Father Thomas, ‘The Priest’, said the last few words of the service as the coffin was lowered into the ground. The breeze blew gracefully through the trees. The finality of death and a display of the fragility of life. Buried and then displayed for all to see. A display that would last longer than the longest of lifetimes. A monument to the mortality of man. Before he had become a priest, he had been a young alcoholic who had roamed from place to place. From town to town, city to city, sofa to sofa. He had found his faith, and from that day forward, he had known what he was put on this world to do. He had discovered his purpose. He had uncovered that missing piece to make him complete. He was called to the Church, summoned by faith that he had not known he had. Years had passed, and he was happy; for now, he was content. Not fulfilled, but content. The Priest had always felt he was on Earth to do good, to help someone in particular. He’d had that feeling from the moment he found faith, and he had discovered that in the most unusual ways. 

Finding Faith – The Past. 

Henry Thomas, or “HT” as he was known, threw up. The acidic liquid spewed from his stomach up through his chest and then up and out of his mouth. Finally, making itself at home on the large rectangular stone to his side. HT rolled over so that he faced away from the putrid smell and tried to fall back into his drunken slumber. The smell lingered in the air, hanging around like an unwanted party guest. It had been a heavy night. They were almost always heavy nights. He’d received his unemployment benefit the day before, so naturally, he had blown it all on booze and fags. He was an addict, after all. The first thought that would cross his mind was about alcohol. The final one was usually regretful. He had squandered his friends away with his drinking. They had at first just said that it was HT being HT and humoured him. He would not have been the first person to overdo it a little. He would not have been the first to overdo it a lot! 

The friends had drifted as he always had to push too far. He was, in those days, the type of guy that would tell a joke, and if it offended you, he’d make you the butt of that joke. He would push and push until you finally snapped. It was, in many ways, a surprise that he had even made it to twenty-five. If he continued the way he was going, it would have surprised nobody had he not made thirty. Nobody would have mourned him. HT had no siblings, and his parents were long dead. Just one less drunken bum in the world. His friends had given up on him, and he had hated them for that. He would have admitted – when sober – that he had deserved it. When he was drunk? He would have burnt them in the hottest pit in Hades and then toasted to their demise. 

This morning he felt different. This morning, something was eating away at him. HT’s side was painful; more than painful, it was complete agony. Pain on his left-hand side was spiking in the rhythm of his heartbeat. The boom-boom of his heart was quickly followed by the spikety-spike of this pain that seemed to rip inside him. He rolled onto his back, and then he did something he had not done in years, maybe forever. He prayed. He prayed for the pain to subside. He prayed to have a second chance. He prayed for life. 

HT picked himself up to sit on his backside and turned his back on the foul smell beside him. He then closed his eyes and prayed for the power and strength to kick the alcohol, the power to banish the addiction. He knew he could quit; he just needed a reason. The problem was that he would never stop for long enough to find that reason. HT got to his feet and staggered his way over to a bench. He sat down and put his hands to his head. This has to stop, he thought to himself. I can’t keep doing this. He looked over at the spot where he had slept and puked. He could not remember how he had gotten here nor where it was. It was a graveyard, for Christ’s sake – pardon me, Lord! He was in a bloody graveyard! Now somebody’s gravestone was covered in puke. Covered in his puke. He looked up at the sky and saw the clouds gathering. Maybe it would rain and then wash it all away. If he were lucky, maybe it would also wash him away. As was often the case, he was in full-on self-pitying mode. He looked up and saw the two birds hovering in the sky, one black and one white, and he watched them as they fluttered and flew. Maybe it would be lucky for the world if he were to die; what had he offered it anyway? A little older now and still acting like he was eighteen, worse, at least at eighteen, he’d had friends and places to go. Now he had nobody and nothing save for the drink. 

What was the drink anyway? Just another poison to rot his body and mind. Another corrosive to rust what was left of his soul. The hair of the dog in the morning. The merriment of mid-day drinking and then then the depression of the drunken fool in the afternoon and evening. He would fall asleep where he fell most nights and then rinse and repeat. When his mind and body were lucky, it would get a few days of rest. Not because he was looking out for it but simply because he was penniless. He was just another number on a government spreadsheet awaiting his next Giro cheque. A sad statistic on a chart of numbers, a vagrant waster awaiting death. The sooner he died, the sooner he’d be less of a burden to the world. The way he felt this morning, he would have welcomed death and greeted him like an old friend. 

HT looked and saw the two birds again. They had landed on the gravestone that he had desecrated with bile and carrot chunks, and they seemed to be watching him curiously. The white dove and the black crow observed a destitute drunk lamenting his existence. He was throwing a pity party, and they were his only guests. They seemed fascinated by him, watching him as they would a worm or whatever it was that they ate and hunted. He reached into the pocket on the inside of his coat and grasped at the bottle. He pulled it out and saw that it was still half full, that nectar that was vodka. That would help his morning gut rot; it would help to calm the churning. To steady the sea of his life and existence. He unscrewed the lid and then lifted the bottle to his lips. He held his breath as he did so, aware that the smell may cause another explosion from his stomach. It would not have been the first time; it would be the last. 

“Don’t,” the crow hawked at him. HT was astounded and looked at the crow. It was just an ordinary black crow that gazed back at him. Had it just spoken to him? Was this a hungover hallucination? “No-ooooo,” the dove cooed. HT’s eyes opened wide in astonishment. He was sure they had spoken, yet the subsequent noises they made were the usual cawk and coo he’d expected. He looked at the bottle again, and as he did so, the dove “St-ooooo,” and then the crow, “P,” ed. It took him a moment to link the two, but he got the message. Got the message, ha! He considered, message indeed. But, still, he just held the bottle but didn’t drink. 

The Priest wandered to the bench. HT had not heard him approach; he was enchanted. Not, for once, with alcohol, but with the birds that seemed to be speaking. The Priest placed his hand on HT’s shoulder; it caused him to jump slightly as he looked up. The Priest asked HT, “Going to help me clear it up?” The man’s eyes were kind; he looked upon HT only with compassion and kindness. No judgements were being made. “I’m sorry,” HT said sheepishly. He looked down at the floor and his feet as he did so. 

“Judge not,” The Priest said, “I haven’t always been like this myself.” He helped HT to his feet and then added. “We all falter in our lives. The strong are those who can get over the falls and trips and rise above. We become stronger in the process. Stronger for having fallen.” 

“Gooooooo,” the dove had cooed as HT got to his feet. The Priest paid little attention to the birds. 

That was the first step on the long path leading to HT becoming Father Thomas. A pathway with many steps and, at times, would feel like an upwards struggle, but he had kept to the path. Years passed, and the world changed, but when he found himself back at the church where he had once puked outside, he returned as a Father and not as a drunk. Many parts of the jobs he liked, some he loved. 

Burial and the Voyeur, Part 2. 

This side of his work he could not have enjoyed less. This was the one part of the job that he detested. Father Thomas had always hated funerals and loathed them when it was for children. He felt that lives were far too short as it was, but it could be too much when a child died. Many adults had wasted their lives; children had not even had the chance to do that. Heck, he could have died as a young adult; he knew all about blowing your youth away. It was, though, a lovely day to do it, he sighed to himself, trying to see the good in the world. The early morning sun beamed down through the trees giving everything an unnatural tint. The father was the only mourner, and that was not right. He had no family, no friends and was a loner. 

Even so, there must have been someone who could have come with him, anyone? Are we the only observers? The Priest thought. Not even birds wanted to see this trainwreck of a life. All the man had, now laid out in two plots. Deep holes dug six feet into the ground, not even close to one another. A couple of plots of land and headstones, the souls long departed. Some things in life were just not fair, not right. He had tried to help, but he could not do anything practical or anything that felt meaningful. He could not magic an empty plot next to the mother’s from thin air as much as he had wanted to. 

Sometimes a simple gesture was worth more than any words. The Priest thought that this was one of those times. The man’s eyes had reddened, but he had not wept or cried. Just pressing the back of his hand to hide any wantaway leaks from his eyes. Some people like to show their emotions alone, in private. This was that kind of man. The Priest walked over and placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, nothing more and nothing less, a simple gesture. Almost a mirror of what someone had once done for him. This time, no words were needed. The man laid his hand upon The Priest’s and turned away. The man started to wander towards the graveyard’s end; there was nothing more for him to see. He took a meandering wander towards the hedges and fields on the very edge of the church’s grounds. 

The man was rambling, but not aimlessly as The Priest had assumed. He had wandered this way because he wanted to escape it all. He wanted to be free, and just as importantly, he wanted to smoke. He had lost everything he had ever loved, at least half of it being his own damn fault. He strolled over to the gate and lit his smoke. He leant forwards and placed his weight on the wooden farm gate; as he took the first drag, he noticed them. 

We could say from the corner of his eyes, but we’ll keep it honest. 

There was a couple in the middle of the field, making love. No, that is wrong, and we are keeping it honest. Making love is something you would do with a partner you love and cherish. Something caring and sensitive. This was screwing, pure unadulterated rolling around in the grass and mud, fucking. Fucking next to a church and graveyard. In a field, next to a church, and under a tree! In the Olympic games of sexual activities, they would have scored a solid nine. They may have been in love, but this was far from lovemaking. 

He struggled to get a detailed look at the man or woman, and this, he would have been ashamed to say, was not through want of trying. The rain started falling, and a hazy, wet mist fogged his vision. The breeze had got a little heavier, and the shadows of the tree swayed as the couple screwed. The man looked dressed for a wedding or, perhaps, a funeral. He wore a white shirt with a black tie and a black hat perched on his head. They switched, and the woman was now on top, smiling and laughing. They were having fun. She threw her head backwards, and her long hair flowed and covered her back, revealing a choker around her neck. The voyeur could not pull his eyes away. He tried looking down for a moment, but his eyes wandered back. Drawn to the performance. His voyeurism shamed him, but it also aroused him. It had been so long, too long. He saw the exposed stocking top, her skirt pulled up just enough to reveal it, and the metal catches that held it in place. He was sure he saw them, but they were too far away. The imagination filled in for what the mind could not see. He took a drag on his smoke and watched. If they had wanted to be given privacy, then they should not be shagging in a field. 

Frantically frolicking and fucking in a field on a Friday and after a funeral. 

They switched positions again, and the man took the woman from behind. His hat seemed to bounce comically on his head as he moved backwards and forwards. It jumped about like a buoy in rough seas. He grabbed the woman’s hair with his left hand and pulled her head back, exposing her neck and choker. The voyeur saw, or was it his imagination, a vein that pumped away in her neck. It beat ever faster, like the quick beat in a rock track on a subwoofer. They kept banging away as the man’s right hand slipped out of view. Things are fast approaching the end game now. They both worked harder and quicker, working like their lives depended upon it. She banged backwards into him while he thrusted forward, slamming against each other repeatedly. The man’s right hand came back into view, holding a knife. The sunlight hit the blade, and it glistened. Like a mirror caught in sunlight, it momentarily reflected into view, and the voyeur lost focus. It quickly returned as the man moved the knife. 

The brightness faded as he moved the knife around. He pulled and held the woman’s head back with her hair, holding it as tightly as he could as they finished the fandango of fucking. They both climaxed at once, and he pushed the point of the blade to her neck. The blade sliced from side to side with ease. It cut through the skin as smoothly as an upholsterer would have sliced through leather. Her body was instantly drained of blood, the pressure of orgasm combined with an expert cut creating the blood-red flow. The blood gushed outwards in an instant, spraying like a water sprinkler coked up at a rave. It decorated the grass and trunk of the tree, similar to a warped and deranged modern art exhibit. Ten out of ten. Here have this pitch at Tate Modern. Her body slumped to the floor. Falling forwards like a drunken mannequin as the man released the hair. The man was still on his knees in this makeshift field of blood. Now he had both arms held out. Suspended as if on an invisible crucifix, his head leant backwards as he looked up at the sky, staring at the clouds and leaves of the tree above him. 

That was how he remained for what felt like an age. A clock ticking backwards and then forwards. One tick back, but two forwards. Slowly his head lowered. It took about five seconds; it felt like a lifetime. Tock, tick, tick. Tock, tick, tick. The man’s head dropped, and it seemed like he was surveying his work, examining his art. Looking for imperfections in his masterpiece. His head then started to turn towards the voyeur at the gate, and as it turned, a smile began to form, a smile that reached from ear to ear, nearly mirroring the cut on the woman’s neck, almost… He never blinked; he only stared, eyes opened as wide as possible. He finally stopped and looked straight at the gate where the voyeur had once stood and watched. 

The voyeur had seen this coming as he watched the man’s head turning, and he had hidden behind the hedge. Voyeurism be damned; it was fun while it lasted! His excitement had withdrawn just as quickly as he had. Both chose to hide away, to hide and come and play another day. His cigarette had been finished in a few short puffs. They had pumped, and he had puffed. Down to the filter and then thrown to the ground with no thought of littering. He would usually be very good at keeping his rubbish and binning it correctly but today? Sod it. 

He was frozen, unable to think clearly. Had he been thinking, he would have never done what he then did. His rational mind screamed, Run, just bloody run! But his irrational mind wanted him to help. At that moment, both choices seemed irrational and rational. Maybe it was a stone-age desire to protect the opposite sex, or a more modern one, drilled in to protect those in need. Perhaps it was wilp, possibly something more. He moved suddenly and almost leapt the gate before he had time to judge or think about his actions. The rage that had so often come out verbally in his life again rushed to the surface. He was damned if he was going to do nothing. 

He came to an almost instant standstill. The man was still there, unmoving. He had expected him to have run away by now. He was still wide-eyed, staring unblinkingly at the gate that he had just leapt. The power of rage and the desire to protect ran away to hide once more. Joining his erection and arousal in a little hidey-hole of the mind. Leaving just a fleeting shadow of where it had once been. A smile as wide as Alice’s Cheshire cat was still on the man’s face; he just knelt there, staring at the voyeur. The voyeur was just stuck, unsure of what to do. His feet sticking in the mud of indecision, unknowing, a million thoughts flooded his mind at once, a tsunami of uncertainty. 

What should I do? 

Should I run? 

Can I help? 

Should I confront him? 

What is wrong with him? 

Why is he looking at me like that? 

Then there was an intrusion. A sudden unwelcome voice filled his voyeuristic head, an uninvited voice that was not his. “Run, little man, run. Run, run, as fast as you can. You can’t catch me. I am the…” The voice paused for a moment and then asked, “Do you like my Columbian necktie?” The voice splashed in his mind from side to side and top to bottom. Echoing around the hollow of his consciousness. 

It was all too much. The voyeur grasped his head in his hands and tried to scream. Nothing came out; he was losing control; he felt it in his mind. He turned away. Who is that in my head? It seemed a stupid question because he knew who it was. Was it madness? Was it possible that he was going insane? Was he already insane? He had bottled a lot up inside recently; was this its means of escape? The eruption of insanity escaping like a beer from a shaken can. The unblinking stare had penetrated the one safe space he had, his mind. He felt the scratching in his head, a group of long fingernails clawing at his memories. 

He had to look. He had to know. He’d told himself; I do not believe in any of that shite. I am sane, well as sane as anyone! He lifted his head from his hands and peeked out from behind his fingers, much like a child checking for the monster in the closet. The pounding of the voice in his head had stopped. His mind felt empty. It was his alone once again. He still had to summon all of his mental strength to open his fingers. If willing his fingers to open was hard, forcing his body to turn so he could look was agony. Like being under a strobe light in a darkened room, he seemed to move frame by frame, seeing the world jolt until he finally faced the middle of the field. His hands were still upon his face, eyes poked through looking, he scanned the area like a human CCTV system. They were ready to close tight at the first sign of trouble. He hoped that if he could not see it, then he would be safe. That it could not see him. It was childlike and stupid, but at that moment, it was all he had.  

However, when he looked, the man had gone. 

He wasted no time and ran to the centre of the field, and, just as he arrived there, the rain got heavier. It was like someone in the heavens had let the bath overflow. What was once a mist of rain was now heavy drops. It flooded his vision as he looked at her lying on the sodden ground and knelt next to her. She was beautiful. A flower in this field of blood. He held her neck with his hands, putting pressure on the large wound. He knew it was hopeless trying to stop what little was left of her blood escape. The rain washed the warm flowing blood from his hands as he held them there. Another voice invaded his mind, only this time it was pleasant. It was not intruding. It felt like an old memory brought back by the passing of a forgotten scent. It was merely visiting, giving a final thought, its one last wish. “Find him for me.” 

He wanted to run. Oh god, he wanted to run. Pink Floyd’s ‘Run Like Hell’ buzzed inside his head, almost screaming at him. 

You’d better run all day and run all night. Keep your dirty feelings deep inside. 

The song rumbled in his mind; the bass line echoed his heartbeat. He ran, but he ran away from the only man who could have helped him and towards the only other exit from the field. 

The Priest stood with the gravedigger and watched the man. The man had run into the field after his smoke. Stopped in the middle by that damned tree and then ran to the other side. They did not see any couple, and they had not seen any murder. They had just seen a man and a field. 

The man who had run had seen rain. The gravedigger saw sunlight, and The Priest saw darkness. Darkness like he had never witnessed before. 

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