The boy.
The boy had been beaten. He had been abused. On a sustained and remorseless basis, he had suffered every kind of degradation. He had been imprisoned in a room with the door knobs removed. Sometimes the door remained closed for days and the pain in his stomach eventually forced him to defecate in his own bed covers, themselves already filthy, lying on the stained mattress that formed the only furniture in his box room. Deliberately starved, he had had to resort to scavenging for food from the left over fast food boxes, wrappers and cartons that liberally scattered the filthy house. The layers of dirt and grease that covered everything causing him no hesitation. The boy had emptied the contents from dustbins and rubbish bags in the hope of finding something, anything, to suppress the agonising twists in his stomach. All this without drawing attention to himself. He had learned long ago not to make a noise, because that earned a beating. He had learned not to be seen, because that earned a beating, or worse. He had once asked for water and for three days he had been force-fed salt. How could he have been so stupid? To draw attention to himself over something he could get so easily. Water came out of the taps and even the grown ups couldn’t stop that. On the rare occasions when his door was open and the grown ups were awake, he had been able to get water from the toilet, rather than risk being caught running the taps. He had learnt that it was better to remain a ghost, silent, hidden, creeping around the periphery, unheard and unseen. He operated in the darkness, when the grown ups were incapacitated by their needles and bottles and pills and drinks. He operated in the twilight, before the sun rose and as it set, because that was when the grown ups were least active, most incapacitated, and he allowed himself, for however fleeting a moment, the sensation that this was not how things were supposed to be.
It wasn’t the way things were supposed to be. The burnt man proved that. From the moment the boy had taken the hand of the burnt man, he had not been afraid. He had not been scared and he had not been hurt. Hand in hand, the burnt man had taken him to a large house, halfway down a wide, tree-lined road, where each house was set back from the road, within its own gardens, enclosed by high fences, hedges and walls, offering solitude, privacy and security. The house was black and white on the outside, with the largest windows the boy had ever seen. Inside, the house itself seemed full of light and wood. Heavy dark furniture, thick carpets and curtains in every room. It was as far removed from the world he knew as he could imagine. The burnt man had shown him a room with what seemed like the largest bed in the world, with sheets, and pillows and then left him. The burnt man had left the door wide open, as if inviting the boy to leave, but the boy didn’t want to leave. The boy peeled off his damp shirt and stained trousers, revealing a thin, white skeletal body, covered in bruises, scars, burns and fresh scabs. He climbed up onto the soft bed, feeling the gentle give of the thick mattress. The boy lay spreadeagled on the bed, feeling, for the first time in his short harrowing life, completely free. Without hesitation, without considering if by doing so he would earn a beating, the boy pulled the soft, white sheets up over himself, enjoying the feeling as they sliped smoothly up his legs and across his stomach. The cold, clean linen on his body as alien a sensation as the lack of fear for the consequences of the action itself. Within moments the boy was asleep. He was asleep, and he slept the sleep of the dead.
He had eventually woken on the big bed and stretched, lying there until the gnawing in his stomach forced him to move. It was dark in the room, but only because at some point while he slept, someone had drawn the thick dark curtains across the double bay window that stood in the centre of the wall opposite the bed he lay on. It was not dark outside though, because a sliver of light was streaming through a small gap where the anonymous individual had failed to bring the curtains fully together. The boy could see tiny dust motes swirling in the bright sun, tracing random patterns. As he slid off the bed he saw his filthy clothes, abandoned who knew how many hours before, had also gone while he slept. With nothing to replace them, the boy walked naked through the door onto the landing outside. As he walked, his small, white feet slapped noisily on the cool wooden floors, and he briefly considered walking on tiptoes to reduce the noise, but the remainder of the house remained silent. He walked on, looking in through open doors, seeing no-one, but his eyes darted back and forward, constantly alert, flicking over the walls, doors, corridors, ever-vigilant, searching for signs of a grown up, the burnt man, anyone. As he reached the top of the wide wooden staircase a thick blue carpet replaced the brown wooden floorboards and his movements grew silent again as the slapping of his feet ceased. Looking down from the iron-railed landing that overlooked an octagonal, black and white tiled entrance hall, the boy saw the burnt man, standing silently, watching, just as he had that first morning. The burnt mans implacable face remained devoid of all emotion as he raised his right arm up from his side, indicating a door on the far side of the lobby. The boy descended the stairs silently, catching sight of himself in a large ornate gold edged mirror, but feeling no shame, no desire to cover himself. As he reached the bottom of the stairs, the boys eyes glanced left at the large blue door, with two narrow vertical windows through which they had originally entered the house. Through the frosted windows he could make out the colours and blurred shape of the path leading out towards the gate through which they had entered the previous day and he paused, hesitating, wrestling with the choice of opening the main door to the outside world or following the twisted pointing fingers of the burnt man into the interior of the house. The burnt man watched on. The boy moved his gaze from the front door and the visible but indistinct environment beyond it to the indicated door and its invisible, unknown contents, before settling back on the burnt man, staring intently at his twisted face. The burnt man knew that the boy was considering which door to choose, and both of them complicitly knew the significance of that decision. They stood, silent. Neither speaking. Finally, sighing imperceptibly, the boy tore his gaze from the burnt man, glanced once more at the front door and started moving, away from the sunlight and the world he knew. Away from the path leading back to the world and its pain and instead moved deeper into the heart of the house.
In pushing the door open the boy knew, with absolute certainty that a threshold had been crossed. Despite the unshakeable feeling that something life-changing had just happened, the room beyond was nothing more than a kitchen. As the boy entered, the door swung shut behind him and although he did not glance back, the boy knew that the burnt man had not followed him in. To his surprise what lay beyond appeared to be a kitchen. Impossibly large as far as the boy, with his limited experience, could comprehend, but nothing other than a kitchen nonetheless. White and clean and clear, it smelled of lemons and the air was both fresh and cool. What most attracted the attention of the boy was the large round wooden table with food piled on a blue rimmed plate, a clear, glass tumbler of water sitting beside it. The boy moved to the table and began to eat the first proper meal he could and would remember.
The Angel and the boy.
The next few weeks were the happiest the boy had ever experienced. The boy quickly discovered that he was entirely free to go wherever he liked in the house and the gardens. He spent hours inside the house, enjoying the freedom to go where he pleased, without wondering when he would be punished. He found himself drawn again and again to the library, with its high walls lined with books of every size and shape and the smell of dust, its open fireplace, with the smell of soot. It was in the library that the boy found the one locked door in the house. The boy knew, from walking the perimeter of the building, that the locked door led to a few rooms, but these were all firmly shuttered or curtained and no matter how often he looked, he could not catch a glimpse of anything that lay inside. The mystery of the locked rooms aside, the boy found he most loved to wander in the gardens, feeling the wind, smelling the grass and listening to the leaves on the lush green trees as they rustled in the breeze.
Since their initial conversation on the grass outside his house, the boy and the burnt man had not uttered a single word. The boy would occasionally see the burnt man, either in the house or gardens, but they did not speak. Sometimes the burnt man would not be around for days, then would appear, watching the boy as he walked or observing him as he played. Always at a distance, never interfering. After that first day, there were always clean clothes for the boy, although sometimes odd sizes, as if the buyer were not sure of the right size for a young boy. There were shoes. The kitchen was always stocked and there were toys, games and funny magazines with pictures. The boy never seemed to want for anything, but apart from the burnt man, the boy saw nobody. The boy saw nobody and he was content.
Once, the boy had followed the long path from the front door of the house. Enjoying the crunch of the gravel underfoot, he had suddenly, but not unexpectedly, found himself at the wide green wooden gate that would lead outside the enclave of the house and its gardens and out onto the street beyond. Although the boy had never seen or heard a car in the grounds, these gates were obviously designed to allow a vehicle in or out. To their left, stood a similarly green pedestrian door. Fearing what he might discover, the boy placed his hand on the handle of the gate. Though he could not see, he could hear an occasional car drive past on the other side. With his heart thumping hard in his chest, the boy twisted the handle, unsure how he would react when the expected resistance confirmed he was, whatever the appearance, as much a prisoner as he had always been. To his surprise, the handle turned easily, without as much as a creak from the obviously well-oiled mechanism. Pushing the door, the boy found himself on the tree-lined street he remembered from his first day. A middle-aged woman in a flowery-patterned, yellow dress, walked briskly past, smiling at the boy, bare foot, spindly legs sticking out of his checked shorts with a too big long-sleeved T-Shirt. The boy smiled back. He was free. Truly free. Still smiling, the boy looked up and down the street, before turning, moving back into the garden and shutting the door, leaving the lady and the outside word behind him. As he walked back up the gravel path, the boy instinctively knew he was being watched. He looked up, and there, in the big bay window of his room, the boy could see the burnt man. Although he could not see him clearly enough, the boy knew. He knew the burnt man was smiling.
The Angel and the boy.
The Angel removed his hat and coat, placing them neatly on a hook and poured the contents of the container over himself, dousing himself thoroughly, before pouring the remainder over the boy. The sweet smell of petrol was instantly recognisable and the boy knew, in this quantity it would quickly anaesthetise his olfactory nerves and induce a mild state of euphoria. The boy shook his head, trying to clear it. He did not want his senses dulled, he did not want to experience anything other than true emotion.
The Angel took a lighter out of his pocket and looked into the eyes of the boy, pausing, absorbing every detail. Remembering everything.
On this, their last day together, like their first, the boy spoke first.
“I’m scared”.
With a wry smile, echoing the memory of that first day, The Angel replied.
“So am I”
“I will wait for you” said the Angel, a tear pooling in the corner of his eye before running down the scarred cheek.
”I won’t forget” whispered the boy, his voice shaking with emotion. “I will miss you when you are gone”
The Angel lit the lighter, holding it steady in his hand as he wrapped both arms tenderly around the boy, before pulling him in close, embracing him tightly as the fire engulfed them both and there weren’t enough tears in the world to extinguish the flames.
