a few things remained unclear.

  ‘Barney, why did you stay with her? She can’t have been easy to live with.’

  He shrugged and his eyes rose to the ceiling and their bedroom above. ‘We connected, if you know what I mean. I wanted to marry her, but she despised what she called pagan rituals. Her words. I suppose I have weird taste in women.’