The Soul Bazaar

Bes

He's always been there, for as long as I can remember. Like a shadow. Like a secret.

As children we played dangerous games together. Set fires in the wood. Looked into the flames. Ran off. Laughed when the fire engines came.

Together we killed the spiders, pulled their legs off one by one. Squished their bodies. Together we trapped the mice and the small creatures. Some we killed with blades. Some we kept, starved until they were tiny furry bags of crunching bones.

As teens we chased bigger pleasures. We imagined revenge on those who shamed us. Revenge on those who laughed at our clothes or made fun of our speech. On those who shouted at us when we couldn't read the words or write our own. Revenge is a fire that burns all the time. The flames burn you up from the inside, and everything you see and touch. The only way to get rid of it is with a real fire of your own. Bes taught me that.

We hid from the bad people - the teachers, the counsellors, the men in suits and uniforms. We sat in their cold rooms and listened to their questions. Sometimes we answered. Sometimes we lied, little lies and big lies. Sometimes we laughed behind my silence, together, when we didn't want to answer anything. But Bes was better at hiding. They never asked about him, and I never told. Never even mentioned his name. It wasn't fair that I took all the blame, but I didn't mind, not really.

He was angry when I went to the tattoo place and showed the man my picture of him. I thought it would bring us closer. It did. Now he's on my arm forever, a voice on my shoulder. But I had a lot of making up to do after that. The homeless man in the alley was a good sacrifice. He bled. He bled lots. Left spatters and drips and puddles all over the floor of the empty warehouse. After we finished we threw all the bits in the river. Little bits are easier to throw. Nobody knew about the homeless man. Nobody looked for him, nobody found him. That's the best kind of sacrifice. A secret sacrifice, a secret between me and Bes.

Bes guided my hands when I beat the old lady to death with her walking stick. Whack, whack, whack. She won't look at me like that again, like the world is wrong and it's my fault. It's not. I only wanted to make it better, to burn the bad things, to squish out the bad people. The old lady's yapping mutt won't frighten us again either, scaring us when we're sat on the park bench dreaming about my fires. Bes danced with me when her bungalow burned. We watched all the flames and the big red engines and swishing blue lights on the telly in the Neer cafe. All that noise, for me. Bes' present.

Bes helped me find the places to hide the bits of arms and legs and other things we had to keep secret. He was always clever like that. But later, they guessed we'd done those things. Said we'd done them the same way after they knew about the black man in the shop.

The black man in the shop was always nice, but he caught us stealing. He said he'd call the police. So we came back. It was dark and the shop was empty. But there were cameras. There are lots of cameras in shops, always. Stupid, stupid.

We burned the shop and we burned the cameras. But the pictures were kept in a different place, and they saw me on the telly. They caught me, the police. And the strange doctors who you don't have to call 'doctor'. They put us in another cold room, told us we'll be here for a long time. Told me. They still don't know about Bes. They see the tattoo, though. They ask about that. But I don't say.

This place. It's not a jail. The not-doctors tell me that. But my room is locked all the time. All the doors are. You can hear the other people being moved about sometimes. Clunk, click, door opens. Clunk, click, door closes. Clunk, click, next door opens. And on and on. Some of the people they move shout and scream and wail until other men come and quieten them. Sometimes they wail and moan in their rooms, too. Then the men and not-doctors have to open their rooms and make them quiet in there. How can you keep things secret when you're shouting? That's when secrets escape. And when the not-doctors trick you into talking too much. Bes says to be careful when they do that. Not talking at all makes them think you're keeping secrets, even if you're just not talking because you don't feel like speaking that day. But if you say too many things, the wrong things can come out.

The not-doctors are supposed to be cleverer than everyone else, but they understand less than anyone. Everyone else thinks I'm bad. I know, because they tell me. They tell me I'm scum too, that I shouldn't be alive. They say that if I'm ever allowed out, the other people like me will kill me because of what I've done. They say they'll let it happen because I deserve it. Sometimes they hit me or pull my hair or twist my wrists until they hurt. Sometimes they spit in my food. But the not-doctors talk about talking to help, about talking to make it all go away. But they don't even know what it is they want to make go away. They talk about pain, about strange feelings, about voices... there is none of that. There is just me, and everything else. With Bes I am alive, but without him I am a moonlit crow gliding over a deep, dark mountaintop lake.

I can't go where I'm not allowed. No more sneaking. No more fires. No more squishing. No more shadows for Bes, except at night.

Now there's someone else too. I see his pointed smile through the flames in my head. I see his eyes staring through the blood as it runs along the floorboards. I hear his breath in the silence between our thoughts.

He scares Bes. Bes won't talk to him. Bes hides when he comes. But he talks to me. "You are tarnished," he tells me, "but I have a special place waiting for you." All I have to do is make it to the white tower. I can do that. I know I can. I just have to keep my secrets to myself.