A Million Tears (45 page)

With the last drink of the evening before them Sion asked: ‘Are you going to stand in the next election, Dad?’

Evan shrugged. ‘I’m going to become an American citizen first. After that I’ll think about it.’

Meg nodded sagely at her son. ‘Oh, he’ll definitely end up in politics. He’s as bad as the Irish for his talk. If you and David come and run the business for us, then that’s exactly what he’ll do.’

Sion nodded non-committally.

‘What are you planning to do?’ Meg asked with more austerity than she had intended.

Sion shrugged. ‘It’s too early to say yet. I’ve still got five years of university to finish . . . Assuming that I get to Harvard.’

‘Of course you will,’ Meg had no doubt whatsoever.

‘Yeah, I suppose you’re right,’ said Sion. ‘What do you fancy then, Dad?’ He changed the subject. ‘Congress or the Senate?’

‘I’d have to try for Congress first,’ Evan said seriously. ‘Providing I receive the nomination. If I got that far I could then go on to try for the Senate. But that’s a long way away yet,’ he drained his glass. ‘Come on, drink up and let’s go home. We’ve an early start in the morning.’

The next morning the train pulled out of St. Louis exactly on time.

Over a lunch of cold meats and salad Sion asked, ‘What are you going to do with the business, Dad? Do you have any expansion plans?’

‘No. I’m quite happy as we are. We have enough on our plates so I think we’ll leave things as they are for a while.’

Sion had half expected him to say that and was slightly disappointed because he would have liked to see his father make a fortune. One day, he said to himself, I’ll do it. I’ll make the biggest damned fortune in the US.

They got off the train at Columbus and spent the night in an hotel. The next morning they hired a buggy for the two hour drive to the university.

At the main entrance Sion found an office with the sign “New Students” on the door. He knocked timidly and then harder. He heard a loud yell for him to enter. The room was bare except for the young man sitting behind a battered desk, smoking a smelly pipe with type-written lists in front of him.

‘Name,’ he barked, glancing up.

‘Griffiths, Sion Griffiths,’ Sion replied, a little intimidated.

The man puffed furiously for a few moments while he scanned his lists. ‘You’re in Lincoln dormitory. Out of the door, turn right and it’s straight ahead at the end of the quadrangle.’

The man smiled and stood up, hand outstretched. ‘Well, well, well, fancy that now. My name’s Callaghan, Colin Callaghan. Welcome to the university. Say, if you’re not too busy later drop around to Seymore for a beer. But don’t advertise the fact? We’re not exactly allowed beer in our rooms but everybody knows it goes on and it’s okay as long as we keep quiet.’

‘Sure, thanks. I will,’ said Sion, gratefully.

Meg and Evan said goodbye to him at the door to Lincoln. He had tears in his eyes now that the time for parting had come. With a final farewell he entered the building.

32

Inside Sion found the porter’s lodge just as David had described it. ‘My name is Griffiths. I . . . I’m new,’ he added superfluously.

‘I can tell that, sir, but don’t you worry none, you’ll soon know your way round like an old’un. Griffiths, you say? Ah, here it is. Second floor, room two eleven. The two means second floor and eleven that it’s the eleventh from the stairs. We had a Griffiths here last year. Played football,’ the old man mused.

‘My brother. Thanks,’ said Sion, picking up his bags and going through the swing doors and into a long corridor. He was going to have to get used to telling people he was David’s brother. So long as they don’t start comparing us, he said to himself. He was surprised to find somebody was already in the room when he reached it. Then he remembered David telling him that some had to share a room while a few lucky ones had a room on their own. David was one of the lucky ones.

‘Eh, hullo,’ said Sion from the doorway. ‘I’m sharing this room with you.’

The man who was there looked up from his unpacking and waved his hand. ‘Come on in, come on in. You can have any bed except that one,’ he pointed to the bed on Sion’s left. As there was only one other, on the right of the door it seemed a strange thing to say but Sion surmised he was joking and smiled. There were two beds, two chests of drawers, two closets, two desks and two hard backed chairs. On either side of the unlit fireplace were two arm chairs and between them a low table. The walls were cream in colour, the furniture a drab and battered brown. Sion walked across to the window to look down at the quadrangle, a large area of grass surrounded by the high, three-storied building.

He turned to his new roommate who was still unpacking. ‘Eh, my name is Sion Griffiths.’

The man grunted but made no other reply. If this was all he was going to get from the man he was expected to share a room with for the next year Sion was not looking forward to it. He was quite a big fellow too, about half a head taller than Sion, broader and heavier. After a few seconds Sion asked: ‘What’s your name?’

The man paused, his folded clothes in his hands and then carefully replaced them in his suitcase. He went over to the door, closed it and came back to Sion who was beginning to feel slightly alarmed at his odd behaviour.

‘No, no, no, you don’t understand.’ He drew himself up to his full height from the slouch he had assumed when he began whispering, pointing his finger at Sion. ‘I have been sent by the Father of Mankind, to save Mankind from itself. Do you understand me?’

Sion nodded, suddenly dry mouthed. He managed to croak. ‘Sure, I understand that. I . . . I’m honoured to meet you, real honoured.’

‘You lie. You speak with the voice of Satan.’ The man screamed the name Satan. Sion sidled to one side and said, ‘No, I’m not lying. You can read my thoughts, being who you are, and so you know I’m not lying.’

This disconcerted the man for a moment and then he slowly smiled. ‘Exactly. You can keep nothing from me.’

‘Then you know I’m not lying,’ said Sion desperately, trying to see something he could use as a weapon.

The logic seemed to get through to the man. ‘That’s right. You can’t lie to me because I will know it. Therefore you will always tell the truth.’

Sion nodded frantically. ‘That’s right. That’s exactly right. How can I possibly lie to you? You have the all seeing eye of...ofour Father with you.’ Jesus Christ, he thought, is this for real? I must be dreaming.

‘Kneel,’ the man suddenly ordered, pointing his finger at him. He himself got down on his knees and said in a thunderous voice, ‘Kneel. I shall pray for your forgiveness. Yours will be the first of the souls I have come to save.’

Sion gulped and thought about dashing for the door while the maniac was on his knees but then decided not to. It was too risky, so he kneeled.

‘My Father,’ the man held his hands up high, wide apart. ‘This is the first soul I ask you to forgive for all the blasphemies he has committed whilst he has been here, on this hell called earth. I ask you with . . .’ he looked balefully at Sion, who was looking at the man, fascinated. ‘Bend your head,’ he shrieked. ‘You are in the presence of God Almighty who has visited us here, so that I can save your miserable soul. Show the correct obeisance before our Lord and Master.’

Hastily Sion dropped his head, his heart pounding. How did one deal with a nut?

The prayer droned on, Sion’s knees ached and tears formed in his eyes. How could he live here with a lunatic like this? How was he supposed to work with the fear that he could be attacked at any time of the day or night? He would never be able to sleep knowing this maniac was in the same room. Suddenly the man screamed: ‘O Lord,’ and bowed low until his forehead touched the floor. Sion scrambled to his feet, staggered while the circulation started flowing again but reached the door. He threw it open when, with a bellow of rage the man jumped to his feet.

‘Satan has you,’ he screamed. ‘You are in the hands of Satan. I shall sacrifice you to the one true God. The just God can have his will with you.’

Sion yelled again and doors all along the corridor opened and heads appeared. The man came slowly towards Sion, hands outstretched, held like claws. He had a glazed look in his eyes, staring at Sion.

‘Help me,’ Sion yelled again at the doubtful faces. Then the man was on him, his hands around Sion’s neck and he was squeezing tighter and tighter. Sion grabbed the hands and tried to pry them loose. The man’s face leered down at him, saliva dribbling from the corner of his mouth. Sion’s head was swimming, his lungs starved for air. He felt unconsciousness clouding over him and then blackness.

When he came to he found the maniac lying out cold beside him and four or five faces peering down at him. One of the men held a baseball bat in his hands. He was asked if he was all right and somebody helped him to his feet. Sion tried to say thanks but all he managed was a painful croak.

‘What do we do with this fellow?’ somebody asked.

‘I dunno,’ said another. ‘One of us had better see the porter and get the man from admissions. He’ll know what to do.’

‘I’ll go,’ volunteered a third. ‘Are you all right?’ he asked Sion, who was leaning weakly against the wall, massaging his throat and trying to get his voice back. Sion nodded.

‘Okay, you fellows. Watch this guy and I guess bop him on the head again if he tries anything. I won’t be long. You sure are handy with that thing,’ he said to the man holding the bat who so far had said nothing. The man smiled and nodded.

Sion held out his hand. ‘Griffiths,’ he said in a hoarse and painful whisper. ‘Sion Griffiths.’ The man, around Sion’s own age, shook hands, nodded, smiled and pointed at his own throat.

‘Sore throat, eh?’ Sion said, ‘Me too.’ He lapsed into silence again because talking was so painful. The minutes dragged by. Finally, Colin Callaghan appeared with the porter.

‘What have you been up to, young Griffiths?’ he greeted Sion. The others looked at Sion wonderingly. That a third year man knew the name of a freshman was unusual to say the least. ‘And who’s this?’ he nodded at the inert form on the floor.

‘He...he attacked me,’ Sion croaked, his hand still around his neck. ‘Tried to kill me. To strangle me,’ he added, seeing the look of disbelief on the other man’s face.

‘It’s true. I just told you,’ said the man who had gone to fetch him. ‘If it hadn’t been for this fellow here,’ he jerked his thumb at the man with the bat, ‘he’d most likely be dead now. Look at his neck if you don’t believe us.’

Callaghan said to Sion, ‘Pull your collar down . . . Jesus Nelly,’ he whistled when Sion showed him the big black and blue bruises already forming. ‘What the hell did you do to antagonise him like that?’

Sion shrugged. How could he tell him the man was a nut? ‘He said he . . . he was from God and had come to save mankind. He was . . .’ Sion broke off, his throat protesting. ‘He said he was here to . . . to save mankind. He was wailing and talking to God and . . . and it’s true, I tell you,’ he said with a fierce, very painful whisper. Callaghan looked more doubtful than ever.

‘I heard him yelling something about Satan,’ one of the others said.

‘And I heard him calling to God, as well,’ said another voice. ‘My name’s Green. I’m in number twelve. Are you in eleven?’ Sion nodded. ‘Yeah, well I heard some of it. I didn’t know what to think of it. It sounded terrible. I guessed some nut had got loose or maybe,’ he gulped, ‘maybe . . .’ but he could not bring himself to say it so Callaghan said it for him.

‘Or maybe that’s the way they always act around here, is that it?’ Callaghan grinned. ‘Well, funny things do happen I guess, but we draw the line at calling down God on us. Okay you guys, pick this jerk up and help me get him to the Dean’s office. I reckon he’s more than a mite crazy. You’d better come too Griffiths, to show your throat and you too, Whalley,’ he said to the man with the bat. ‘You can tell what you know. I mean in your case, write down what happened if the Dean wants you to. Okay, take it easy with him now,’ he told the others as they grabbed an arm and leg each.

They staggered across the quadrangle and into the building opposite. They found themselves in a wide corridor, with four or five doors leading off on either side. Callaghan knocked on the first door, marked “Dean’s Secretary”.

He opened the door without waiting for an answer and led the way in. Behind a desk was an attractive redhead in her early twenties. She was annoyed at the intrusion but her annoyance quickly turned to alarm when she saw the body carried by the sweating and puffing freshmen. The mad man groaned when they dropped him on the carpet.

‘Is the Dean in?’ asked Callaghan, nodding towards the door to the adjoining office.

‘Ah, em, yes,’ she answered, dragging her eyes from the body on the floor. ‘But he’s pretty busy at the moment, with the heads of departments.’

‘It’s very important he’s disturbed,’ said Callaghan. ‘This nut on the floor here tried to kill this fellow,’ he jerked his thumb at Sion. ‘Show her your neck.’

Sion craned his neck painfully, by now curious about what he was showing.

‘Good Lord,’ she gasped, ‘that’s terrible. I . . . I’ll go and get him immediately. Wait here,’ she said, superfluously. She opened the door and went inside. A few moments later the door opened and a small, neat man, completely bald, came out. Sion had a glimpse of two or three faces peering out at them, ‘What’s all this about, Callaghan?’ he asked annoyed.