Companion

It’s been with me since childhood, my companion for so long that I do not remember a time without it.

In the orphanage, overcrowded and understaffed, it kept me company through the torment inflicted by the other children. When I was barricaded in a closet or stuffed in one of the industrial-sized bins, its voice calmed me as it described the ways it would get even with my torturers.

‘Peel the skin from their eyes.’

‘Pour acid on their tongues.’

‘Boil the marrow in their bones.’

By the time I was fourteen I could sense its bodily presence, though it never stayed still long enough for me to see it. From the corner of my eyes I would catch its winged form, but it had gone by the time my head had turned. The clearest view I had was the night Father Casper Derwent meet his undoing.

For several years, Father Derwent, a priest at the orphanage, had made all our miserable lives even more unbearable. He would frighten us with stories of Sodom and Gomorrah, yet look at the younger boys with a peculiar light in his eyes.

One night, I awoke from a nightmare to find myself standing in Father Derwent’s room. As the man writhed and jerked on his bed, I saw the full size of my companion. Larger than the biggest man I had ever met, it moved with a silent grace and a speed which defied physics. Turning its head to me, I was struck by the gleaming white eyes; eyes filled with exquisite pleasure as the life was drained from Father Derwent.

That was the night I left the orphanage. With no belongings of any worth, I dressed and fled for the big city. Within a week, I was befriended by Jacob. Jacob never told me his surname – I suspect he had forgotten it long ago. He was an old man who had been living on the streets for more years than he could count and he showed my where the safest parks were, taught me the best days to visit which soup kitchen.

‘What price does he want?’ my companion wondered in my head.

When I voiced this concern to Jacob, he answered, ‘Nay, son, there is nothing worldly you can offer me. But there are others who would try to take from you. You must beware of those. They come in many guises, from pedlars to politicians. You cannot see them for the beasts they are until it is too late; the human mask they wear is only removed at the last. And when that time comes, it will be too late.’

There was no doubt in my mind that Jacob’s sanity was frayed. Perhaps it was a result of his years of living rough, or perhaps his mental problems were the cause of his homelessness. I did not know and it did not seem to matter. Jacob was still capable of looking out for the two of us, whatever his grasp of reality may be.

But all things must end and Jacob’s came in his sleep.

When I awoke and found his breathless body, I sat in silence until an ambulance arrived. To this day, I do not know who had called them, but they covered Jacob and took him away. They also took me. I was too numb to protest and found myself in a hospital bed in a matter of hours.

A parade of nurse and doctors came to inspect and monitor me but it wasn’t until the chaplain arrived that I stirred.

She introduced herself as Kath and asked if I had any family I wanted her to contact.

I shook my head and glared at her.

‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said softly, reading my expression clearly. ‘You’re not in trouble and I’m not going to pressure you into anything you don’t want to do. But I know if my child was in hospital, I would like to know as soon as possible.’

My experiences at the orphanage had instilled in me a great distrust of any member of the cloth. I tried to think of ways to make this woman hurt but my imagination deserted me. Even my companion, whose dark mind had cooked up so many gruesome punishments in the past, remained quiet.

In time, Kath left me alone. Over the next few days, my malnutrition was attended to and I was informed I would be discharged. Kath returned an hour later.

‘As you still haven’t informed us of a family,’ she said, ‘the hospital has no option but to release you to the streets. I don’t want you to end up in the same situation, or a worse one. Please, I implore you, let me help you.’

‘Yes,’ my companion answered.

‘What can you do?’ I asked Kath.

Kath stared at me in shocked silence for a moment. Those were the first words I had uttered to her.

‘Normally, I would look to get you in a half-way house or some kind of shelter, but we don’t have the time to organise that right now. You’re going to be discharged today and I worry about where you’ll end up tonight.’

She was quiet again as she seemed to wrestle with internal turmoil.

‘This is against my better judgement,’ she said, ‘but you can stay in my spare room for a couple of nights. That will give me time to arrange a more permanent accommodation for you.’

‘Yes,’ my companion said again.

Later that day, Kath drove me to her home. As we walked through the door, I’m not sure which one of use was the most nervous. She showed me my room and left me to myself as she went to make us tea.

My temporary stay with Kath lasted six weeks. We grew fond of one another and I think she enjoyed having company, and she easily found excuses to delay her search for my ‘permanent accommodation.’

One Saturday, she was visited by the archbishop of her diocese. Though I was not privy to the conversation, I heard the sharp tones and heated debate through the walls. It seemed the archbishop did not take kindly to Kath opening her home, a property that belonged to the Church, to a street urchin. He demanded that she end our cohabiting arrangement or he would transfer her to a smaller parish.

Frightened and incensed, I felt myself shaking with rage. My vision narrowed as my room seemed to draw away from me. Blackness pushed in from all sides until I was effectively blind and almost senseless; only my hearing remained clear.

I heard Kath and the archbishop shouting, screaming. I heard banging, thumping, tearing.

When I came to, I was standing in the room in which Kath and the archbishop had been arguing. The beautiful walls were splashed with red, as were the sofa and a large portion of the carpet. Mumbling in the corner, with her eyes tightly closed and her knees pulled to her chest as she rocked back and forth, Kath was also splattered with crimson.

As I turned to look for the archbishop, I realised the source of the colouring across the room.

The man lay on the floor, his stomach pulled open and his internal organs ripped apart or strewn about. I looked down at my shaking hands and saw they were spotted with blood.

I have not seen Kath since that day. I hope she is well and can forgive me.

Over the next months, as I returned to life on the streets, I wondered about my encounters with the clergy. Of the three holy people I had had close contact with, two were now dead. Had they been killed by my hand? Was this the reason I had been placed on this earth, to rid the world of religious figures?

In an attempt to shed some sense on the mad rambling of my mind, I entered a church and went into the confessional box. It wasn’t long before I was joined by the priest in the adjoining compartment.

‘I’ve never done this before,’ I stammered, unsure of how to start.

‘Not to worry.’ The vicar’s voice was young, friendly. ‘Are you Catholic?’

‘No. Sorry, do I have to be?’

‘If you were, I could lead you through confession and absolution. But I’m not going to kick you out for not being of my faith. If you just want to talk, I will listen.’

Many questions rose in my mind. Was I a killer? Will I go to Hell? Is there any hope for me?

Instead of choosing one to put voice to, I panicked and ran.

Weeks later, I found myself in another church.

‘Forgive me, Father,’ I began.

‘How long since your last confession?’ the old priest asked.

‘This is my first. I…’

After a pause, the priest said, ‘It’s okay. Carry on in your own time.’

‘I…’ I tried. ‘I can’t do this,’ and again I fled.

My third attempt was different. As soon as I was accompanied in the confessional booth, I felt a change within me, a surge of confidence. Unlike the last two priests I had visited, unlike Kath, this man was not holy. He carried doubt within him, had selfishness in his heart.

I watched through the lattice that separated us as my companion materialised before the vicar. A ghost made solid, the brightness of its eyes illuminated the disbelief on the man’s face. Taking his head in its huge hands, my companion allowed its brilliant white fingers to penetrate the unholy man’s mouth and nostrils, to push into his eye sockets. As the man kicked and struggled, ultimately in vain, I finally saw my companion in full and I knew its nature.

For as long as mankind had bowed to a higher being, there have been people who used that religion to further their own goals. Jesus had not died on a cross for his church to be infiltrated by charlatans and evildoers, though two millennia later it was hard to tell the truly devout from those hiding their lust behind the cloth.

My companion, my angel, had been sent to cleanse Earth of the pretenders.