Graeme Gibson - Communion

By the ceiling a window, a small window with iron bars on the outside. The television is in the corner of the room. Blue light on his hands. No sound. Light on his trouser legs. He has eaten because it is evening, because it is almost night. Soon he’ll leave the room, he’ll walk to the stairs, he’ll mount them to the landing at the side door, and with only the slightest hesitation, he’ll slip out into the alley.

Very soon now. He drinks from a bottle, he smokes: blue light on his hands. What will they be doing tonight? What will he see them doing?

He moves with unfamiliar grace, his feet make no sound. Vaguely swaying lights above as he descends to the floor of the ravine. He avoids the white road, he slides through underbrush, a path along the edge, he walks beside the road because sometimes there are others, there are cars without lights, there are figures, shadows in the corner of his eye.

And tonight there is a car, he knows where to look, he sees it, heart’s rhythm and muscles tightening, mouth parting, he pauses: leaves shiver about him, a light evening breeze on his face. He stares at the motionless hulk of the car. He can almost smell it.

From halfway up the side of the ravine, above it, he begins by throwing pebbles, a handful of them, and then another, they rattle through leaves and branches on their way. He hears them hit the car, clattering as they rebound into the dark. He can’t see, but he can imagine their shock; that pleases him. Will loverboy play the hero? will hotpants jump out on the attack? He hopes so. Grinning excitedly, holding the brick in his left hand he hopes so, he can hardly contain himself, he stoops for another handful of pebbles and at that moment the engine starts. The car backs onto the white road, he transfers the brick to his right hand, he lobs it like a grenade . . .

Very close now, creeping closer, he pauses: leaves shiver about him, a light evening breeze on his face. He stares at the motionless hulk of the car. He can almost smell it.

The brush of bodies. They groan perhaps, breathing and sighing, the noise of their bodies: even closer to the glinting metal, if he reached out now, they don’t know he’s here, so close to them, teeth bared, eyes white, he could reach right in the window, he could put his hands on them gently like this . . . He straightens, he rises from the brush, he sees them, he reaches, fingers extended, staring he reaches in, he sees her long white legs convulse like spastic arms.

His mind is full of images, rationalizations, half-formed words, with escape routes closing before he knows, all the familiar structures of guilt: instinctively he stops before the dog, the husky, and drops to his knees in front of its cage. Withdrawn as usual against the inner wall, unmoving, it watches him with cloudy eyes as he bends closer.

The sun shines or it doesn’t, it’s winter sometimes and sometimes it isn’t: the body struggles from sleep, dresses itself according to the season, eats and comes unwilling into the world’s routine. But then, unexpectedly, there’s a moment when he senses he could fall right out of it all, out of the whole thing, and his bony face contracts, it falls in upon itself like blood.

Riding sometimes in trains, in cars; resting against the glass, falling each mile further into himself: dry roads empty, occasional barns with homes in shadow and always the coloured fields, the geometric fences on the land. Mile after mile. He can’t remember the first time it happened and can’t be sure it ever did. It might have been an early morning on the way to summer camp. It might have been. A field rising to bush, trees crowding from the sky’s edge and there, into the trees, an entrance leading away and he sees himself climbing the field in silence, sees a boyish figure alone, pausing, then striding as best he can from sight.

Gaunt white body unmoving, but it’s still alive, and that’s something: dull eyes, they watch him rising, watch him straightening to stand and there’s tension somewhere, an accusing stink and shallow breath. And then he hears the others: snuffling and groaning, breathing and sighing, all this and more; the brush of bodies, and madness of the talking birds, the chains and the scampering claws in metal wheels as he starts his methodical search. Down the first aisle and up the second, peering into cages, poking a ruler at empty bodies and it’s easy to tell the dead ones for limbs have stiffened, their eyes are unresponsive. He hits them as hard as he likes and they don’t move. Sometimes he’s mistaken of course, sometimes they’re sleeping or sick, they lurch from the ruler and then he leans to soothe and reassure, he apologizes and when the animal is calm again he goes to the next cage. It’s not a hard job. Whenever he’s sure, he leaves the cage door open as a sign and by the time he’s finished this morning there are five of them, five bodies to collect, wrap and stuff into green garbage bags. Fortunately none of them are very big. Big animals are difficult to handle, a leg or two is always in the way, the bag isn’t big enough, and they certainly don’t fit into the garbage cans. But that’s not a problem today. A couple of lap dogs, a cat and two mongrel puppies; they hardly take any time at all.

Bell ringing in the shop. He’s here: jaunty steps and whistling, things clatter as Peter Walters appears in the door. “Oswald. This place stinks.” Into the room, glancing here and peering there. “The cages aren’t cleaned, look!’ Grimacing “Ugh. No wonder.” Bright blue eyes. “What have you been doing? Good grief man, it’s . . . It’s almost ten o’clock. Why you should . . . how do you expect . . . oh no . . . Oswald, you know better than that! Come here.” Over to the cupboard, opening the door and pointing. “Come here and look. Those cages should be clean by now.” Pink nail healthy, white where it grows beyond the quick. “Nine forty-five, you see . . . that’s quarter to ten. These animals should be coming in from the yard, the cages should be sparkling and you’ve hardly started.” Staring from Felix to his lousy schedule, then closing the door again. “That’s the trouble with you Oswald, that’s the trouble alright . . . And I say this in all seriousness, in kindness, I hope you know that because, well, because I like you. Yes. I do, I like you Oswald. Don’t ask me why. But I do.” Cigarette into the mouth. Flick goes the lighter. He stands in clean shoes, smoking. He actually admits to liking Felix Oswald.

Sometimes a stream then, a creek that leads from sight among the trees, and other times it’s just a suggestion, an opening image as he’s carried by. His body’s empty with the journey and he cannot speak.

Cool on his forehead and dirty, the window between him and that figure in the field. It happens often. In trains sometimes and cars, resting passive against the glass, falling with each mile further into himself.

“I hope you know that because, well because I like you. Yes. I do, I like you Oswald. Don’t ask me why. But I do.” Cigarette into the mouth. Flick goes the lighter. “And I think I can help you get more out of life.” He stands in clean shoes, smoking. And what’s all this pigshit about liking anyway? Likelike means nothing from him! what’s he willing to do, will he . . . “Let’s sit down Felix.” Will he produce the bottle and this time a second glass? Pouring, and Felix reaching, lifting it to his mouth. “You’re doing a fine job here.” The world going by in the street. His smile’s not so bad now, not so exclusive. And maybe he really does like him, for at some point he leans, he appears to be human, he leans and asks: “What do you really want Felix?”