Pity Judas

Pity Judas

He listened.
He sat with his head resting against the padded wall with his ear firmly against it. The footsteps were receding more swiftly than they had approached. Whatever had encumbered them had been left behind. He had heard them enter his cell but had refused to dignify their presence with his curiosity. Even when he heard them leave, like Lot he had shown them his back.
“Hm.”
Slowly he rolled his body round using his head as a pivot on the wall, his eyes tracking to the cough. There in the centre of the room was a bearded man with horn rimmed glasses sitting at a table opposite a vacant chair. Their eyes met; feral brown against amused blue.
“Please.” An outstretched hand indicated the empty chair.
His thighs tensed and as he pushed against the wall he began to rise. The effort made him hug himself within the jacket. His legs trembled imperceptibly just before he lost his balance and then he was face down staring at the floor. He twisted his head to one side to see where his visitor was. All he could see were two brown patent leather shoes. He felt a hand grip the collar of the jacket at the back. He tensed; ready to be jerked up onto his feet, knowing what this violent motion would do to his shoulders.
In one seamless move the jacket was sliding over his head, only the collar catching his nose caused any discomfort. There was a satisfying thud. He looked up; the straightjacket was crumpled up in the corner of the room. He looked back to the floor for the brown shoes that had been at the side of his face; they were gone. He sought the centre of the room and there the visitor was, just as before, beckoning him towards the empty chair.
“Please?”
Under the circumstances it would have been churlish to refuse and he found himself sat opposite a man with the bluest blue eyes he had ever seen. The eyes sparkled with humour behind the glasses and the bearded face broke into a smile. It was a kind face, but the smile didn’t quite reach the eyes. It was a professional smile, a courtesy smile. It was as if the eyes were enjoying a private joke, some mischief which the smile didn’t quite appreciate.
“I am a doctor.” More smile.
Silence.
“Do you mind?”
“What!” There on the table was a tape recorder that he had not noticed before.
“I find it easier than taking notes. So, where to begin? Well, I replace your last shrink,” as he said this he leaned forward with a conspirator’s smile, “not very PC, but that’s what we are,” He leaned back again.
“Where did he go?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. I think you scared him off. Strangling someone will do that.”
“And your not?”
The doctor didn’t reply, instead he looked at the discarded jacket and back again, smiling: “Abel.”
“What.”
“Am I my brother’s keeper? It’s what Cain told God when asked about his brother’s whereabouts. It’s what you said as the guards beat you off my predecessor. How’d you think he did it?”
Silence.
“Cain – killed Abel, strangulation or a big rock? Come on.”
“A big rock.”
“Why did you say that?”
“You tell me. I thought doctors knew everything.”
“I’m not God or even close, well close.” Again, more smiles.
“I thought doctors like playing God.”
“No, I only made that mistake once and I’m still paying the price. But this is good. I was afraid we wouldn’t begin a dialogue. So, when you were strangling my, err- colleague, that wasn’t an episode or you’d have tried to brain him, yes?”
“They’re not episodes,” with that he closed his eyes.
The sky was a vibrant blue that made you glad to be alive. It touched the yellow corn and where they met it looked like gold against silk. He did not notice this as his fingers dug into the black earth. The grave was shallow but his deed required a deep pit in which to hide, so he laboured on. The season before he had sown this field and now he would sow again, only now he dreaded reaping this harvest. As that thought passed through his mind he looked back at the body of his brother, the marks on his throat already beginning to purple.
When he opened his eyes again he was looking through the cracks of his fingers. With both hands covering his face he took a moment to watch the man opposite. The doctor had light brown curly hair that was in need of a cut. His beard needed a trim too; single red hairs stood out alone against the brown. And his eyes were matinee idol blue, gentle with lots of wry humour. His clothes were the comfortable garb of the academic, tweeds, cottons and flannels. Could he be, as he seemed confident, at ease, a man totally in control?

“So. What are we dealing with- Fantasies, Lost memories, Previous lives?”
“Real.”
“You’re going to have to speak up.”
“THEY’RE REAL – I know, I feel, touch, taste, see, hear, Christ I even smell it – I feel it, in here.” As he spoke he tapped his chest. His brown eyes became glassy and distant as they filled with unshed tears. This was a man on the brink, possessing the most tenuous grip on reality. A man, who could see the abyss, was desperate to avoid it but could see no other alternative than to be consumed by it.
“It’s okay. You’re not mad, you’re just trying to protect yourself.”
“From what?”
“Your past, something haunts you from the past,” the patient shifted his gaze from the doctor to the floor.
He didn’t want to look up, he was ashamed of what he had done, he didn’t want to see but he had come anyway, others had come to watch. The sun was high in the clear blue sky, without a cloud to mar its beauty; from Potter’s Field you could see the silhouette of the crosses on Calvary. The Galilean would be dead now, his own weight suffocating him. The bag of coins had felt heavy in his hand, he didn’t realise that he’d dropped it. He stared at the far away hill, the sick feeling strong in his stomach. The Pharisees had refused to take back the money. He had betrayed a good man to death and this was his wage. They had bought him with silver and it was now his, as he was theirs. He continued to stare at the green hill until a shadow fell across him. At some point he had fallen to his knees, he knew not when, he picked up the silver and stood up. He turned and walked towards the tree whose shadow had roused him, undoing his belt as he walked.
“Done things, questionable things - before.” The patient looked up into the doctor’s face.
“Go on.” There was a long pause as each man maintained eye contact. The doctor didn’t move, his face was without expression; no smiles and his eyes focused on a point behind his patient’s eyes. With unfocused eyes the patient stared back at those angelic blue orbs, diving deep within them as if he could break thru’ the surface of some still waters to the truth. This fugue state played across his face as his lips repeated a silent litany. Time stood still or sped on, moments or a lifetime played across his features.
“No.”
“Then you’ll sit and rot in purgatory. Mea Culpa, is that what you want? Is that why you wear this hair shirt? Hoping God will forgive. Your crimes mark you as clear as Cain. You turn your back on what you did, what you are, but it won’t turn its back on you. I won’t.”
The words had only just left the doctor’s mouth as his patient surged to his feet knocking over the table as he went. Possessed with a maniac’s strength the patient began to choke the doctor, one handed. Thumb and forefinger linked together at the “Atemi points” behind the doctor’s Adam’s apple, crushing his windpipe; instinct honed by training and practice. The doctor tilted his head coquettishly and smiled like the devil. Thumb and finger began to ache as the knuckles began to show white, tendons in the hand stood out, the veins in the patients forearm were clear and proud and the whole arm was shaking. As the minutes ticked by the maniacal strength ebbed away and the doctor continued to smile into those brown eyes.
“That’s right, look into the dark place. Turn and look into it, it’s there, even if you deny it, forget it, ignore it. It’s sitting in the pit of your soul, waiting,” said the voice in his head.
With tears in his brown eyes he stared imploringly at the doctor, slowly backing away to the corner where his jacket lay, hand outstretched. There he sank down hugging his knees, clutching his jacket to him.
“You won’t turn into a pillar of salt. It’s what you are. The nature of the beast. Embrace it.”
“Noooooo.”
“Yes! Yes! Descant on mine own deformity:
And therefore, since I cannot prove a lover,
To entertain these fair well-spoken days,
I am determined to prove a villain
And hate the idle pleasures of these days.
Determined to prove a villain.”
“If only Richard III had really been as Shakespeare saw him. Never mind. Come out from there. I’m here to help you. Forget this guilt and shame, you are as God intended. We are creatures the same, if we are denied heaven then let’s revel elsewhere,” as he finished speaking he held out his hand, the blue eyes no longer mocking but compassionate and lonely.
“Who are you?”
“Does it matter? A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Let’s just say, I have stood where you stand now and I realised it is better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.”
“Is there no hope?”
“There is always hope, even here, in fact it makes this place what it is, it goes hand in hand with faith and love. A trinity of tricks to keep you in place. You hope for forgiveness and salvation, only you can give that. You think God hates you for what you’ve done. How can he? He made you that way, just like he made Judas to betray Christ. If it weren’t Judas it would‘ve been someone else, or else there would have been no crucifixion, no salvation. What choice did Judas have? You don’t need his forgiveness you can be like me.”
“Did Judas have a choice?”
“What?”
“You said if it wasn’t Judas then it would’ve been someone else. So, Judas had a choice. I have a choice; I’m not made this way, I chose this; like you chose it. And you said there is salvation, if there hadn’t been a crucifixion then there could be no salvation, so I have a chance.”
“I’m wasting my time. I’m wasting my time. After all I have shown you, after walking in Judas’s steps, living Cain’s life and your own pitiful excuse for existence, which is so desperate you can’t stand to look at it, you’d keep faith with a deity that created you to fail, to suffer. You’re weak and damned. So, I’ll leave you with this thought. How will God forgive when you can’t forgive yourself? Eh. And if you ever manage that, it will be through self-interest, the desire to save yourself, it hardly rates as charity.”
For a long moment the two men stared at each other, the blue eyes had hardened but the brown eyes looked less feral, less scared. The patient was uncertain, riddled by doubt but he had hope. The doctor turned away and made for the door, as the door opened he turned back to look at the patient one last time, he smiled and shook his head ever so slightly. Even as he began to cross the threshold the patient could feel the restraint of the straight jacket and when he looked at the centre of the room the chairs and table were gone. His head was resting on the wall again, he pivoted his body round to face the door but it was already closed. Perhaps he’d just imagined it all.
Outside the door the doctor looked through the one-way glass at patient number six, an attendant approached him with a clipboard. “Well, Dr Faust. Are you going to interview Marlowe today?” The doctor merely stared for a long moment. ”Sir?”
“I’ve told you before there is no Christopher Marlowe, only number six, I won’t tell you again Goethe.” Goethe stood next to the good doctor and stared through the glass at the man inside. And the man stared back.
“ He’s done it again.”
“Done what?”
“He’s managed to reverse his straight jacket, it’s inside out. How’s he do it?”
“Perhaps someone else ‘does’ it.”
“So, err- number six?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“So whose next?”
“No-one, there’s only so much disappointment you, I, can take in one day. I’m going to relax, take the rest of the day off, listen to the Stones.”
“Sympathy for the Devil?”
“Why not?”