The Green Man

Dressed in funereal black, Iris Theristi crept silently into the modest sized bedroom, as though Simon was still asleep and she was scared of waking him. The room was just as he’d left it. Fairly tidy, she thought, compared with some of the students who had lodged with her. The single bed had been hastily straightened. The wardrobe door was ajar; she could see the neatly stacked clothes and the shirts on their hangers.

She crossed to the window and placed a finger in the plant pot on the sill. Bone dry. Oh, Simon. One thing he had not been good at was taking care of his plant. It was as though he hadn’t appreciated the importance. Too late now, she thought. Such a tragedy. Simon had been just nineteen.

The priest had delivered the service with professional sensitivity, to the incon- solable parents, extended family and friends. Iris had smiled sympathetically and told them what a quiet, sensible lodger Simon had been. Strangely, that seemed to make them worse, the mother sobbing into her handkerchief as her husband, his arm around his wife’s shoulders, glared at Iris with pursed lips.

“It’s the stress they put on them at such a young age, that’s the trouble,” Iris had gone on. “That’s why he did it. He always spoke very well of his parents. You should be very proud of his memory.”

The father had nodded curtly and led his grieving wife away.

Snapping back to the present, Iris picked up a hardback notebook from the cluttered but organised desk. With a quick glance at the two chairs, on either side of the window, she opened Simon Dwight’s diary at its last entry.

31 October, 2021

I’ve been thinking hard since last time. Basil is right. I have to do it. There is no choice. He’s so, so right. Autumn is the time to go. It’s an ending and a renewal. I feel sorry for mum and dad. They won’t understand. I hope they don’t think it’s anything they did wrong. It’s just that Basil showed me how to see everything so much more clearly. You see, we’ve all been dead for billions of years, while the universe expanded and the galaxy whirled, and the Sun was born and the Earth cooled. Then the Moon brought us out of the oceans, dragging up the tides, landing our proto-ancestors on the beaches. No life is forever and there is absolutely nothing to fear in being dead.

I’ve decided on the railway. It will be instant. I know when the trains come. The ones after dark.

I waited for Basil but he didn’t come tonight. I mean, he was like it was daytime. I guess he knows I’m convinced now, so he doesn’t need to come any more.

Mum, dad and all my family, know that I love you.

17 October, 2021

Basil’s still obsessed with suicide. The last good act of a true gentleman, he calls it. Won’t talk about anything else. Keeps on about the perfection of death - nothing can go wrong when you’re dead. He says a life completed has a permanent neat- ness and a secure sense of closure. Living on just looks messy and random by com- parison.

He came early tonight. I was at my desk, trying to finish my essay. I sensed something, turned round and he was there, in the chair by the window. I put my pen down and went across. He reminded me how far behind I am with my studies. He urged me to put an end to it and bow out while I still can, before I fall flat on my face and fail.

I’m thinking he has a point.

3 October, 2021

I haven’t been making regular entries. Too busy. Basil has been in a lot lately. He must have his own studies to do. Why’s he always in here? I mean, this house is such a maze; people come and go, but he spends a hell of a lot of time sat in that chair by my window.

He seemed depressed. Talked about ending it all. I told him not to be daft. He said more people should do it. I got cross and told him to bugger off. Went back to my desk and carried on working. He’d gone when I looked back.

Term starts tomorrow. Hope I do better than last year. It’s not easy.

22 September, 2021

Now I know what Iris meant about Basil. His name is Basil Plant. He’s like a P. G. Wodehouse character, totally English, very direct. Firm handshake. Thought he’d broken my fingers when he introduced himself. Penetrating eyes drilled to the core of my soul. Basil Plant. Means what he says. He’s persuasive. Asked me out of the blue if I’d read Plath.

Queer fellow. Creeps about. Doesn’t knock. Found him in the chair by my win- dow when I came in. Gave me quite a start. Looked like a bloody zombie at first. Green tinge to his skin. Must have been the green curtains. Had to put the light on.

21 September, 2021

Made it to new digs. Term starts a week on Monday. I’m early but I like to settle in before it all kicks off. Landlady is nice but a bit eccentric. Mrs Theristi. She’s Greek. She says to call her Iris. The food’s really good and the house is warm which is more than some of my friends on the course can say.

It’s a huge house. I asked Iris how many students live here and she was really vague. She said something about Basil. He’d tell me everything I need to know. She brought a pot in and put it on my window sill. She said it would do well there, in the natural light. Green leaves are good for you, she said. They add life to the room.

Iris Theristi clasped Simon Dwight’s diary to her breast and left the room, striding purposefully along the landing and down the staircase. She marched on, through the hallway and kitchen, into the outhouse where lay the furnace that heated the building. A healthy fire was ablaze within. Knocking the latch back, she tossed the book into the flames and slammed the door with a ringing clang. Through the toughened glass window, she saw the pages dry, curl and crackle like fallen leaves, yellow, then red, then afire, then deconstructed for completely natural recycling.

“Basil, are you all right, dear?”

Iris Theristi spoke evenly and gently, as one might address an unstable patient.

“It’s OK. You did a fantastic job. It all went to plan. I just want you to promise me you can take care of my next guest, as you did the last one. Just tell me if there’s anything more I can do for you, understand?”

Basil did not confirm his understanding. He did not even acknowledge his owner’s words, as she carried him back to the bay window guest room, as though he weighed no more than an ordinary-looking basil plant in a brown plastic pot.