Henry Swede

 Standing in the entrance porch of the old church Henry shivered in the cold night air as he waited for his friend Peter. Choir practice had just finished and Peter was always the last to change out of his robes. Henry thrust his hands deep inside his pockets and let out a sigh, he wanted to go home and he wanted to go now. Patience had never been one of Henry’s strong points, and tonight was no exception. He knew that his mother was at home on her own. The new man in her life had let her down at the weekend, he’d failed to turn up for their date and she hadn’t heard anything from him since. That was four days ago now and his mother had taken it very hard as she always did. She didn’t seem able to hold down a relationship for very long. Since Henry’s father had died, five years earlier, she had met only a few men and none of them had lasted more than a couple of months. This time even Henry had thought that she had finally met the right man and he had taken great delight in telling her so. ‘Listen mum,’ he had said to her one afternoon when he’d caught her looking at an old family photograph, ‘Dad won’t mind, Greg’s okay, he’s sound’. He had truly believed that, mainly because he wanted to, because he needed the presence of a man in his life as much as his mum did. Now Greg had gone and it seemed that they were both back at square one. He looked up at the ceiling of the porch. “Oh Dad,” he breathed the words and watched their vapours as his breath floated up and vanished like spirits in the night. 

The big oak doors of the inner church creaked open and Henry turned as Mr Flint, the choirmaster, stepped through. His thin cheeks were flush and he looked hot and a little agitated. The old overcoat he wore hung loose over the wiry frame of his body making it look like a large heavy sack. He dipped one hand into a pocket and drew out the gnarled old pipe that he always smoked. Sticking it in between his teeth he began to speak. ‘Peters’ just on his way, coming right now’. He struck a match and held it to the bowl of the pipe and sucked hard. As the tobacco started to glow he continued, ‘good lad Peter,’ he puffed smoke into Henry’s face, ‘got talent,’ again more smoke, ‘we’ve just been practising his breathing’. Yet another great puff of smoke angled its way towards Henry’s face and he could feel his stomach convulse as he breathed in the second hand fumes. He didn’t like old Flint, there was something about the old man that wasn’t quite right. ‘And what about you then young Swede?’ Flint continued, ‘would you fancy yourself as a choral singer?’ He bent his face close to Henrys’ and took a short suck on the pipe which made little shards of ash leap out of the bowl and disappear into the weave of Henry’s blazer, ‘I could arrange for some private lessons, I could do a lot with you Swede’. Henry was just about to decline the offer when Peter appeared in the doorway, he looked dishevelled. His hair was ruffled and stuck up in little tufts that perched on top of his chubby face. His blazer hung off one shoulder, only half his shirt was tucked in and one of his shoelaces was untied. Henry wasted no time, he took Peter by the arm and dragged him out though the front door and into the night. Peter called back over his shoulder to old Flint who still stood in the porch smoking his pipe, ‘good night Mr Flint!’

‘Yes, good night Peter, good night Swede!’ Answered Flint, this time removing the pipe from his mouth so the words came out clearly.

Outside it was raining and the wet pavements reflected the amber glow of the streetlights above. Henry and Peter rounded the corner at the bottom of the street and lost sight of the church.

Peter wined at Henry, ‘slow down, slow down, what the hell are you rushing for?’

‘Shit Peter!’ Henry snarled, ‘why in the hell do you take so long to get changed?’

‘It’s not my fault,’ protested Peter.

‘Oh no, of cause not.’ The sharpness had left Henry’s voice and an air of sarcasm had taken its place, ‘even old Flint’s ready before you’.

He made the shape of a pipe by clenching the fingers of his right hand then stuck the end of the thumb into his mouth. He lent close into Peter’s face and said ‘how about you then young Peter, would you like some private lessons?’ Peter turned his head to the floor, and the pair walked on in silence. It was Peter, who spoke first, his voice sounded timid and small as though it came from someone else, an invisible companion perhaps. ‘He’s not that bad you know’.

‘Who isn’t?’ enquired Henry.

‘Old Mr Flint,’ said Peter ‘he’s not that bad’.

‘You are joking me aren’t you?’ Henry exclaimed.

Henry’s answer was not unexpected, as Peter knew how Henry felt about old Flint.

Henry continued, ‘he stinks of that old pipe and he leers at you. There’s something not right about old Flint, Peter, and he gives me the creeps’.

‘Well, I’ve seen a different side to him,’ said Peter in defence.

‘Yes, and you must need glasses,’ Henry’s answer was quick and sharp.

They came to an alleyway, which made a short cut home. It was a dark, narrow path, bordered by high walls and about two hundred metres long that joined two parallel streets lined with old terraced houses. During the day everyone used the path, it cut out the long trek down the street along the main road at the bottom and back up the other side, but now it was night and no one used it then.

Over the last few years it had become a haunt for drug users and street gangs, not threatening more menacing. Once, someone was found dead down there, Dale Smith, an addict, known throughout the town, though that wasn’t unusual in Saltbeech as it wasn’t such a big place. At the time the police had said that he’d overdosed on a particularly pure fix of heroin. They said that he’d probably got it from a New Dealer in the area, one that hadn’t yet mastered the art of blending it down or he was just trying to make a name for himself. If it had been the later then he’d certainly succeeded in his cause as the whole town had spoken of nothing else for months after.

The two boys stood at the end of the alleyway and looked at each other, they didn’t need to speak, the words had already been said, the same words over and over. They had each promised their parents that they would walk round the long way, to be safe, to stay out of the way of the gangs and the junkies. Henry’s mum had even made him promise extra hard after Dale Smiths’ death. She’d made him stand on the cold tiled floor of their kitchen and swear before God on the Holy Bible. At the time this had made Henry feel very guilty, for weeks after he’d lived in fear of God’s divine retribution. He would lie awake at night and try to imagine what it would be like to be struck in the back by one of God’s thunderbolts. The cracking and splintering of vertebrae and the tearing of flesh as it entered his body. The crushing pain as it compressed his lungs against his ribcage forcing all his breath out through his mouth. Finally, the snapping and bursting of ribs as it crashed out through his chest in a great spray of crimson flecked with specks of white bone. Those images had faded over time along with the guilt and they still used the alleyway as a short cut home. Neither of the boys had ever understood why their parents worried so much about them, in all the years they’d been using the alleyway they’d only ever met one other person down there. That was when they were ten years old, and it happened on the same day that Henry’s father had died.

Back then it held no dangers and there were no mysteries between its tall walls, except for those in the minds of children. He and Peter were no exception and they would make up all manor of stories about what lay behind the only other access into the alleyway, a small door that had been nailed shut for as long as they could both remember. Henry thought back to that night. There had been a storm threatening, a strange kind of storm. All around the town the sky had been lit up with the brilliant orange, purple and blue flashes of lightning. It had a ferocity and an anger which seemed to intensify the closer it came although it made no sound at all. There was no thunder and the wind was strong but silent. They had been running through the alleyway as they always did, it had become a game to them. They would set off together then loose each other in darkness only regaining their sight at the other side. Sometimes one or the other of them would stop in the middle to see if his friend would be brave enough to come back for him, Peter had done just this. Henry had emerged at the other side on his own and had stood and stared back into the darkness. He couldn’t see Peter or hear him moving, though after a while he could see a faint golden glow reflected off the walls. He started back into the alleyway and called Peters’ name, there was no answer. After only a few steps he could see the doorway clearly, the only other way in or out. The door stood open and was lit from inside by a golden phosphorescent light. Henry walked slowly towards it, struggling to see its origin and what lay beyond. Everything inside glowed with the golden light, the walls, the path, and the flowers, even the pond and it was all so bright that it hurt his eyes just to look at it. As he stood in the doorway a bolt of lightning stuck soundlessly somewhere near by and lit up the whole area with a bright blue brilliance. For the first time Henry saw the man standing behind him, or at least his shadow reflected on the walls. Henry wheeled round to face him just as the lightning faded away leaving only the golden light of the phosphorescent garden to illuminate the stranger. Except that the tall thin man that stood before him was wearing a white suit that seemed to be made out of pure light. Henry had to screw up his eyes against the intensity of its luminescence as he started to survey the man from the ground up. His shoes shone like the sun and appeared as though made of bronze, their construction was flawless. There were no seams, no joins between the sole and the upper shoe but strangest of all there were no laces, no lace holes, they had been made to fit perfectly onto the feet of the wearer. The white of the trousers made them far more difficult to see and he couldn’t make out what they were made of, though their fineness was beyond reproach. They were turned up at the bottoms and a razor sharp crease ran the full length of the front of each leg. At the top a broad leather belt filled with every type of precious gem and jewel was threaded through braided belt loops. The man stopped Henry’s investigation right there by placing a large bony hand on top of his head and holding it firmly in place.

The man then spoke, ‘go home Henry Swede go home, run fast Henry Swede and beware of the storm’.

The words filled the alleyway with their authority though the voice was hollow and empty as though it had come from a man without hope. Another bolt of lightning fell, this time it was even closer making Henry cringe at its intensity. When he opened his eyes the man had gone and the door was closed.

Peter’s voice was just an echo in Henry’s consciousness as he stood at the entrance to the alleyway remembering the events of that night, but something about the urgency of Peter’s tone of voice brought Henry back into reality with a jump. Peter, not realising that his friend was deep in thoughts of the past, had started though the alleyway. Somewhere in the engulfing darkness he had run head long into one of the street gangs that were noted to haunt the place. Before he could stop himself he had crashed straight into their leader sending him sprawling to the ground. He had then struck another and ended up crashing into the wall after which he fell backward onto the floor dazed and shaken. At first the gang’s reaction was one of shocked bewilderment, that was until their leader barked his command. ‘Get the little bastard lads, bloody kill him, kill him I say, bloody kill him!’ Without question the gang did as he commanded them. They gathered around Peter and started to kick him with all the force and anger that they could channel into their heavy boots. Their eyes were fixed with a singular and solid determination, their mouths curled up at the edges in half smiles that betrayed their inner pleasure at seeing the suffering they were inflicting on someone smaller and weaker. Peter had started to scream for Henry to help him but then as the pain had increased he just simply screamed. This is what had brought Henry so abruptly back to his senses, and he new that he had to do something and fast. Without a seconds thought he raced into the alleyway, faster and faster into the darkness until he reached the youths. He struck the nearest gang member with the force of a canon ball causing him to fall against the others around him knocking them all off balance and sending them in every direction. The impact took Henry by surprise also and he found himself lying on top of his friend. Peter lay motionless, his eyes were open but they appeared lifeless amongst the blood and dirt that smeared his face. His mouth was open and Henry could see that several of his teeth were missing. He new that there was no time to lose he had to keep up the attack. Pushing his hands against the wet grimy floor of the alleyway he launched himself back up onto his feet, he quickly assessed the situation, there was just one of the youths still standing and he hadn’t yet caught up with the sudden change in events. Henry threw a punch at him, he put all his weight behind it and landed it square on the bridge of the youth’s nose. Bright crimson blood spurted from both nostrils as Henry drove the blow hard into his face, the bony bridge snapped as easily as a pencil and angled off to the left. Henry let the force of the blow carry on driving the youth’s head backwards and into the rough surface of the wall behind him causing the back of his head to burst open and spray a film of blood over the brickwork. He drew back his hand having spent the full force of the punch, the youth dropped to the floor his blood running into his mouth and poring down the back of his collar. The gang leader was back on his feet, he grabbed Henry by the shoulders and swung him round to face the opposite wall of the alleyway and pushed him face first into it. Henry felt the roughness of the bricks tear into the soft flesh of his cheek and the warmth of his blood as it started to mingle with the cold wet of the rain that still fell with its relentless repartition. Releasing one hand from Henry’s shoulders he drew it back and clenched it into a fist then with the force of a mechanical hammer drove it into his spine. The full might of the blow stuck just below Henry’s shoulder blades and square in the centre of his back, the pain was immense and ripped through his body like an exploding bomb. He tried to inhale but found it impossible to inflate his lungs and he became aware that his legs were crumpling underneath him. The gang leader dragged Henry off the wall and swivelled him round to face him, he then grabbed hold of the lapels of Henry’s blazer and pushed him back at the wall again. Henry braced himself ready for the bone shattering impact, but it never came. In the confusion of the fight and the darkness of the alleyway the gang leader had pushed Henry into the little door which had simply burst open allowing Henry to fall through into the phosphorescent garden that lay beyond. 

As Henry fell the whole scene appeared to happen as if it were in slow motion. The gang leader’s arms stretched out as if they were made of elastic while leaving him stood ridged in the alleyway, his face contorted by the agony of this unforeseen event. Henry struggled to get a grip of the elongated limbs as they had become too thin for him to hold on to. Finally the arms reached their limit and Henry heard the sound of tearing as the gang leader’s fingers dug deeper into his blazer. The nails flexed and began to rip away from the fingertips allowing little drops of blood to seep out and rung into the fabric. For a moment Henry was suspended in mid fall. He looked back at the now distant face of the gang leader, it had become distorted beyond belief and he could just make out the thin lips of his mouth drawn right back over his teeth as he screamed in silent agony. Suddenly the fingers let go and Henry began to fall again. Down and down, Henry seemed to be falling for ever. The figure of the gang leader screaming in the doorway disappeared out of view as Henry was engulfed by the brightness of the pure golden light that lit the garden. His mind began to reel as he started to lose all sense of time and motion, he felt as though he was floating not falling, and a kind of serenity washed over him.

The icy cold rush of water renewed Henry’s consciousness as he plunged backwards into the garden pond, the florescent golden liquid enveloped him as he found himself trying to breath. As the water entered his lungs his whole body convulsed in an effort to expel it again. He kicked out with his legs in an attempt to right himself but he couldn’t determine which way was up or down. Once more his lungs demanded another breath and seemingly beyond his control had already started to inflate drawing in the bright golden water that only to cause another convulsion. This time Henry panicked and started to thrash around in the vain hope of coming to the surface of the pond, but his efforts were futile. Again he breathed in the water this time filling his lungs. There was no convulsion, no struggle, just the pounding of his heart which he could feel throughout the whole of his body. Henry relaxed and listened to the softness of its thump, thump, thump, as the beet of his life gradually faded away. He knew the water had beaten him and he was giving up the fight.  

A large bonny hand took hold of Henry by the front of his shirt. It lifted him clear of the water and held him suspended about a foot above the ground. The owner of the hand breathed into Henry’s face and immediately Henry coughed causing a great fountain of golden water to gush out of his mouth. It splashed down the mans arm and Henry coughed again and another gush did the same. At last Henry took his first breath of air since being punched in the back by the gang leader. It tasted sweet and made him tingle all over and he could feel the warmth come back into his skin. For a moment he let himself dangle like a rag doll from the hand of his rescuer, content to regain his senses before thanking him. Eventually, Henry straightened his head and looked at the man who had saved him from the pond. He was an old man, very old, with thick locks of white hair and a beard that flowed from his chin to cover his chest and framed his face. His skin was creased with deep wrinkles and it shone like highly polished leather. Henry’s gaze followed the beard down passed the mans brilliant white shirt and to the broad leather belt inlayed with jewels, then tilting his head further forward he could see the bronzed shoes. He was the same man, the one in the alleyway all those years ago. Slowly the man lowered Henry to the floor making shore that he had regained sufficient strength in his legs to hold himself up. He then stood back one pace and looked Henry up and down. ‘It’s nice to see you again, Henry Swede,’ the man said.

Henry recalled with familiarity the sound of the voice, its authority and its hollowness. This time it sounded softer more gentle, it surrounded him with the tenderness of a mother’s love and caressed his ears with warmth and affection. It made him feel safe. Reaching out with one hand the man took hold of Henry’s chin and turned his head to one side revealing the graze that afflicted his cheek. He rounded his lips and pushed them forward out of the beard and made a long shushing noise. ‘That looks nasty to me,’ he said. ‘Looks like you’ve been fighting?’

He pulled on Henry’s chin to turn his face to the other cheek. He continued to speak, ‘ does not the thirty-ninth verse of the fifth chapter of the book of Matthew say, “if someone strikes you on the right cheek, turn to him the left cheek also?”

At this he reached out with his other hand and touched Henry on his good cheek, immediately a wound opened and blood started to trickle down his face. The pain made Henry wince. He pulled away from the man and put a hand to his cheek then drew it away to look at it, his blood mingled with the pond water and began to glow with the same golden luminescence. His thoughts were a mixture of confusion and anger and he blurted out his words without thinking, ‘what the bloody hell was that for?’ 

The man took a step toward him and fastened a bonny hand to the front of Henry’s shirt once more. ‘You walk a dangerous path between Heaven and Hell, Henry Swede,’ stated the man, his voice now rougher in its tone. ‘Be careful to whom you sell your sole’.

Every muscle in Henry’s body had frozen, he’d been completely unprepared for the attack and all he could do was stare back into the man’s beep brown eyes. The man’s eyes were levelled strait back at him firm, yet soft, they had a depth that seemed to go on forever.

‘You must go,’ said the man after the brief silence. ‘You are needed out there in the world, Henry Swede’.

He released his grip on Henry’s shirt and three of the buttons fell to the ground and disappeared into the phosphorescence of the grass, then he walked passed him and opened the door that led back into the alleyway. Henry moved towards the door uncertain as to whether the man would launch another attack. As he moved passed him to get out he flattened himself against the wall to keep as far away as possible as he stepped back into the alleyway.

‘Goodbye Henry Swede.’ Called the man as he stared out through the doorway. ‘I’ll be seeing you again, yes I will, I’ll be seeing you again’.

At that he closed the door and the golden light and its garden were cut off once more.

Henry stood alone in the alleyway, his clothes still shone with the remains of the pond water, the gang had gone and Peter lay in a heap at one side of the path. Henry knelt down by his side and rolled him over onto his back. His eyes were still open but lifeless and what showed of his skin through the dirt and blood was tinged with blue. He felt for Peter’s pulse and found nothing. He was dead. Henry threw back his head and screamed into the rain, ‘NO!’ Tears welled in his eyes. ‘You bastards,’ he cried. ‘You evil bloody bastards!’