The Black Chronicle (24 page)

              The orphanage was a large dark building which seemed to Simon as large as a castle. That’s really what a Catholic church was anyways, wasn’t it? A castle in which the Catholic God lived?

He had always pictured God living in the clouds and it must always be daytime there in heaven because it was so close to the sun. But it was as though the daylight wasn’t even allowed inside St. Joseph's orphanage for boys. There were few windows which weren’t smothered with heavy purple drapes. Even the windows of the church which the orphanage was attached to weren’t clear. They were made of coloured glass that made pictures of religious scenes like Jesus on the cross or one, he thought, of men with beards who were fishing, though he couldn’t understand what that would have to do with anything.

              During mass he would look up at those windows, the sunlight turned into the colour of the glass it shined through. He would then look at the congregation sitting silently in the pews and try to see the pictures coloured over the tops of their heads. He could picture the great net cast by the old men in the boat over top of him in criss crossed golden and brown ropes of light.                       

              I’m a fish,
he said to himself. 

              Who let that fish in church?
He could imagine some old man asking.

              Fishes need God’s love too
.
Let the little fishy be.

             
He found it weird that
nobody else seemed to ever mind the lack of light in the place. The priests who ran the orphanage were all pale and wore long black cloaks and seemed at all times serious and upset. He knew being God’s servants and running an orphanage must be very serious work indeed. But why did the Catholic God seem so strict as to not let them have fun or joy or even smile? This was nothing at all like the church his mother used to bring him to. There, there was smiling and friendly faces and music that actually sounded like music. His parent's God seemed to make everyone happy, like nothing else in the world mattered because He loved them and they loved Him and that was enough. But here it was different. As different as the day was from the night.

              The other boys seemed as unhappy as the priest and all this in turn made him very unhappy. He missed his parents... even his father. He would cry all day, every day if he didn't think the other boys would tease him for it. And then one day it suddenly all made sense. Why the boys and priests and anyone who seemed to enter this gloomy building seemed sad. Because just like him they didn't want to be there. They were also separated from their families and friends so what reason was there to smile in a place like that?

              All the priests at St. Joseph's scared him but father Mcdermend scared him the most. He was a tall pale man with a bizarre flap of skin like a wrinkly bat wing which hung from underneath his tiny chin. Simon couldn't guess his age. Ninety-four? A hundred and seven? Who knows. Whatever age he was, he was ancient and walked very slowly as though his whole ancient body ached with each creaky step. When he looked at you it was like – well he didn't know what it was like really. His eyes always seemed angry but his face stayed perfectly still, like all the muscles in it were asleep or dead. He could tell that the other boys were scared of him too. He tried his best to avoid him but of course that wasn't always possible.

              Late one night, Simon had a dream about his mother. They were in a park, a beautiful park alongside a very wide river. Somebody had taken sea shells and made huge complicated patterns with them along the bank. They didn't talk, just very simply walked together and looked at the shells. And then without saying goodbye his mother slowly walked into the river. Simon thought maybe she was just going for a swim but she just kept walking deeper and deeper until she was under the water completely. Gone from his sight again Simon felt like how he did that first day she was gone, staring at the pile of unwashed laundry in the basement. He began to panic because she was gone so long. What could she be doing down there? Should he have jumped in and helped her? He held his breath as though he was down there with her. Then, finally she came back to the surface and Simon could breathe again. But he hadn't even finished exhaling when he realized something was wrong. She wasn't moving. She floated on the surface of the water and as the current slowly spun her around he could see her blank face turned cold and pale, her eyes empty and dead staring up at the sky as though looking to God for an explanation.   

              Simon woke, moist everywhere with sweat and tears. He knew he should stop crying, the last thing he wanted was for the other boys to hear him, but there was an itchy spot in his heart he knew wouldn't go away until he let out his sadness so he made his way to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet in case anyone came in and cried into his hands until he felt better.

              After washing his face he quietly went about returning to his bed but Father Mcdermend was standing in the hallway. It was as though his black priest’s robe was made of the night itself and the only part of him which Simon could see clearly was the man's old, droopy pale face and he nearly screamed when it appeared in the darkness floating like the head of the Cheshire cat.

              “Why are you not in your bed?” Father Mcdermend asked, raspy and toneless.

              “I was just going to the washroom Father,” said Simon, trying his best to keep his voice from shaking.

              “Simon is it?” The priest asked and came a few steps closer and with each step Simon could feel the urge to cry coming back stronger.

              “Yes, father.”

              “Do you know what a great sin it is to lie to a priest?”

              “I... I was crying,” Simon admitted staring down at his own little socked feet. 

              “Yes, I can see that child. Why?” The father asked taking another step closer. He lifted his boney finger and wiped away a tear from Simon's cheek. His touch made his skin crawl, though he was sure, deep down Father Mcdermend was just a nice old man and so he swallowed the urge to pull away in disgust.

              “I had a dream... about my mother,” he said feeling even more embarrassed now but wouldn't dare lie a second time. He thought Father Mcdermend would say something to make him feel better, not that anything he could say would, but
at least
try. Tell him he would see her again someday, or something,
anything
. But he just looked down at him, his always angry eyes burning out of place at the centre of his old calm face, which scared him so much he was about to fall into a wild panic and run back to his bed.

              “You have a new family now,” he said. “A much bigger family. And now you have many fathers. And the church itself is your mother. And if you do as you’re told, and trust in them, you will one day be in heaven. And God himself will wipe away all your tears.”

              Simon didn't have the courage to tell him that that sounded great and all but he didn't want a new family, or even a better family. He wanted
his
family. And in any case couldn't he have both? Did God only love orphans?

              “Yes, Father.” He said, feeling suddenly very tired.

              “ No more tears child. You should count yourself lucky to find yourself here. What if the church wasn't here to take you in? Where would you go?”

              And to this Simon didn't have an answer.

              “Go back to bed child.” Father Mcdermend ordered and turned to inch his creaky bones through the darkness of the halls. Simon watched as he vanished back into the darkness again before returning to his own bed.

              He couldn't get the image of his mother's lifeless body floating down the river out of his mind. Where was she? Why hadn't she come to get him? Had his father killed her?  

              It took him a while to get there but eventually he found himself right at the very edge of sleep.    At the place where your thoughts may actually be dreams, or your dreams were thoughts but you were too tired to even wonder which.  He could see Johnny. He was in class. Gym class. And was playing floor hockey, and wining of  course. He was good at sports. Much, much better than Simon was.

Then he saw his mother floating down the river. The sun shined down on her like God's love and the water sparkled all around her like blue and white jewels. Then she turned her head and looked directly at him. Her eyes still cloudy and unfocused by death and said:

              “I will see you in the river Simon.”

              Jeremy sat in his dark car as silent as death. He had driven around the block at least six times before finally deciding to park at the end of the street. The duffel bag of items sat in his back seat waiting for him.

              Tears were not an option. Over and over the image of his son's face came to him in harsh strobe flashes. He most certainly was crying if he was alive. If he was alive he was crying and begging and pleading and it wasn't fair. And there was no reason. And there was no God. And if there was, he was an asshole. 

              Who were the people inside this house and why them? Why him? Why Mary? What did this sick mother fucker want?

He hadn't called Katie. Not yet. He couldn't. Maybe if he did this thing Mister would release Charlie. He would have his sick little satisfaction, and would let Charlie go and then turn his sadistic game on someone else, on Mary, or whoever. He didn't care. Hell, he could stay fixated on Jeremy if he wanted, but not Charlie. Not his boy.

              He had to turn it off. Turn it off and do this thing. How could he not? A stranger or two dies or his own son. Either way someone would have to pay the price. He would pay it himself if need be, but not Charlie. Not his boy. His life hadn't even begun yet.

              He pulled the duffel back into the front seat and slipped into autopilot. Turned on the clinical detachment. He unzipped his sweater and slowly pulled it off one arm at a time. He removed his t-shirt and slipped into the white cotton dress shirt. One button, two buttons, three buttons, four, five, six.

              This was going to happen. This
had
to happen. This had to happen and it wasn't his fault. He had no choice. It wasn't his fault... he had no choice.

              He unbuttoned his pants and pulled them off, put on the white ones. White socks. White shoes.

              He could feel the violent pounding of his heart in his temple and his throat and his eyes. If he was going to do this, he would have to get angry. He would have to get vicious but felt as though he barely had the strength to clench his fists. If he went in there like this he would fail. And worst than failing he would be caught. Charlie would be killed and perhaps the world would think that he was in fact Mister all along.

              Was that his plan? How did he know this wasn't just a set up? The police could already be on their way for all he knew.

              He looked up and down the street. It was quiet. No sirens, no nothing. Just a soft and peaceful suburban hum.

              He had no choice.

              White tie, white gloves, white jacket.

              He reached into the bag, removed the hatchet and the gun and placed them across his lap then removed the last thing left in the bag. White face paint. He had no choice.

              He began to apply the paint. He had no choice.

              He had no choice. 

              Once every inch of his face was covered in the white paint he pulled the hood attached to the jacket over his head to hide his hair.

              The reflection in the mirror was repulsive and cued a certain frequency of thought which was strange and new but maybe put him exactly where he needed to be. For a long time he looked at the pale demon staring at him through the rear view mirror, and it stared right back. The light blue of his eyes the only trace of colour on his entire being. Was that the point of the costume? The eyes are the window to the souls and he guessed Mister wanted his prey to look deep into his soul as he extinguished their flame. He tried to push the softness from his eyes. To hide anything human in them. Whatever he did in this house would be attributed to Mister, not himself and to be able to do what he had to do, he had to become Mister. Jeremy would never do this. Could, never do this.

              He tried to make a fist again and still felt too weak to do so, so he clutched the hatchet as tightly as he could and that made him feel a bit better.

              He wasn't Jeremy, he was Mister. He was Mister.

              Before he had a chance to think about it the car door was open and he was moving towards the house.                                                                                        
To be concluded in
part two