The Cost of Freedom

Chapter 3

The air was much sweeter this afternoon as it whipped across Timothy’s face, licking at the growing whiskers branching out across his top lip. The dread of the train departure had disintegrated into the coolness of the day and danced off toward the scattered orange tinted clouds which crawled above him, as the evening began to loom. The fading sunlight chewed on the horizon and bled into the sky, a darkened overpass briefly took the incandescent beauty of the twilight hour away from Timothy and his companion. The bridge allowed all those travelling above to circulate their surroundings without being an imperfection on the bucolic heart of a small village town.

Shaun had led the way for a substantial amount of time without saying one single sentence; neither a word nor a syllable had left his sharp boyish lips. Timothy could sense his mind was working overtime but preferred not to break the silence on the count of the situational awkwardness which had ensued following the incident on the train.

“Mr Fawn. Are you sure you are comfortable staying the night?" The silence was finally broken by the anxious yet curious youth.

Timothy addressed how he was best to answer the question at hand. Initially, it didn’t feel like a question whatsoever it was more of a, I’m not sure I want you to stay kind of statement.

“If you stop calling me bloody Mr Fawn maybe it would feel a little less uncomfortable! I will take any help I can get right now my friend. This place is magnificent by the way, where is it we are again?”

Timothy sought to circumvent the crisis by offering his usual mix of increasingly awkward humour and unnerving praise.

“This sleepy little place is almost dead centre between Nottingham and Derby. It’s slightly closer to Nottingham geographically but closer to Derby according to my satnav.”

“It’s a tremendously beautiful place. I expected someone like yourself to live in somewhere far more exuberant and juvenile.”

“Never judge a book by its cover Timothy. You must break bread with those from whom you learn not those who learn from you.”

A gentle scepticism as to the legitimacy of Shaun Mills’ whole existence grew deep within Timothy. The whole day's experience felt almost like a psychedelic trip on the kind of drugs he had taken as a guileless youth. But who was he to question a man who with no prior knowledge of his existence had offered him a chance at something sustainable?

Averting his crystalline eyes toward the ground, Timothy noticed the change in terrain as the grit and well-worn earth had become stone chippings which were much coarser underfoot. Every other step his legs which were so used to consistency were thrown off balance due to the unevenness of the floor.

“We are here Timothy; this is where I call home.”

Elevating the angle at which his neck had hung while examining the rural scape of the floor, Timothy’s unclouded eyes scanned the house which lay before them. The peacefulness of the old stone building seemed to ameliorate all of his unseen problems. The house was set back a short distance from the river which had curtseyed beside them for some time, the damp grey stone stood prominently against the flailing shrubbery framing the building. The house was a halcyon escape from normality, a safe haven to a dark and murky memory.

Pivoting on the balls of his feet Timothy turned his back to what would be his new home for the evening and stared motionless towards the river. The rockery which penetrated the cloudy sediment of protein and forced their way into the air, free of all that was displaced by the current below them were the primary focus of Timothy’s heartfelt words.

“Shaun, I simply don’t understand why you would choose to put a roof over the head of a man you have just met. Let alone me. I don’t deserve the kind of chance you are offering. Some would say I am beyond help altogether. I know in my heart that I have been pieced together entirely and that not all of those pieces are vast open skies."

Shaun watched Timothy, a man destroying himself during the gulps in between each word which crept through his lips before replying to the forlorn figure.

“You are here Timothy simply because I am who I am and you are who you are. It’s the slight change from the norm which defines us as individuals, your wrong doings obviously sit heavy on your mind however they will worsen in a lonely hour. Therefore I implore you to not think of me as magnificent or indeed any kind of miracle worker but as a friend and someone who sees right from wrong a little differently than the rest of those around us. After all, we will never change the course of the future but act by act we can have even the slightest effect on each other’s foreseeable happiness.”

Shaun extended a hand and placed it delicately on Timothy’s cold, lifeless shoulder.

“Timothy don’t you think it is ironic that time seems our mortal enemy as he slides himself slowly away from us each day yet he is quite honestly all we have.”

Evening rolled in, and life around the house seemed to thrive. Not as Timothy had witnessed in the depths of the city. The city; the hotel and the train all seemed so distant and insignificant now. However, life here was not a sign of mundane reality or indeed how incompetent the current generation had become. Incompetent was being polite. Intolerable, loathsome and banal were how Timothy would have put it if earlier this evening Shaun hadn’t summarised life in such a pleasant and tasteful manner.

In a suit that would be fit for a funeral, Timothy sat at peace, not only with his surroundings but for the first time in as long as he could remember he felt a calmness with himself. The movements of the insects edging his shoes accompanied his gracious empty mind; occasionally he would be distracted by how uncomfortable the bench he elected to sit on was for his aching and ageing body, a harsh reality check for a distant soul.

Shaun had chosen the perfect time to head off to sleep; leaving Timothy to sit for a further 2 hours as he became wholly captivated by his freedom. Declining his body back onto the old oak slats which lay hazardously between the cast iron frames of the old metalwork bench allowed Timothy to gaze into the sky. The stars were prominent in the vast treacle evening sky. Timothy had spoken to Shaun earlier that night as to how difficult it would be for him to get a respectable job and repay him for his hospitality. Of course, Shaun had obliterated the idea of any financial help and had merely advised Timothy to take his time to find something which completed him, rather than the type of job in which he would count each day until the arrival of his paycheque.

When given time alone to think Timothy became particularly dangerous. The days of old which he spent as a scholar came flooding back, initiating his opinion ridden mind to completely cloud his perspective. The whole process regarding the commissioning of the COFI was his liquor this evening, and Timothy was not the type of man who could only have a social drink and call it a night, he was your full blown prince of inebriation. An alcoholic of notion and reason and his poison so often consumed him, even when formulating arguments alongside the peaceful constant babbling of the river.

Although the COFI had reinstated Timothy Fawn’s independence, to him it was neither groundbreaking nor revolutionary. The very idea that a lottery would solve the prison overcrowding problems seemed decadent, self-indulgent and immoral on every level. The man behind it all was a fool, or maybe it was Timothy who was the fool for believing he could make something of this opportunity?

Thoughts of the COFI slowly moulded into the figure of Mr Jones; the guard for which Timothy had an abundance of affection and innate love. Jones was the only person he had been able to call a friend for the past ten years, although not publically as that would have only outcast him further in the eyes of his fellow inmates. Timothy had been able to entertain and occupy the other inmates but he never truly had their attention, until the darkness washed through the prison and each had the time to fully appreciate his anecdotes. A chorus of restricted belly laughs would often be heard from the surrounding cells once the other prisoners thought over Timothy’s carefully chosen words.

Jones on the other hand; would listen and enjoy listening in on Timothy peacocking his intelligence for all to see. Timothy judged the interest the guard had shown in him mainly down to the routine, and the fact that at the end of the day he walked away from incarceration and was able to sit and watch the fire burn with his family beside him. The feeling was, of course, mutual Timothy loved the very idea of Jones’ comfortable home life. He loved how Jones was far more masculine than he could ever even imagine being. His previously broken nose; the rough, jagged jawline which was occasionally wrapped in the fullest of soot-black beards and his superhero physique which was nurtured by those hideous shakes he insisted on parading around with. Timothy longed for them all apart from the shake; protein wasn’t for him and especially not in powder form.

The parting statement Jones had whispered in Timothy’s direction would resonate with him for what he believed would be an eternity, felt all the more factual at this very moment. The icy dew was beginning to set on the grassy mounds surrounding the little cottage, causing each blade to huddle close for what extra warmth they could muster, however causing their heads to simultaneously nod due to the growing pressure on their necks. The cold was, of course, a factor which stirred Timothy's sense of existence but it was much more than that. It was the warmth of a heartbeat when pressing your head against a sunken chest, it was the glimmer of eyes which have been longing to see your safe return, the heat which radiated from the sun and set on her every word, rising once more in her morning gaze. The homeliness of comfort, the family photos hanging quintessentially above the mantle as a reminder of your legacy.  Shaun's house sitting so eagerly on the edge of the river which was equally as rousing as all the things he dreamt of day after day.

The sun was ominously creeping onto the canvas sky, the clouds which had been non-existent thirty or so minutes ago, congregated in small factions here and there, they seemed more pure and niveous as the morning began to break. An almost sleepless Timothy watched the transformation above him adamantly if not for its overawing beauty but for the inherent feeling of the presence of change.