The Statue is looking at me or am I looking at the Statue? Impossible to say. Certainly, the Statue has eyes, eyes that follow, eyes that chase, eyes that will never leave me.
I’ve been here many times before in this hall of oppressive stone. Statues surround me but only one has my heart. I have gazed upon his face a thousand times.
But today is different. The Statue is smiling at me, mocking me, as if he finds my disposition hilarious. And I don’t blame the Statue. I would be laughing at the Statue were our roles reversed.
‘Bryan Mason?’ A voice punches the back of my neck. I’ve been waiting to hear my name but it shocks me even so.
Spinning on my heel, I wear my best smile. Or rather I try to smile. How does the Statue manage it so well? I could never quite perfect the art.
A man in a grey suit is standing on the maroon carpet that reeks of musty fabric. Or does the stench belong to the man? He holds out a dripping hand, expecting me to grab it. Why do strangers always want me to touch them?
‘You’re here for an interview?’ His smile dies as I take his sweaty hand. I’m certain now that the stench belongs to him.
‘Suppose I am.’
The interview is over. It went quite well actually. But this stony face doesn’t seem to think so. Still he laughs. Still he belittles me. The interview ended several hours ago but I’m still inside the museum.
‘Sorry, sir. We’re closing in five minutes. Would you please make your way to the exit?’ A viscous employee is pretending to smile at me, as if she’s afraid I’m about to scream. And if I screamed she could skive off work, claiming trauma and collecting sick pay. How lucky she would be.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’ I trudge away from the Statue, from the employee that has torn my world apart. ‘I’m leaving now.’
I’m seated now in the lovely coffee shop thinking about my Statue.
I have him in my hands now. I bought a postcard of his grinning face from the gift shop. I’ve been staring at him for so long my black decaf has turned colder than the world I’ll soon be forced to return to.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ the barista calls over to me. ‘We’re closing in five minutes.’ The Oppressive Bitch I call her. She always eyes me with suspicion. I bet she’s a Nazi. A secret Brownshirt. A destroyer of books and statues. But she won’t have my Statue. Never, never, never.
‘Oh, shut up, will you!’
The streets are cold and hard and wet. My mind is soggy. It hasn’t rained for several days, perhaps even years. So I suppose I alone am wet, dampened by the strange occurrences of the last few days.
I no longer care about the interview. Stopped caring many hours ago. Or rather I don’t care about the job. The job’s location is a different matter entirely. If I work in the museum I’ll have access to the Statue. I’ll have access to the answer to the greatest question I’ve ever known: Why does he always smile at me?
My head touches the stone pillow and my eyes close. I realise the postcard is still in my hand. Would you look at that? I’ve been clutching it this whole time. I keep my eyes closed, caressing his hard, worn edges. I know he’s watching me. I’m safe with the Statue.
***
The job is mine. I start on Monday.
I don’t shower. Can’t. No time. I make my way to the museum. As far as I’m concerned my work starts today.
I ignore the tutting guards as I enter. I turn my usual corner, traverse my usual corridor, enter my musty hall and…
My heart stops beating. The Statue is gone.
Nothing remains except for an empty plinth. As if nothing was ever there. I search the hall. My throat tightens as if I’m being choked by an invisible hand. The Others are all here, but not my Statue. He’s gone. Vanished. Stolen. Someone took him away from me.
I search for an employee. Vomit fills my mouth. I grab the girl nearest to me by the wrist. I’ve never seen her before, don’t even know that she works here, but she’ll have to do.
‘WHERE IS HE? WHERE’S HE GONE? WHO COULD HAVE DONE THIS? WHO WOULD BE SO CRUEL?’
Wide-eyed and teary, the girl snatches her arm free of my grasp and spins away in fear and desperate rage. I can tell that she’s an enemy. Perhaps she spies for the Oppressive Bitch who’s searching for any excuse to ban me from my lovely coffee shop.
Soon the guards are upon me, dragging me across the floor. They cast me out into the cold, wet street and spit on me for good measure.
I rummage around in my pockets, but there is nothing there. For the love of God, the postcard has vanished as well.
Tears stream down my cheeks. My world is ending. I jog to the coffee shop, order a black decaf, and sink into my usual chair. Breathing slowly, deliberately, I calm myself.
For a moment I’m in Heaven and nothing can hurt me. I survey my surroundings and realise that everyone is staring at me.
I turn, searching for an escape. In the street outside the window, a group of young men are passing by, laughing loudly and patting each other on the back. One of them has the same stony face as my Statue. Grinning, goading, beguiling.
It’s him. It has to be.
I drop my cup and I spring into action. I push past the incredulous idiots gathered by the door and I jump in front of the men outside.
‘The hell are you doing?’ The one at the front flinches away from me. ‘Get out of the way, you… you… bloody hobo!’
‘It’s you,’ I inform the Statue. ‘You’re real. You’re really real.’
The men blink at me in amazement, as if mine are the words of madness.
‘Do you need help?’ the Statue asks me. ‘I can get it for you. Just tell me what you need. You want a fiver? A tenner? Here… here. Take it. Take it all.’
The kindly Statue reaches into his pocket and passes me a wad of notes depicting the ugly face of the King. I’ve seen statues of that man before and I don’t like the way he smiles.
‘Just leave us alone.’ The Statue’s eyes cross as he looks past me, through me, his pupils dilating. He’s acting as if we haven’t spent the last two years in each other’s company. I simply don’t understand it.
As was the statue of Saddam Hussein torn down from his plinth, I am betrayed. But before I’m able to react to this injustice the group scamper away from me.
Dazed and confused, I return to the coffee shop. An employee is cleaning the mess I left on the table. I carve a smile into my stony face.
‘The Statue is real,’ I inform her and my lips change from stone to flesh. ‘He gave me fifty quid.’
The girl gapes at me in horror, backs away and almost trips.
A burly fellow in a tracksuit appears. ‘D’you think you’re playing at? Like picking on young women, do ya? Why don’t you pick on someone your own size, you mad bastard?’ He scrunches up his nose as if he smells something foul. ‘Fucking hell, you stink. When was the last time you washed or changed your clothes? You should take better care of yourself. Fuck. Clothes aren’t expensive, you know. Take these, for example.’ And he gestures at his tracksuit top. ‘This one was free.’
Perhaps the gentleman has a point. I thank him profusely and leave.
***
Monday arrives.
In my brand new priceless tracksuit I arrive at the museum for my first day of work. I want to put that mess with the Statue behind me. I’ll go up to him, shake his hand, and apologise for staring at him for the last two years.
But the guards have other ideas. They stand in the doorway with their tree-trunk arms folded, shaking their massive heads at me.
‘My name is Mr Mason,’ I inform them. ‘I’m here to work.’
‘Museum ain’t hiring,’ one of them croaks. He’s short and bug-eyed and bald and bulbous. He reminds me of a frog and this one’s venomous. ‘Museum ain’t been hiring all year. Now piss off.’
‘I had an interview on Wednesday.’ Why are they trying to trick me? Is this some joke, a prank that the guards perform on new employees?
‘What’s all this commotion?’
I turn around. It’s the Statue, God bless him. He’s on his own this time. Thank God his horrible friends aren’t with him.
‘Good morning,’ I say, feeling my cheeks blush. I’m unprepared. Thought I’d be cleaning statues today, not talking to them. ‘I thought you’d been taken away!’
‘You should be taken away,’ my froggy foe remarks. ‘To the loony bin!’
The others roar with laughter. But not the kindly Statue.
‘What do you mean?’ The Statue takes me by the arm and leads me aside. ‘Where would I have been taken?’ Then he nods as if he finally understands. ‘Look, I should apologise for the other day. I trust you put my money to good use?’ He carves a weak smile into his face, then he glances at my tracksuit and frowns. “I should also apologise for my friends. They’re not, shall we say, sympathetic to people like you.’
‘What do you mean?’ I retort, wondering if this is some sort of test. I’m unsure I can stand another test. When the Statue lived on his plinth he was always testing me.
‘Look,’ the Statue says, scanning his stony eyes over the entrance and lowering his voice. ‘I understand that you have some sort of condition. You’ve been coming here almost every day for the past two years. I realise that you feel connected to this place, that it makes you feel safe. It provides a little certainty I suppose. I understand, really, I get it. At least I think I do.’ He furrows his eyebrows and his lip curls into a frown. ‘But I won’t allow you to go around assaulting members of my staff. I’m sorry, Mr Johnson, but I can’t let you inside today.’ He straightens up then and his eyes turn fully to stone. He is a statue once more.
The skies darken. The pavement floods as the clouds weep. I cannot go on without the Statue. I cannot live in this world.
‘Mr Johnson?’
My eyes creak open. A blurry shape hangs over me. A beautiful face I realise as my eyes adjust. I’m lying on a bed and a woman in white is smiling down at me. Only this smile is unlike all the others. This smile is real.
‘My name is…’ My throat is dry. The words I espouse are utter nonsense. I’m about to say Mr Mason but I realise I’m wrong. I’ve been wrong all this time.
‘Your name is Bryan Johnson,’ she supplies, her smile widening. Her hand brushes my shoulder and I don’t feel the need to flinch. ‘My name is Sandra Gingham, your nurse.’
‘Where am I?’
‘You are home, Mr Johnson. Nothing can hurt you now.’
It was as if her voice summoned the seas that shattered the dam. Everything made sense.
I had worked in the museum. There had been a job interview many, many years ago, before the accident I sustained while cleaning a statue. And I can still remember the last thought that ran through my head as it hit the floor and the stench of musty fabric filled my nostrils: how is the Statue still smiling after he watched me fall? I surmised that the smile was fake, that the Statue was distraught under that hard, stony surface. Still I was uncertain, and although I was made jobless, and eventually homeless, I visited the Statue every day, hoping the truth would reveal itself.
At first my former colleagues were overcome with shame and embarrassment to see the man I had become. Whenever I witnessed their smiles I realised that they too were statues.
But as Sandra Gingham smiles at me now I see only happiness. I see honesty. I see a real person.
She found my postcard of the Statue – it was scrunched up in my pocket all along – but I told her to throw it in the bin. I have no use for it anymore.
© Davey Cobb 2024 All Rights Reserved
Davey Cobb 