Taking Sarah Home
The inhumanity of man surrounds me, like the stench of decay. Sallow faced, hollow cheeked, and with eyes that have seen too much, I haunt the streets. My personal stereo creates a divide between what’s out there and what’s within. Industrial music blasts into my head, I use the layers of sound as a protective barrier against those who would intrude. For some it would be a perfect day; crisp and sharp. Sunlight streams through the trees that line the suburban road and there is a gentle breeze that carries the promise of rain. I can imagine people inside their own homes feeling secure by the four walls that surround them: Exerting their will on their immediate environment by plastic dials or gadgets. Who wouldn’t be fooled into thinking that they were special? Hot water available at the twist of a tap, fridges to chill food, and central heating for comfort, they are the ruler of their own houses. Hard to conceive that it’s just a facade, an illusion of security. That these thin shells of brick and plaster, serve nothing but to isolate each domain from the next. A lazy Sunday: families, couples, doing what they would normally be doing; getting ready for a day out; reading the paper at the breakfast bar; washing the car, children playing in their enclosed gardens; staying in bed. Safe. Safe in their own world. Mine is darker. There’s a soft whisper in my ear; more insistent than the harsh electronic beats. I stop next to a flowerbed; the player now silent between tracks; head tilted to one side, listening. Explosions of dwarf roses spring from the ground, puncturing the woodchip and bark in a harlequin of colour. There is something here, or rather someone. I kneel, feeling the moisture soak through my faded jeans and place one palm against the ground. It’s rough, the bark dry and sharp against my flesh like thorns. I clear a section to expose the hard earth beneath and put my hand down again. Tremors beneath my fingers spread, seeking the owner of the voice. I shiver as a pebble upends and rolls over: its movement nothing to do with the light traffic in and out of the residential area. A few faces press against the glass of vehicles as they drive by; the occupants wondering just what the hell I’m doing; if they should call the police. In their minds I am the interloper, trespassing in their domain. The truth is far more terrifying. A macabre procession unearths itself within the garden, marching above and below sight. Little pieces of bone and scraps of cloth make their way to my hand. There, beneath my touch, it coalesces into a form, like a porcelain doll dropped from a great height, but in reverse. Only it isn’t a doll. Although most of the body had been reduced to ash; the spirit is whole. Her skin ragged and torn in places from the injuries that had resulted in her death. I pull the child from the earth, and hold her close. She smells of flowers and earth. And petrol. Her thoughts bubble into my mind as I stroke the soil from her hair. Her clothes are blackened by soot, the fabric’s state fixed by trauma. She knew who did this to her. The tendency to blame the stranger means that we are not as vigilant as we should be once people have gained our trust. Her name is Sarah; she wants to go home. She leaves black smudges across my coat with her fingers. Even in death, she is innocent, and that makes it more unsettling. What defence would she have had? Sarah asks what I am listening to, I say she wouldn’t like it, but she takes the earphones anyway. Although she is light, my back and arms ache from the exertion. I can feel her cradled in my arms, my heart protesting against my ribs. I find myself asking, how much does a ghost weigh? Her house is not far. At the end of the block, curtains drawn against life. How can routine carry on as normal? The air above the house is brooding, and each step along the driveway takes a little more strength than the last. The door opens and a woman comes out. Her eyes, almost as shadowed as mine, meet my gaze. Behind her, the house is quiet as the grave, as if, it too, is in mourning for the missing life.
Sarah struggles to be down, overcome with excitement and joy. I kneel once more, letting her feet touch the paving stones. The wire attached to my player becomes taut as she rushes forwards. Her mother stops, dropping the bags that she had been carrying. Glass shatters from one and fragments skitter across the path from the split carrier. She lets out a half-choked cry: a cross between absolute relief and sorrow. Sarah stumbles along the path. Her form dissolves. Her smile continues into the awaiting arms as a gust of wind, gently billowing her mother’s blouse. My earphones clack against the stone where they fell. I leave quickly. It’s better this way; rather than have to stay and put into words what has just happened. In time, her mother would make up her own explanation. I’d either be a demon or angel; one that tortured her with a vision of her daughter, or one that set her free. Better that, than to let her spend her life wondering. I cry a little more of my humanity away; and wonder if I will be whole in the morning. I crank the volume to ten and lose myself into the disharmony. I walk around the block. There is still something that needs to be done here. Justice should be left to the police. But as I said, my world is darker. I take a brass cartridge from my pocket, the bullet made from rock salt and wax instead of lead, and press it into my dirty palm. Ash stains the creases and folds of my skin, which I wipe onto the waxed yellow tip. I load the revolver carefully. The hiss of rain competes with the next track, adding another layer of white noise. The sky unnaturally filled with rainbows, then, they vanish as a shower appears from nowhere chasing people from the streets. I turn the corner and see her killer. He is overweight, a family man. Sarah had called him ‘uncle’. Droplets rattle off the black bonnet of the newly washed car, which he is struggling to get into his garage. He wobbles down the side of the vehicle as though the edge of the driveway is a tightrope, looking comical in his too small shorts and stretched T-shirt. Like an avenging angel, I appear at the foot of his drive; sheltered from the side of the house and anyone else’s view by conifers. For a second he looks at me blankly; then at the gun in my hand. This is for Sarah, I tell him. The gun cracks like a firework; the charge reduced according to the payload. His expression changes from shock to amazement. It would sting. The gritty load is abrasive and shouldn’t any more damage than to shave away a few layers of skin. In a frantic flurry, he rolls his shirt to reveal a flabby chest. The wound is but a scratch; just smouldering wax, speckled black dots of powder and ash next to a pin prick of blood. He laughs, but it sounds empty. He shouts, saying that I can do it again if I want, for all the good it did, thinking that the gun is a toy. In my world, there are far more deadly things than lead. He threatens me, he is angry and scared. Doesn’t understand what I have done. For a moment the adrenaline carries him and he continues with his righteous shouting, respectability and credibility his shield. Then it sinks in that I have used her name, he slows his tirade; unsure. The sky has darkened. The branches of the conifers sway; gentle at first, then as though in the grips of a storm. There is no wind. Shadows lengthen against the sun; all teeth, and claws and nails. I put the revolver back into my pocket, turn my collar against the rain and leave him to the vengeful ghosts.
