The Cost of Freedom

CHAPTER 2

The morning started in complete juxtaposition to the previous evening. Saturdays always had a way of inciting mass hysteria throughout the general populous. Timothy had slept as he did in his childhood; no strife hung over his absent mind. He could caress each sheep as he accounted for them one by one. The distinctness of his dreams had created a rejuvenated man from the morsel who had fallen into his sheets. Timothy gazed out of the bay window down into the busy road, the empty mind which had encompassed him had been replaced with a far more open and insightful outlook.

A family in its entirety traipsed down the street below him, it seemed funny to Timothy that he would deem a family a completed work of art rather than as a growing entity, but instantly it dawned on him that it had been some years since he had witnessed a family whatsoever. They moved slowly as if the street which lay in front of them was barren and littered with possible dangers. The mother held the reigns of one child so tightly that you could visibly see the colour drain from around her knuckles and the opaqueness begin to eat into her wrist. The child continued to run at the top speed his tiny legs could muster to the point where his legs seemed to move much quicker than his robotic upper body. The mother raised her voice and shouted in the direction of the scurrying child.

“Stop! Before I hit you and make you stop.”

The tyrannical outbursts flowed from her mouth like the tide lapping at ankles on a summer’s day. Not an ounce of regret or compassion for her little accessory on the end of the leash came from her sharp tongue. Timothy gulped down the shock which had lodged itself in the back of his wrinkled throat and gathered tightly above the top button of his shirt. His human contact had been minimal for so many years that it had made him innocuous to the mundane reality of everyday life. The previous evening his dreams had been consumed by the idea of having a child to hold.

Someone whom he would feel incredibly privileged to enlighten with his lessons of life, those which he has accumulated and those passed on to him from his father. The father with the family crawling along the street below couldn’t have been a more significant contrast to the memories he held of his father, in fact, they put him off remembering at all, maybe he too allowed his child to be showered in abuse without moving as much as a muscle.

The father moved clumsily, pushing a pram off in front of him. He would let the chair and the child strapped snugly into it roll some 15 feet before catching up to it again. A cigarette hung from his aggressively chapped bottom lip which he would puff every few seconds just in case someone around had the intention of taking it right out of his mouth and claiming it as their own.

Timothy cast his eyes downwards as to cover each inch of the father, and he found himself fixated sternly on his attire. It dawned on him that there was a distinct lack of sophistication nowadays, chivalry had found its way to the morgue some time ago and being a provider to your family was also due to follow. Maybe a lack of wit and an overdose of red lipstick were the norms for mothers born in a different generation, or perhaps in his time alone he had become far too quick to judge, and it was he who was in the wrong.

The ringing phone in the corner of the room startled Timothy from his train of thought at the next station and brought him back to the real world. He answered the phone cautiously and waited for whoever was on the other side of the line to speak before speaking. A rough straight-laced voice spoke, one which was obviously used to conversing in this manner as he manipulated each word with a steadiness which could only be attained by routine.

“A train will leave platform 3 central street station at 11:30 am. Tickets are waiting for you with Mrs Howarth at the concierge. You will board the train and exit anywhere you wish after the twelfth stop. Your record is free and so are you. Good luck Mr Fawn.”

The clock which had sat on the dresser next to his bed and had been Timothy’s guardian as he slept; was an ever constant reminder that time stopped for no one, whether it’s his trial run at life or indeed his second chance. The face read 10:30am, and as Timothy had very little knowledge as to how far away the train station was, he elected to ready himself and abruptly leave his room in its current state, which was a rare and painful experience for a man who is painfully obsessive in such situations.

After gathering the very few possessions he had, Timothy shut the clips on his briefcase and exited the hotel room. He walked hurriedly towards the staircase before taking the first step into his new life. He seemed to be heading downwards for eternity as if travelling towards hell itself before he eventually reached the concierge. At the sight of his face, the receptionist slid an envelope onto the counter, turned her back on Timothy and walked briskly into the back room. Avoiding any form of meaningless conversation or idle small talk. He found it difficult to attain whether his appearance had offended the woman in some way, or indeed she had been tasked with such alien behaviour.

Timothy wasted no time in forcing the envelope into the outside pocket of his blazer, which as it turned out was far too small to hold the letter, as it was often used for small change or the occasional packet of cigarettes. The edges of the sharp envelope protruded from the pocket however due to its rigid contents Timothy was unable to bend or fold it in any suitable manner. The entrance area to the hotel was densely populated this morning as if there was a large intake of guests all at the exact same time. The cracks of noise which escaped the hustle bustle rattled through Timothy’s ears, sending shivers firing up and down his spine both in anticipation and also fear as this amount of simple chatter was utterly alien to him. He managed to squeeze his way through the initial confusion and then headed for the far wall of the room. Timothy outstretched an arm in trepidation of the unknown; not too dissimilar to a child crossing the road with his parent once he has reached the age he deemed too old to hold his beloved mother's hand. He ran his fingertips along the textured wallpaper as it trailed behind him, holding his body as close to the wall as possible to avoid any contact with those around him.

The feeling brought on by fear is what frightened Timothy more than anything else. He was a learned man, an academic and a free thinker, who in his younger years had proved articulate and fearless, he knew no boundaries conversationally and could stand in front of anyone and spread belief. What grew in him was the knowledge that all of that was not only behind him but may have been lost forever. His confidence stranded in a moment in time, one which existed before the darkness.

Timothy Fawn arrived at the train station every inch the tourist; glancing quickly at names flashing across the glaring LED screens towering above him. Although he recognised the names he pretended to be oblivious, he had decided that it would be better to be a tourist than a recently released convict. Holding his tongue tightly he batted spit around his mouth, hoping no one initiated conversation as his ability to throw his accent was poor at the best of times and even worse when succumb to pressure.

He had memorised the details on his ticket; he was to be waiting at platform thirteen before his train departed at 11:30 and from there the choice was his. Timothy raised his head anxiously to check the time on the ancient, weather damaged clock face, half expecting the train to have departed already, his room at the hotel to be occupied and his second chance to be ripped from his grasp before it had even begun. The clock face was built into an old patchwork stone wall, which was engulfed by much larger slabs of sandstone running either side before stepping up gently in the fashion of a pyramid to its summit.

The face itself was an off-white, bone colour, which over the years had aged to the point where the dark ebony hands which usually covered its eyes were almost unrecognisable. There was always something about the creation of watches and clocks which fascinated Timothy, the fact that so many intricate fixtures and fittings worked in perfect harmony to create something of motion and meaning; awoke some kind of passion inside of him, a light in the dark depths of regret. He remembered how deep into the night he would profess his love for the notion of time itself and chuckle into the whiskey glass sat on his bottom lip upon hearing some exclamation of knowledge from across the room.

“In death, we lose all concept of time so surely onto us that is the end of time?”

Such comments were often banded around within his group of allies. Timothy had always struggled to call them friends as there was very little connection on an emotional level. Great debates were commonplace, and most of the time the island of ice which sat in his whiskey glass would consume the spirit itself and form a brown sludge as it faded into oblivion. Timothy had never feared time, that is of course until he sat alone watching it run from his life like water down a drain, only for him to reappear from the night, a shadowed ooze of his former self, just as the whiskey had done all those years before.

Timothy moved hesitantly towards platform thirteen; hoping it was purely ironic that the beginning of his new life should be shrouded in the unluckiest of numbers. He boarded the train rather inconspicuously as the stop was almost completely traffic free, and after sitting for no more than five minutes, his journey had begun. The train forced its way smoothly out of the station; like an ice dancer gliding across her arena, one foot solidly planted on the floor while the other tucked neatly beside her head. Timothy pressed his face up close to the glass in an attempt to free himself from the situation at hand. Watching green blurs, brown smudges and the occasional yellow splatter run beside him made him realise what an awful waste of a beautiful country this mode of transport really was. He would have walked the distance had the option been available. How could the masses allow train tracks to marauder through the land cutting through vegetation here and there and churning out thick pollution above it as it ran?

As well as his belongings which had long sat moulding in storage at the prison, Timothy had received three suits of various colours and an assortment of more casual clothing. The necessary toiletries to survive for a short period of time and a new wallet with a number of cards inside. One of which was a noticeably unused bank card. He had no idea where it had come from or indeed what he would do with it, but he assumed there would be money for him to afford a hotel of some kind. To carry all of this he was given a waxed leather holdall, which now sat neatly between his feet. He sandwiched it between both feet, to feel the contents shift and occasionally leak out of where the zip didn’t quite shut as intended. It reminded him of squeezing the last of the toothpaste out of the tube before settling down to sleep. It was a homely thought and one which he clung onto at this time. He would then continue to move his belongings around the floor with the inside and outside of one foot as if manoeuvring it in synchronicity with the train. Timothy would typically have dreaded the thought of his clothes being draped across the floor, but the desolation of his mind had seemed to completely eradicate all of his innate senses.

As the train pulled to a halt at its first destination, Timothy aimlessly pondered over his belongings which were now scattered across the floor around his feet. A particular shirt caught his eye, a lilac one, the kind of which he would never confess to owning in his most recent accommodation. It was made from a delicate looking European material which was visibly smooth to the touch. However, in his current stature, he did not possess the audacity it would take a man to wear such elegance. “Timothy Gregory Fawn” was printed on the label sitting beneath the collar on the internal of the shirt. Was the fact he had labelled his own clothes purely a fragment of obsession or was he really incapable of any kind of proper adult behaviour in his past life?

He pondered on this thought for a while; maybe his wife printed and attached the labels?

Tenebrous images flashed in the pupils of Timothy Fawn, the thought of a child wearing his lilac silk shirt looking profoundly disheartened and ashamed. Handcuffs being forced onto bodiless wrists so harshly that they cut the skin about the veins, and finally, the image of Timothy Fawn himself just over ten years ago being led from his house towards an awaiting police car, in the very same lilac shirt with blood splattered around the cuffs.

Timothy shuddered as if his body lay on the table of an exorcism. Throwing his head to the left, he slammed his face into the window and resumed to watch the foliage run free beside him without flinching even slightly in pain.

“Excuse me, sir, your belongings are scattered around the floor.”

An alien voice crept across Timothy’s face and began to fight with his breath over who would condensate the window at the tip of his nose.

Aiming to conceal his surprise Timothy progressively moved his head as if mechanical in nature across his eye line until he reached a thick-set young gentleman. Dressed in a far more bohemian manner than himself; however still managing to put his ageing suit and tie to shame.

“A failed banker you are not. So I would suggest picking up those shirts before someone tramples on them.” The young man spoke with an elegant and rhythmic manner. He seemed to skip between the over the pronunciation of antiquated English and the rough briskness of a northern accent.

There seemed to be a juxtaposition of light and dark about the person standing in front of him, he could be no older than his early twenties, yet he was forward and to the point. Overconfidence had always been a trait which Timothy envied, in public, he was a shrinking violet of a man, the boy in the corner who had nothing to say which would interest everyday people, so he held his tongue religiously.

As Timothy clawed all of his belongings together and stuffed them into the holdall as if stuffing the feathering into his pillow, the young man whose whole demeanour had instantaneously become the object of Timothy’s desire began to initiate conversation.

“Shaun Mills is the name nice to meet you, sir. Can you believe how infrequent these things have become? It almost makes me begrudge waiting for them when I know they run through such beautiful hillside. I assume that was what you were taking in while eating the window?”

Timothy’s laughter quickly became overwhelming; in a mix of innocence and excitement, he had found the idea of sitting so close to the window quite splendid. He could sense the awkward situation which had arisen and decided to maintain his flourishing friendship by answering hesitantly.

“Yes, the surroundings are quite spectacular. As for waiting, I wouldn’t know it’s all rather new to me you see.”

Giving himself too little time to think, Timothy had created a situation far more lamentable than he had hoped. Surely this profound young man would understand? Maybe he would be able to offer, help, insight or even safety.

“May I ask to where you are going Mr …?”

“Fawn but call me Tim, please, I insist.”

“Ok, Tim it is. Without sounding intrusive, where are you going Tim? You seem somewhat lost. Within the depths of your eyes, there is an opaqueness, the kind of which masks purpose and precision.”

Whenever Shaun spoke he moved his lips with the air of a man in total control, he would over pronounce each word and kiss them on their way into the air in an exoteric nature.

Timothy shuddered to his very core and hesitantly replied.

“I don’t know where I am going or indeed where I have come from.”

“I will ask no more Mr Fawn this evening you will stay with me, but for now we shall drink in our surroundings together. So move along and make sure you haven’t completely devoured the window before I even get a single glimpse.” Shaun decimated the intensifying atmosphere in a wholly nonchalant manner and slid himself alongside Timothy.

As Shaun currently occupied the prime seat next to the window Timothy found himself preoccupied with the whole situation, allowing his mind to wander. His eyes stared obliviously into the deep crimson upholstery of the chairs adjacent. The very thought that Shaun had forced himself into the seat next to this quivering skeletal figure whose mind was clearly preoccupied baffled Timothy to his very core. Why did he not take the much less intense chair where his rucksack now sat acquainting itself with Timothy’s abandoned holdall.

Timothy’s bag dominated the proceedings as with each long meandering corner more contents spilt up and out of its mouth; which hadn’t been closed sufficiently since first hitting the floor. The silence which had ensued had given Timothy the chance to carefully select his questions and answers for any further conversation which may come to pass. Methodically he had hand-selected anecdotes, knowing that once he had cleared up any confusion caused by the last outing his consciousness had quite rudely and unfairly made, he would be intellectually and charmingly a match for his young counterpart.

Shaun’s persona initially seemed strange to Timothy although he quickly began to realise he recognised the grossly talented young man as a mid-twenties version of himself. Engrossing in demeanour and welcoming in his very essence, by just being present Shaun had offered him safety and compassion mixed with the warmth of a fresh coffee on a deep winter’s morning.

“Right this is our stop my friend” Shaun had managed to suppress conversation for quite long enough as almost two hours had passed and not a word had been spoken.

For the majority of the time that had elapsed, there had been oceans and shorelines between them. Their thoughts lay on different coasts, and their soles ached from walking different pebbled pathways through separate pinewood forests, but tonight they would share the same sky, it would be their ceiling, and the stars would be glimmers of hope which light the room.  

Timothy quickly gathered his strewn belongings and stuffed them brashly back into his bag. Shaun has already risen, grabbed his rucksack and headed towards the doors which began to open hesitantly. Timothy glanced back as one does when he has very little confidence in his own organisation, to check that he was leaving nothing behind.

No belongings remained where he and his friend had been sitting; however, there was a small boy no older than five looking fervently out of the window which he and Shaun had shared. The boy moved his head tentatively towards Timothy. Carefully he raised his hands from the seat next to him which he had been protecting for whomever he was sharing the journey with.

Timothy stumbled back into the door of the carriage as he caught a glimpse of the scorn which filled the young boy's eyes. They were utterly bland and had no identifiable colour; his glance seemed to penetrate Timothy’s body leaving his whole muscular system burning along the way. The boy's hands continued to rise through the thick warm air until directly in Timothy's eyeline. The crimson upholstery bled from his palms. Running between his fingers and slowly filling the carriage floor with dark ink blots around his feet. The boy’s arms continued to rise until they were stretched out at head height pointing in Timothy’s direction.

Backing up Timothy had managed to stumble his way into the glass panes of the now closing doors and slipped anxiously out into the platform.

“Tim! Are you ok? The colour has completely drained from your face? Are you feeling unwell?”