Authors: Lee Monroe
Students exchanged puzzled looks. Soren leaned back against his desk, waiting until the whispering had died down before he began.
‘There was once a good boy. A boy born into a hard-working law-abiding family, who raised him to be good-mannered, considerate and honest. They were emphatic about these qualities and the boy did his best to make them proud. The boy had two sisters and a brother. He was close to his siblings, but in particular to his younger sister, who adored him. This boy would have done anything for her in return. He was very protective of her. The boy lived happily until he was ten years old when something happened to destroy everything he believed in …’
Soren paused for a few seconds, seeing that the entire class was enthralled. In spite of myself, I waited for him to continue too.
‘On his sixth birthday, a man came to the door and beckoned to the boy to come and sit with him outside in the front garden; he had something to tell him. Curious, but a little nervous, the boy sat with the man on a bench in his garden and the man – who seemed so kind, with his twinkly blue eyes – told him without very much ado that he – this little boy – was his son. The boy was shocked, but at once he knew it was true. There was something about this man that drew the boy to him. He felt safe and he felt that this man was very familiar somehow. As though he knew him.
‘But then the boy began thinking about his mother and father, who had been so emphatic about honesty, and that they had lied to him. They had been good to him, but they had lied. And then the boy thought of his sister, and that she wasn’t really his sister, and then he felt very alone and scared that he would be taken away from her. And as he listened to the man talk he grew even angrier, because this kind man seemed to be saying that he didn’t want the boy for his son … that he had only come to ease his guilt. And the boy felt used. He felt that all the adults around him had only thought of themselves and not him, that he wasn’t loved and never would be. And once his beloved younger sister found out he wasn’t truly her brother, she would hate him, when once she had loved him.
‘The man saw that the boy was upset and he himself was distressed. He told the boy that his mother was still his mother, that she had carried him inside her, and that would not change. He thought this would mollify the boy, but it made everything much worse.
‘Because the boy now realised his mother had committed a terrible betrayal, one that was worse than anything. That his own mother was a bad woman. And the boy, thinking of how often she had scolded him for misbehaving, felt a surge of hatred for her. He knew he could never think of her in the same way again. He knew that he no longer loved her, he hated her. He felt a fool believing that his whole family had known all along. All except for his little sister, who was surely too young and who still believed he was her flesh and blood.
‘The boy stood and thanked the man for telling him. The man held out his hand. He asked the boy to forgive him, and forgive his mother, and said that he – his true father – meant to pay penance for what he had done.
‘The boy tried to smile, but he knew that he could not do as his true father asked. He felt such betrayal and anger and confusion with the world in which he lived, that he didn’t know what he would do, but he knew he no longer wanted a relationship with the people who had brought him up.
‘As the man walked away from him, the boy stood and looked around. He looked at the carefully tended flowerbeds, and the grass kept short and moist, and the neatly clipped hedge around his freshly painted house. And as he looked he grew more incensed at all this perfection, which meant nothing any more. And the boy walked towards his father’s shed at the side of the house and inside he found his father’s axe. He took it back to the house, where he sat at the kitchen table.
‘The boy waited two hours before he heard the sound of his parents coming into the house. When his mother walked into the kitchen and saw him sitting there she began to scold him for sitting idle while there were chores to be done around the house. And his father nodded in agreement. And behind his parents, his older brother and sister looked on in a judgemental kind of way. And seeing them there, so self-righteous, the boy stood and just stared coldly at them all; he knew his father would now beat him for his apparent insubordination, but he didn’t care, he cared about very little any more. He felt no emotion. As his father advanced towards him, he lifted his axe and he spliced his father’s head clean open.’
Soren stopped again, his whole face a grisly grey colour. He swallowed hard, looking straight ahead of him before he went on.
‘And stepping over his father’s body, he did the same to his mother. He didn’t know where he had the strength to do this, he just seemed to grow bigger and stronger … and more like an animal. He
was
an animal. He carried on until all four were dead, lying in their own blood on the floor of the family kitchen.’
I looked around me, to see everyone wide-eyed and shocked. When I came to look at Soren, I saw that his black eyes were shimmering. For the first time I recognised serious emotion in him. And I knew he wanted to finish this story and that he was telling it for my benefit alone.
Soren sighed. ‘And then, as this boy stood looking at what he had done, he heard the sound of footsteps, light and innocent, coming up to the door of the house, and he felt the pulse of his heart as though it would burst through his chest – and finally emotion. Not for his dead family, but for the owner of those footsteps. He dropped the axe and he moved quickly to greet her, hoping to get to her before she came in to the kitchen … but he was not quick enough and the little girl ran straight into the site of his murder, and she took in her bludgeoned parents and her lifeless siblings, and he saw a look cross her face that would haunt him ever after that. It was first a look of horror and disbelief … shock. Then when she turned to him it was a look of pain he hoped never to see again. And then she started to scream. She did not stop. And the boy, knowing that he would be discovered, and with some semblance of self-preservation left, ran from her and into the woods. He ran for days and nights and though all he saw was his sister’s face, so twisted in pain, he did not turn back.’
Soren looked up then and his eyes met with mine. So it was true, he had come back for Lila. Not because he wanted to marry her, but because he wanted to protect her … He was making up for what he did. I attempted a half-smile, still not quite sure what I felt about this. He was a good storyteller for sure, he made it sound lyrical, moving even … but he still did it. He still—
‘Is that story actually, like … true?’ asked a hippyish girl called something like Skylar, sitting at the front.
Soren gave a non-committal shrug. ‘Does it matter?’
‘Well, it’s pretty horrific …’ She turned back to see what the rest of us thought. ‘I mean … I’m not sure I want to draw a bunch of dead bodies.’
He smiled tightly. ‘Well … don’t then. Draw what appeals to you about it …’
I put my hand up. ‘That isn’t the end of the story, though, is it? What happened to the boy? And his sister?’
Soren’s eyes seemed to bore into me. Whether he was annoyed or not, I couldn’t tell. He looked perfectly composed as he answered.
‘You want to hear what happened?’ He cleared his throat. ‘I don’t know if …’
‘You don’t know the end of the story?’ I held his gaze.
‘Of course I know …’ he said softly. ‘The boy never went back.’
‘What happened to the little kid?’ asked a boy two desks away from me.
‘She was found … and raised by another family, though she was so traumatised that she blocked it all out.’
‘What is this?’ the boy said. ‘Is this someone you know?’
The whole class looked questioningly at Soren.
‘In a way,’ he said mysteriously. ‘Someone I used to know. He started a new life for himself. And he tried to forget. He grew up, and he learned to survive without a family … But it changed him for ever.’
‘What about his real father – didn’t he try and find him?’ asked Skylar. ‘I mean he went to all the trouble of telling him and then he just abandoned him? It’s so sad.’
‘He saw his father again. Once. In fact his true father set the law on him.’
There was a collective gasp.
‘And he was caught … and imprisoned, and his real father pleaded leniency … if the boy promised to leave the country and never return.’ Soren’s shoulders seemed to slump a little. ‘That’s it. That’s the story. Make of it what you will.’
There was silence as the class got creative with whatever had captured their imaginations during Soren’s story. I veered away from the bloodshed, like pretty much everyone except a couple of metal-heads at the back of the class. I concentrated on what had come into my head. I drew the wood that Soren had run into. A mass of fierce green trees, dark marshy soil, stretching on for ever and, above the wood, a solid round moon, hanging in a starless sky.
It kind of symbolised my life. Just a thick, impenetrable wood that I couldn’t get through, no matter how many times I tried.
It was all so sad. And it seemed kind of hopeless. But Soren’s story got to me, not just because of the terrible thing he had done, but of what came after. Who was his real father? And why didn’t he help his son like any parent would?
I lifted my head and slowly focussed on Soren, standing at the front of the class, head bent, carefully packing books away in his leather bag. No sardonic jokes, no dry remarks, just contemplative silence. I knew he wouldn’t tell me what really happened.
And did I want to know?
Students filed out, handing their work over to him, and he stacked it neatly on his desk.
‘Thank you,’ he told one of the metal-heads, a guy called Rory, who was the last to give him his drawing. Glancing down, I saw Soren grimace, his face tightening a little before giving Rory a wry smile and putting his work on top of the others.
I took my time putting my stuff away, waiting until the last student had filed out before I spoke.
‘It sounded really … awful,’ I said quietly. ‘But not all the pieces are in place. And I’m not going to change my mind.’
‘I wish I could put all the pieces together for you … But I don’t think they would make much sense even then.’ He smiled at me.
‘What are you going to do? Are you going to resign?’
‘What?’
‘From here? You can’t stay on … I mean, what would be the point now?’
‘I hadn’t thought about it.’ He rubbed at his temples. ‘But perhaps you’re right. There is no point.’ He directed a look of real sadness at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said awkwardly. ‘I just … can’t.’
‘I know.’ He picked his bag off the table with one hand and stretched the other out to me. Hesitating for a second I took it, feeling it warm and responsive in my hand. I realised I was going to miss him.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he said, as though reading my mind. Maybe he had? I flushed a little.
‘Me too.’ And my fingers squeezed his.
He shook his head, a familiar lazy smile crossing his face. ‘I want you to remember how important you are. Maybe years from now you will realise …’ He shut his eyes briefly. ‘I was going to say regret … But I can see that I would have been dragging you into a whole mess and danger—’
‘Danger?’ I said slowly. ‘What danger?’
He was silent.
‘Soren,’ I persisted, ‘what do you mean, “danger”?’
‘Nothing for you to worry about now,’ he said then, too casually.
‘Are you in danger? Is Luca in danger? What?’
‘What do you care? It is no longer any of your concern.’ He turned to pick his jacket off the back of his chair. ‘You are safe now.’
Safe. Why did that word sound so deadly all of a sudden. I had longed for safety. Back in the bad old days.
‘You’re good,’ I said, shaking my head. ‘So manipulative!’
His eyes widened. ‘Me?’ he said innocently. ‘Whatever can you mean?’
‘Not going to work. I have my life to get on with …’
‘My future to think about …’ he mimicked, his eyes teasing me.
‘Was any of that story even true?’ I asked, annoyance rising in me.
‘You are going to have to start trusting me, Jane,’ he said seriously.
‘Not any more I don’t,’ I said, moving towards the door. ‘I’ll see you around.’
‘I hope so,’ he said, just loud enough for me to hear as the door swung shut behind me.
Disgruntled, I went to find my bike. It was growing dark and I hurried through the main quadrant to the bike racks at the back of college. Glancing up at the sky I saw the moon, like a delicate rice cracker, waiting to take its night-time place, full in the sky. And I felt a tremor pass through me. A connection. I tried to shake it off. The moon was just the moon. There was no longer anything significant about it.
Yet as I unlocked my bike in the dimming light, I couldn’t help thinking that somewhere, on Nissilum, Luca was in tune with it too. Dangerous, in physical pain, struggling against his destiny.
‘Y
ou’re very late,’ the old man said, getting to his feet, screwing the top back on his bottle and stuffing a bag containing his supper into his pocket. Clumsily he picked up his hat, putting it on as a mark of respect for his visitor.