The Chalk Man

by C.J. Tudor

I have nothing against Gerry. I have nothing really for him either, but he seems to make Mum happy, and that, as we are fond of lying, is the main thing.

“Don’t sound so surprised.” “I am. For someone so unsociable, the fact you have any friends is astounding.” “I have friends, here in Anderbury. You know them. Gav and Hoppo.” “They don’t count.” “Why?” “Because they’re not really friends. They’re just people you’ve known all your life.” “Isn’t that the definition of a friend?” “No, that’s the definition of parochial. People you feel obliged to hang around with out of habit and history rather than any real desire for their company.” She has a point. Sort of.

Or maybe that’s just my perception. Often, what comes with age is not wisdom but intolerance.

Since the fair, I had been collecting more and more. Stuff I found, stuff people left lying around. (I had started to notice how careless people were; like they didn’t realize how important it was to hold on to things or they could be gone forever.)

There are some things in life you can alter—your weight, your appearance, even your name—but there are others that wishing and trying and working hard can never make any difference to. Those things are the ones that shape us. Not the things we can change, but the ones we can’t.

History itself is only ever a story, told by the ones who survive it.

A principled man is generally a man who has everything he wants, or absolutely nothing to lose.

“You do bad things and they’ll come back eventually and bite you on the backside. That boy will get his one day. You can be sure about that.”

You expected old people to die. They even smelled a bit like they were already half dead. Kind of musty and stale. Death happened to other people, not kids like us, not people we knew.

He buried his face in Murphy’s thick, sodden fur, clinging to that dog like he was trying to stop him from leaving, from falling from this world to the next. But of course no one, not even the person who loves you most in the world, can stop that.

She takes another swig of her drink, and then says, “I should tell you something…” I don’t like those words. Nothing good ever comes of a sentence that starts that way. Just like, “We should talk…”

I wonder if saints have to live completely blameless lives or if you can live like a sinner then just perform a few miracles and be sainted anyway? That seems to be the way with religion. Murder, rape, kill and maim, but all will be forgiven as long as you repent. Never seemed entirely fair to me. But then God, like life, is not fair.

What shapes us is not always our achievements but our omissions. Not lies; simply the truths we don’t tell.

The thing you have to understand is that being a good person isn’t about singing hymns, or praying to some mythical god. It isn’t about wearing a cross or going to church every Sunday. Being a good person is about how you treat others. A good person doesn’t need a religion, because they are content within themselves that they are doing the right thing.”

We think we want answers. But what we really want are the right answers. Human nature. We ask questions that we hope will give us the truth we want to hear. The problem is, you can’t choose your truths. Truth has a habit of simply being the truth. The only real choice you have is whether to believe it or not.

None of it was true, but rumors are like germs. They spread and multiply almost in a breath and, before you know it, everyone is contaminated.

BEING AN ADULT is only an illusion. When it comes down to it I’m not sure any of us ever really grow up.

Maybe minds aren’t lost. Maybe they just slip through and find a different place to wander.

For who are we if not the sum of our experiences, the things that we gather and collect in life? Once you strip those away we become just a mass of flesh, bone and blood vessels.

I don’t think you can judge the worth of a person by how many people turn up when they’re dead. Most people have too many friends. And I use the term “friends” loosely. Online “friends” are not real friends. Real friends are something different. Real friends are there, no matter what. Real friends are people you love and hate in equal measure but who are as much a part of you as yourself.

“I’ve always told you: never have regrets. You make a decision, and you make it for the right reason at the time. Even if it proves to be the wrong decision later, you live with it.”

I’m hoping that the bourbon will cause me to pass out before sleep envelops me. It’s an important distinction. Alcohol slumber is different. It’s straight unconsciousness, on the rocks. With true sleep, you drift and you dream. And sometimes…you wake.

I swing my legs out of bed, even as the tiny, rational part of my brain, the one that still exists even in a dream state, is telling me that this is a bad idea, really bad, one of my worst. I need to wake up. Right now. But I can’t. Not from this dream. Some dreams, like some things in life, have to run their course. And even if I did wake up, the dream would come back. These types of dreams always do, until you follow them right down to the rotten core and cut out the festering roots.

The thing was, the “cliffhanger” was always better than the solution you waited eagerly for all week.

In real life, you don’t get cheats. You don’t get to escape the terrible fate because your sonic screwdriver worked on the same frequency as the Cybermen’s self-destruct button. It didn’t work like that.

I drew her to me and hugged her as hard as I could, like I could squeeze out all the pain, even as a small part of me wondered if, sometimes, forgetting was the kindness. Remembering—perhaps that was the killer.

“People will always cheat, Eddie. And lie. That’s why it’s important to question everything. Always look beyond the obvious.”

“Wise man. Kids, from the moment they’re born, they fill your heart with love…and terror. Especially little girls. You want to protect them from everything. And when you can’t, you feel like you’ve failed as a father. You’ve saved yourself a lot of pain by not having children.”

Holding on, I think. Letting go. Sometimes, they’re one and the same.

None of us is ever really prepared for death. For something so finite. As human beings, we’re used to being able to control our lives. To extend them, to an extent. But death brooks no argument. No final plea. No appeal. Death is death, and he holds all the cards. Even if you cheat him once, he won’t let you call his bluff a second time.