Death in Brunswick (19 page)

‘What
kind
of trouble? It's nothing to do with you, is it? I
knew
there was something…'

‘No, no, Mother, it's to do with the club, that's all. She just wants my advice. No, everything's fine…we better get going.'
It'll be a good place to think, and I must think.

He went into his mother's bedroom and picked up her bag and started putting pill bottles into it. A label caught his eye: ‘Digoxin—Warning—Do not exceed the prescribed dose'. A vague memory stirred.

Dig…Digit…something—Digitalis!

A thought, an idea leapt like a silver salmon. He caught it. It squirmed in his mind, swum free and vanished. He dropped the vial into the bag and closed it, jumping a little at the snap of the catch.

He went slowly back into the living room.

Better get a book.
He remembered the boredom of Mass at school…boredom broken by flashes of beauty, that was how he remembered it.

‘All ready, Mother?' He gave her the bag. ‘Won't be a tick…I just have to get something.'

He went to the bookcase in his room and rummaged through the tattered paperbacks…
A Dictionary of Drugs.

It won't hurt just to find out.
He stuck it in his pocket.

*

He ushered his mother out of the door and followed her down the path. A hot gritty north wind was blowing. Her skirt flew above her knees; she staggered a little and turned to him. Her face was damp already, the powder clumping on her cheeks.

‘Oh dear, it
is
warm. Give me your arm, Carl. Such a mercy it's so close.'

He looked at her with contempt.
How absurd she looks—those stupid shoes! Christ!

‘All right Mother…off we go.'

He took her arm and they stepped out.

He flinched with revulsion at the touch of her arm; the flesh was loose and flabby. He quickened his pace.

‘Please, Carl, not so fast.' She was wheezing.

‘Well, we'll be late, Mother. I don't want everybody looking at us.'

‘I
am
glad you're coming, though, dear.'

‘Yeah, OK, Mother.'

At least I can think there—I must think—I must look at things.

After about ten minutes they turned into Blyth Street. The church was over the road. As they waited to cross she turned to him, pressing his arm.

‘What I meant to say, Carl, was—I wish you wouldn't have anything to do with those girls.'

‘What girls, Mother, for God's sake?'

‘Ones like the one who rang up…You won't, dear, will you? Now I want you to write to dear Prue after church…you will, won't you? You need someone to look after you and I won't be…Now I'm relying on you, Carl, I do want you to settle down, otherwise I'll have to speak to your Uncle John. You know what I mean by that, don't you?'

He looked at her.

‘Now, dear, don't look like that. I only want to see my children settled.'

‘OK, OK, come on!'

They crossed the road and approached the church. It was a rather handsome building with a neo-Renaissance tower.

Mrs Fitzgerald paused and took a square of black lace from her bag, draped it over her head and tucked the ends into her dress. The effect was grotesque in the extreme, rather like Toad as the washerwoman.

‘God, Mother, what's that?'

‘It's a
mantilla
,' she said, a little defensively. ‘I know you don't have to wear a hat any more, but…what's wrong with it?'

‘I don't know…you look like one of those Turkish ladies…' He thought of Mustafa's wife and shook himself. ‘Never mind, Mother. Let's get inside. It's started. I can hear singing.'

They went inside, Carl following his mother, automatically dipping his fingers into holy water and crossing himself.

Jesus! How long has it been? At school, was it?
He looked around bewildered; the church was extremely simple, bare even.
Where's the statues?

The alter was a block of stained pine with what looked like a lurex flecked polyester curtain draped across it. Two lecterns stood at either side and at the back a flimsy stand with a plain metal box on it—a crude pottery cup beside. To the right, on the wall, was a large board with numbers slotted into it.

A young man in a tracksuit played an electric organ. The thinly scattered congregation was singing raggedly—an English hymn! It sounded like…was it ‘Rock of Ages' or ‘All Creatures Great and Small'?

‘Mother!' he whispered urgently, ‘for God's sake, this is the wrong church! It's
Baptist
or something.'

‘Don't be silly, Carl.' She genuflected and sat down. Clumsily he followed her. ‘This is how it is now. Really dear, how long since…shush now. It's starting.'

A grey-haired woman in a shapeless floral dress walked to the lectern, followed by a fat youngish man with a shock of black curls. He was wearing a short robe? vestment? of the same material as the altar cloth. The lurex sparkled in the pale light. He sat down behind and to one side of the altar. Carl was surprised to see that he was wearing shorts and sandals under his robe. He had very hairy legs.

The grey-haired woman started to read from a plastic folder. Carl could make out only a word or two. He glanced at his mother. She was slumped with her head in her hands, praying, he supposed.

He looked about again. There were perhaps fifty or sixty people in the big church. Most were elderly. There were a few Italian families at the back with young children. He was surprised again at how bare it all was. The walls were unadorned except for a line of small ugly blue plaques ranged along both sides—they looked like china ducks. He squinted at them.

They look like…yes, Stations of the Cross! It
is
a Catholic Church! And those windows—they must be the original stained glass.

A soft pale lemon and rose light shone through them. The effect was soothing. Carl relaxed a little. He was tired.

What a dream.
He shuddered, remembering the previous night. As long as I don't talk in my sleep. She's not as deaf as I thought…Jesus—I nearly told her! She'll have to go back to South Yarra…or something.

The grey-haired woman finished speaking and sat down. The tracksuited boy stood behind the other lectern and began to read in a nasal monotone. Carl fidgeted restlessly. Ideas, fearful, ugly, but inviting, twisted through his mind.

He reached into his back pocket and eased out the book, glancing again at his mother. She was still praying.
Better hide the cover.

He picked up a yellow leaflet from the seat beside him and folded it round the paperback. Bending forward in an attitude of devotion, he turned to the index.

‘Digoxin'—page seventy—OK. Digitalis. Classification—from foxgloves—well, well.
‘Therapeutic use of Digitalis is in the treatment of congestive heart failure.' There followed a short bio-chemical treatise of which Carl could understand very little. He turned the page. ‘Side effects. In large doses, on or after the cumulative effects of long term treatment, Digitalis and all the other cardiac glycosides can produce fatal intoxication. The most frequent cause of death is increase in heart arrhythmias, leading to atrial and ventricular fibrillation. Death is due, in fact, to arrhythmic heart failure.'

He turned another page. There was a sectional drawing of a heart. He looked at his mother.
No! I can't.
His hand shaking, he put the book away.

No! Don't let me…

The shiny little thoughts kept showing their heads. With a practised effort he pushed them down and sat back, trying to keep his mind blank. The thoughts kept coming and coming…There was awful pain and guilt in them but also, and horrifyingly, a slow lascivious pleasure.

He stared rigidly ahead, his teeth clenched. He felt someone sit down next to him. He couldn't look or move. Sweat trickled down his back like blood.

His mother nudged him. He gasped in shock:

‘Ah!'

‘Shush, dear. Stand up, it's the Gospel.'

The fat priest was speaking in a rich Irish tenor.

‘This is the word of the Lord!'

Carl stood, formless images crowding his mind, the amplified voice rolling round him:

‘I shall separate the sheep from the goats…'

At last the voice stopped. There was a pause. His mother pulled him down. He sat numbly.

Suddenly the sun shone overwhelmingly through the nearest stained glass window. Carl was bathed in a wonderful golden light. Motes sparkled in the beams.

Just like my dream!
He stared into the radiance, transfixed.

And into the nimbus: ‘Now, my dear brothers and sisters, I'd like to say a few words to you about
forgiveness
!' The priest's voice carolled out joyfully. ‘Yes,
forgiveness.
For today is the Feast of Christ the King—Christ the Judge. But not a judge like our earthly judges. No, brothers and sisters, not the corrupt, severe and worldly judges we see about us! But a heavenly judge! Friendly, merciful and forgiving. Yes,
all forgiving
.' The voice dropped confidentially. ‘I'd like to tell you a little story now. A recent experience of mine. The other day, in fact, a man came to me in an agony of spirit, yes, literally
agony…
For years he had been an
abortionist.
Yes. An
abortionist
, a murderer of infants. In those years he had killed hundreds, nay, thousands of innocent little babies…In a way, brothers and sisters, he was worse than a
Nazi
in one of those terrible death camps. Suddenly he realised what he was doing; the heinous sin of it. And he was in an
agony
of grief and remorse…he thought that he could
never
be forgiven.

‘Now, I can't tell you this man's name, but the first part of it rhymes with Cain—yes, Cain, the first murderer…Now this man came to me in fear and despair. He had lost
all
hope of reconciliation with God and the Church. I tell you, brothers and sisters, this man was
desperate.

‘But I was able to tell him, assure him,
counsel him
, that our Heavenly Father will forgive anything! Even a heinous sin like his…Now isn't that a wonderful thing! A sin like that washed away in the holy blood!'

Carl felt his mind spinning slowly away. The light surrounded him like a fiery cloud…the voice boomed on, but he heard no more…the light grew blinding. He put his hands to his face. He could see nothing.

*

The sun shifted and the light dimmed. He took his hands away from his face, blinking cautiously. It was all right. He saw.

The priest was saying: ‘Now let us pray for the dead. May we meet them in the flesh, face to face.'

Yes—I could now.
He felt calm and resolute.
What's happened to me?
It was like in the graveyard…
Something…went…But it feels
good
now. Do I believe in Christ and all that? I never used to—but now? I can feel someone. He knows! He doesn't care—He's forgiven me—even before I…

The boy in the tracksuit came round with a plate, people dropping money into it. Carl took out all the notes in his pocket and leant across the back of a short dark man kneeling next to him. He threw the notes into the plate…

There were more prayers. Carl vaguely recognized the Gloria in English. The priest's voice rang out again.

‘Peace be with you!'

The congregation turned to one another and shook hands…Carl took his mother's hand and smiled at her. She frowned at him worriedly.

‘You all right, dear?'

‘Yes, Mother.'

He turned to the man next to him. The man grinned, holding out his hand. It was Mustafa…

Carl looked at him, into his dark eyes; they shone with happiness.

‘Peace be with you, and with your spirit!' said Mustafa…There was an echo:
‘I forgive you.'

Carl took the man's hand. No, of course it wasn't Mustafa. He wasn't even very much like him, but it meant something.
All this did.

He looked toward the altar. People were lining up taking Communion.

How beautiful everything was! The church had changed its geometry in a queer way. It seemed longer…loftier…How could he have thought this place drab? How clear the colours were!

His mother got up.

‘Excuse me, dear.'

She got out of the pew with difficulty and waddled up the aisle. He watched her, smiling.

How
old
she has gotten lately—Ah! It would be a…mercy. After all, she's very sick.
He was washed by a languorous pity.
She won't mind—Mustafa doesn't mind…

The communicants returned. His mother sat down again puffing, her hand to her chest.

‘Dear, I think we can go now. I feel a little frail.'

‘Yes, of course, Mother.'

They pushed past Carl's neighbour.

Strange—he really isn't anything like…No, it was a vision—it really meant something!
He was exalted.

He reached the top of the low stone steps outside the church door. His mother waited.

‘Come on, dear. I really must go home.'

‘Yes, Mother…wait a bit.'

He looked around.

How
wonderful
it all was. Why, Brunswick was beautiful! The sun glanced and bounced off the cars whizzing past. How
shiny
they were…he had never realized how many different clear, lovely colours cars were. And the trees! He could see every leaf so distinctly…the shades of green were…
delicious.

The sky wasn't just blue but…like in an old painting from the Middle Ages. What was the word?
Cerulean…
yes. And the sun…He looked into it without pain and away slowly. His eyes filled with tears of joy.

Everything seemed as if it were
meant.
No longer did he feel as if he were part of some tawdry accident…he felt part of something ordered, deliberate.