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Illustration by Ross Andrews-Clifford

Illustration by Ross Andrews-Clifford

What was the word?

In this impressionistic vignette HOT’s Sean O’ Shea illustrates the ubiquity of terror and the psychological impact of traumatic experience.


In the beginning was the word

John 1:1

***

What was the word? Voices come to one out of the blue. Like the dead. What was the word for the sound of a dead body falling out of the sky on a city street? The news report had referred to the sound as a thud. It wasn’t a ‘thud’. That was not the word.

The lightly clothed stowaway had been travelling to Europe for a better life. He had hidden in the landing gear of a plane. When the plane began its descent he had fallen. He was probably dead before he hit the ground. It was reported that most stowaways travelling to Europe for a better life are dead on arrival. On long-haul flights they are killed by the cold or slowly asphyxiate. A mobile phone SIM card had been found in the stowaway’s pocket with declarations of love.

Lit by the flashing lights of a police car the onlookers, with spectral faces, gathered and whispered saying: No more days, no more nights for him. Had his troubles, we suppose, but we can only guess. Who’s to know what’s in the mind, what’s in the heart, great mystery, but not for us to judge in the end.

And a doleful monk with shaved head had stood among the spectators chanting: As one departs another arrives, out of the mouth of the mother’s womb, into the mouth of the mother’s womb, the last breath as the first. Their days are as nights and all their gods have gone silent. They huddle together but find no lasting comfort for they have lost the way to the dwelling of light.

She had seen the dead body but didn’t report her sighting of the dead body to the police, or join the spectators, or pray or chant over the remains. She didn’t touch the dead body. She wondered about the sound of the dead body as it fell and hit the city street. What was the word? She also wondered to whom the stowaway had declared his love.

Bodies are cast ashore out of the blue along with inflatable boats and plastic bottles and plastic bags and empty life jackets. You know the sort of stuff that chokes albatross and other marine life. Poor creatures asphyxiate.

Migrants and refugees on desperate sea journeys flee to Europe for a better life. They call the ships coffin ships. The coffin ships discharge their cargo of living and dead bodies, covered in sea weed, glistening in the moonlight, bearing love stories.

Then the gunmen come, out of the blue, rat-tat-tat-tat, leaving more dead bodies in their wake; tourists mostly, on package deals, pursuing a chance to lie in the sun and eat and drink to their heart’s content. Or so they imagine. Rat-tat-tat-tat. Poor creatures.

Over there people are terrorised, they rape, pillage and kill with impunity – men, women, children, anyone. A woman said that she would prefer bombs to drop down on her than have to watch her children die of hunger, or fall into the arms of the terrorists. Hunger was the biggest fear.

Over here, in the hospital, she had asked the doctor if he knew why human beings continue to wreak havoc on other human beings. She asked if it was possible that people might join together to create a more humane world one day. She asked if Jesus might return, if he existed, if peace might break out on our sorry war-torn planet.

She told the doctor how she had stopped watching the news but still couldn’t forget the images. They lingered long after she had seen them and disturbed her mind. There seemed to be no escape. Life was suffering. Something must be done. But what to do? When all is said and done. Was she thinking too much? Should she meditate more diligently? Was there a word for this disease? What was the word?

One cannot think too much, replied the doctor. However – you may be obsessed. ‘Obsessed’ was the word.

The doctor asked if she knew where she was. She replied that she was in the dark, or perhaps in hell. He asked her what time it was. She told him it was The End Times, as it said in the Bible. There were so many signs – wars, famine, pestilence, the corruption in people’s hearts.

He asked her what building she was in. Saint such and such, she replied. He asked if she knew the name of the prime minister. She told him the name of the prime minister.

The doctor enquired about her thoughts and feelings. She told him about the man who had fallen to his death outside her window. She asked him if he knew the word for the sound of a dead body falling from a great height on a city street. The news report had referred to it as a thud. It wasn’t a ‘thud’. That was not the word.

She spoke of the bodies cast ashore out of the blue. She spoke about the plastic bags and bottles that choked the sea birds which mistook such debris for jelly fish. Poor things. Asphyxiated. Nowadays she only felt safe in bed, she confided, in the spaces between words, huddling in the dark.

The doctor spoke of ruminations. That was the word.

She told the doctor how her uncle Jack had carried a large sack of white flour on his back and dropped it on the shop floor. She remembered the sound of the sack as it hit the floor. Uncle Jack with his white cap and white face – all white from head to toe. Imagine. Then one day out of the blue Jack had fallen from his lorry and fractured his skull. There was nothing they could do for him. They said he had been under the weather; he’d had a bit too much to drink. That wasn’t true. Uncle Jack wasn’t under the weather. He didn’t drink. Admittedly all that was a long time ago. Possibly in a past life.

The doctor had gone dead quiet. Had his weary words worn out? Perhaps he didn’t believe in past lives. Hopefully he wouldn’t hold it against her. Eventually, while typing out a form on his computer, he told her that she would be contacted by post with details of some therapy. As he handed her a prescription he spoke of a dissociative disorder. That was the word. Our planet was dissociated. Poor thing.

Was it OK to go home then? It was OK to go home.

By the way, she said as she left the doctor’s office, the man who fell out of the sky – he was from Angola. He was buried in an unmarked grave in Twickenham. His family couldn’t afford a headstone.

 

****

Wishing all readers & colleagues at HOT a peaceful Christmas & New Year

seanosea@hastingsonlinetimes.co.uk

 

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Posted 09:04 Tuesday, Dec 22, 2015 In: SOS

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