A Season For Everything - Matthew Fairman (pocket ebook reader .TXT) 📗

were so unbelievably cruel. We had this argument. It started over something small, something really trivial. He took our dog, he took the dog and he went. Just stormed out of the house. He came back home without her. I was hysterical, crying. I mean we loved that dog and he just took her away. He never told me where he took her, it frightened me that he would be so cold and then act like everything was just fine. It wasn’t just that though. He would tell me these stories. He would have nightmares about his childhood. His best friend had killed himself. ‘Did he ever mention his friends name to you or how he died?’

‘No. I got him to go and see someone briefly, a psychologist. The doctor prescribed him some tablets to help him sleep and it seemed to help for the most part.’

‘But you still left him?’

‘Look, I know how it sounds and I did love Beaton, I did, but some of the things he would say. He could be so frightening. I couldn’t let him raise my child. I just wanted to get away from him. He tried to contact me several times but I avoided him. I called him last spring to arrange for our divorce but he acted as though nothing had happened as if I had left just a week ago. He doesn’t know about Sarah and I don’t’ want him to. I just want to move on.’

‘Of course, I understand. I want you to contact me if you hear from him.’ Hollis reassured her that there was little or nothing to worry about. Even so she could sense the crackle of fear in the young woman’s voice as she said goodbye and hung up the telephone.

 

Sometimes he believed that he was possessed by an ‘ugly spirit’. the name he gave to a malignant force that lay dormant inside of him. Stirring within him, suppressed and controlled only by his nervous ticks and his obsessive behaviour. He could somewhat control himself by keeping his life to a controlled schedule, by keeping each day the same as the next. These were all manifestations of the ugly spirit. He needed calm, and balance, he believed that his life could only be lived out in either harmony or hell.

He had been a sickly child, prone to being struck down with intense burning fevers that lasted for several days at a time. During these maladies he would sometimes sleep walk, speaking nonsense words, laughing and crying, break down in fits of rage. In the morning, young Beaton would be oblivious to his feverish somnambulisms. The only thing he could remember was the same recurring dream which visited him when he was sick. It was more of a feeling, a waking dream experienced from the slipping in and out of an unconscious state. He felt as if he were composed entirely of resonating waves. He was neither separate nor was he a part of his surroundings, everything vibrated as one. Innumerable microscopic glass filaments quivering through time and space. Every nerve in his fevered body alert, quivering. He felt a sensation, a texture. An alien feeling that he had never known in the waking world and which he could not pinpoint. Like the memory of a phantom taste that comes and goes yet can never be recaptured as it once was, if it ever existed at all. It was a sensation, both hard and soft, like fingernails squealing across a backboard. The shiver down a spine. Excitement and nausea, dread and ecstasy. As the feeling intensified the silver threads bounced and zig zagged increasing in size and frequency until the the blurred into a mass of flickering white spots. Like the interrupted signal on a TV screen. The nausea and anxiety grew in ever increasing waves, until Beaton could sense the danger that lurked behind the fractured lines that convulsed and juddered in their spasmodic zig zag patterns. Something black spreading through his brain quake, eating up his soul. This is what he called 'the ugly spirit.' It moved through everything, it was God itself.

 

 

 

From the crestof the valley Beaton looked down onto the the village, nestled in its hollow. Cupped in the white hands of the landscape, gently starting to stir in the slow Rhythms of the unfolding day. Opening up to life like a japanese paper flower. The street lamps still burned amongst the odd glow from behind a curtained window. Instead of continuing on the path into the quarry Beaton skipped the fence and cut across the field, down towards the village. Skidding and stumbling towards the bottom of the field under the shade of a tangle of bushes and trees. He made a comical sight, flailing down hillside, a bag in each hand. He forced his way through a thicket only to come up against a tall chain link fence. He had forgotten that the railway tracks ran the course of the valley like a river. It would mean back tracking up the hill and around over the top of the tunnel further up the valley. Beaton left the bags by the base of the fence and climbed chain link fence. He landed heavily on the other side, rolling down the steep embankment through the dead sticks of cow parsley and teasels. He picked himself up and looked up and down the track, the steel roads bending out of sight into the depths of the tunnel. He dashed over the gravel, jumping the lines and rushed into the bushes at the base of the opposing bank. He made his way up the slope, pulling himself along with the help of roots and branches. He scaled another fence and found himself standing on the edge of the rec. He passed some abandoned swings and the manicured hedges that enclosed the bowling green. He took a narrow bath that led down to the river and rose again towards the church. The path was dark, with high stone walls on either side, that held back two rows of cypress trees. They hung in the air above him, menacing. The path came out at the back of the old vicarage. It was beginning to get light. The old church yard was peaceful, the flat pedestals of the tombstones, each covered with thick white tablecloth of snow. Through stained glass in the arched window, Beaton could see a light on, he walked around to the other side of the building. He lifted the heavy ring of the great wooden door and felt it click open in a clunky movement. He pushed, it was open. There was a strange smell, it was the smell of the waxed floors and incense. An old, ancient smell too. He hadn’t stepped in a church for so long he couldn’t remember when. He stood for a while in the silence, it was a peaceful place. He dare not walk towards the alter down the aisle, he skirted the pews around the edge of the nave, the heels of his shoes squeaking against the floor. He came to an oratory, there were candles burning on rows of tiny cast iron holders. Small white votive offerings. Beaton up a fresh candle and lit it. He didn’t prey, just watched the flickering hand of flame that waved on the wick. He took some more and stuffed them into his pockets. There, in a small alcove of dressed stone, was a small statue of Mary, her arms apart small white hands in a gesture of supplication. Her head tilted , a sad expression on her face. Beaton touched the hem of her robe, the plaster was cold and grainy to the touch. He carried on towards the chancel. To his left he noticed a door ajar. It was set into the dark panelling and was of the same design so that when it was closed it was almost hidden from view. He peered between the crack. He could see a bench, the type you might find in a locker room. Above, hanging from a row of pegs hung priestly robes. Black and purple vestments, some with embroidered symbols. ‘Backstage of the theatre’ Beaton thought to himself. He remembered his communion when he was just a small boy. The wafer sticking to the roof of his mouth. The uncomfortable silence, waiting for his first confession to finish. He never told about the animals he had killed. He made up a lie about stealing money from his mothers purse. Why had he made up that lie? he wondered to himself.

 

 

 

Father David Forde was up early Christmas morning. It had been a stressful couple of weeks. The nativity play and the extra services had all added so much extra time to his schedule. If he was being honest with himself he would have admitted that he was looking forward to getting it all out of the way and returning to the quiet routine of the church. There was a blip in the attendance of his congregation this time of year but he knew he would not see any of them again until next time around, except maybe for the weddings and the funerals. His congregation was dwindling, It was tiresome to give lip service to people who didn’t care. He was fed up worth initiatives to boost number, it wasn’t why he had become a priest, to pursued people to come to church. He was there to serve God. Then there was Mr Simmons, ever since his wife had passed away he had practically moved into the church. ‘I will speak to him after Christmas is out of the way.’ The priest told himself. ‘Every time I turn around, he seems to be standing their as if waiting my instruction. He means well but he causes more trouble than good’. Mr Simmon’s was part of the Parish council, he was full of great ideas to get the empty pews filled and he wasn’t afraid to express the failings of Father David Forde, at meetings. He seemed to do it in such an easy underhand way whilst at the same time remaining so polite and amiable. He knew from experience that it was going to be difficult to get rid of him, he did so much around the church that it was going to look bad to shake off such an avid volunteer. ‘I must do it, not to would be much worse. I will go mad otherwise.’ Father David had started getting to the church two hours early just to beat Mr Simmons and to get some peace with God. There was no part of the church that he could escape from the man so instead he had been sneaking in early and leaving later than normal. He had even found himself wishing that it had been he that had died and not the late Mrs Simmon’s. The man seemed to be some sort of a test but he hadn’t worked out why he was being tested in such a way. It was too dangerous to cycle so he walked the mile to the church on foot, he would have to salt the paths and shovel the snow away so that that it was safe for the morning worshippers who would wind their way down form their houses after a l ate breakfast. ‘Nobody, seems to invite me for lunch anymore, they don’t seem to want to be reminded of the church in their houses thee days’. He unlocked the heavy oak door with the oversized iron key and pushed inside. He took the steps down into the crypt and checked the boilers thermostat. It was a huge ancient piece of machinery. Patched up over the years, just waiting to break down once and for all. He could here the dripping water from the snow melt as it trickled through the grates forming puddles on the floor. It was a sad sight to see the church like this. The vaults