The Windows To The Soul

(Trigger warning: alcoholism, car crash, murder.)

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The stooping woman brushed a few wild white hairs from her wrinkled face and fought to contain them behind one arm of her heavy spectacles. She gestured unsteadily towards a set of bottles and whiskey glasses on a table in a dark corner of the room.

‘Can I offer you a drink?’

Ben cleared his throat and looked away.

‘Some people find it helps.’ She said, shuffling towards the liquor and offering a thin smile. ‘Takes the sting out of my… er … witterings.’

‘I wasn’t really expecting a sting, rather hoping for more, well, hope, I suppose.’

‘You should be prepared for anything. Fate is a fickle mistress. Brandy perhaps? It always soothes me.’ She steadied herself with one hand on the table and poured a large glass with the other.

‘No, thank you. I haven’t touched the stuff for nearly forty years.’

‘Very well. Shall we begin?’

Ben sat down at the octagonal wooden table in the centre of the room. It reminded him of the table his father used for poker games when he was a boy. What kind of hand was he about to be dealt?

‘So how does this all work? What do you want me to do?’

‘You just sit still, just there, and I sit just here.’ She pulled up a chair immediately opposite him. ‘I take your hands across the table and look into your eyes. Usually it only takes a few moments for a picture to form and I relay it to you and we interpret it together. Sometimes it can be quite literal and sometimes quite cryptic. Are you ready to begin?’

‘Yes. I suppose I am.’ Ben reached across the table and took her wizened hands in his.

They stared at each other, unblinking, under the bright, low-hung light. There was a little traffic noise from the street but otherwise the room was silent.

After just a few seconds the woman’s shoulders tensed and she inhaled deeply. Her hands tightened around Ben’s and she looked down at the table, a tear forming in her eye.

‘What is it?’ Ben asked, shuffling in his seat but not releasing his grip on her fingers.

‘I see a broken window, glass shattered in the dark, rain lashing in. There’s blood, so much blood. It’s trickling through long blonde hair then pooling on a seat. Shouting. A whiff of whiskey in the air. A door that won’t open. Panic. Chaos…’ the woman closed her eyes and let go of Ben’s hands. ‘I’m so sorry, I don’t think I can tell you any more.’

‘That’s not the future.’ Ben pushed his chair back from the table and stared at the floor. ‘It’s the past.’

‘Sometimes that can happen. When there is great sadness or trauma, sometimes history is revealed more strongly than what is yet to come. I’m so sorry. Sorry that this happened to you and sorry that it is all I can see in your eyes. I won’t be able to get any other messages while this one is clouding your mind. It seems you have not dealt with what happened, not yet come to accept the past. If there is anything I can do to help, you know where I am.’

Ben left the woman’s house and wandered home under the street lamps. He stopped in at the Gray Avenue Off License and bought a litre bottle of Jack Daniels, uncapping it as soon as he was back outside. The drizzle in the air was enough to hide his tears until he collapsed in his hallway, slamming the door behind him, alcoholic breath catching in his throat.

. . .

The taste of the drink took him straight back to the Black Horse in December 1982. The rain running like a river down the road outside, the juke box blaring out Queen hits one after another, the barmaid wearing tinsel round the padded shoulders of her short, black, low-cut dress.

‘I think you’ve had one too many my friend.’ The landlord had said as Ben had ordered another double.

‘I’m fine, I’m fine. It’s nearly Christmas! You wouldn’t deny me a drink at Christmas?’

‘How are you getting home?’

Ben waved his car keys over the bar. ‘In my Bat Mobile!’

‘How about I do you a deal? I’ll get you one more drink if you give me your keys and call your Mrs to pick you up?’

‘You. My friend. Have an agreement! A gentleman’s agreement! Double JD, on the rocks please Sir!’

The landlord took Ben’s keys and hung them on a hook underneath the beer pumps.

‘Sandra, I need to change a couple of barrels. Just give him a single please, and check he calls home. Thanks.’ He disappeared through the archway behind the bar, leaving the barmaid to deal with Ben.

‘Bat Mobile eh? Fancy yourself as a bit of a caped crusader?’ She smiled and slowly took Ben’s fiver from his hand, stroking his fingers with hers as she did.

‘Yeah, my car is as black as night. Perfect for stealth rescues!’

‘I could be your damsel in distress.’

Sandra placed a whiskey glass in front of Ben and leaned over it towards him, elbows on the bar, twisting her long brown hair in her fingers. She knew there was a reason to invest in that push up bra, his eyes were right on the money.

She turned around to find the ice bucket and Ben wrapped his left hand round the glass, absent-mindedly clinking his wedding ring against it. When Sandra turned back to face him, she cut him the biggest smile she could.

‘Just need to steady that glass.’ She said as she wrapped her own hand lightly around his, tongs in her other hand adding ice cubes slowly, one at a time, lingering over the moment. She liked these younger men, they were more open, more interesting, even the married ones. Especially the married ones.

‘Your hands are lovely and warm on a cold night like this.’ Ben said.

‘Warm, tender, what else would you like them to be? Where else would you like them to be?’ Sandra giggled and looked away coyly for a moment.

‘Do you have a phone I could use? I should really call my wi- I should call home.’

‘Oh you don’t need to go just yet, I haven’t even poured your drink. How far away do you live?’

‘Not far. I’m sure I could drive myself, it’s just down the road really, and it’ll be quiet with the weather like this.’

‘Besides, since when did Bat Man need a lift?’

‘Yeah! And unless that Bat Signal lights up over town I’ve probably got nowhere else to go anyway.’

‘If you do need to go, I could be your Robin. I’m all for wearing masks and skin-tight costumes.’

Sandra batted her eyelashes and ran her hands over the hips of her figure-hugging dress. Then she slowly peeled Ben’s fingers off his glass one by one, running her fingertips over his knuckles as she did so. She picked it up and turned away to find the Jack Daniels mounted in its optic, poured him a double, and set it back on the bar.

‘I’ll get your change. I’d like to see you change, into a Batsuit and cape. I bet you’ve got rippling muscles under that shirt.’ She made a show of fanning her face with one hand. ‘A girl could get quite flushed.’

Ben raised his right hand, forming a fist and flexing his biceps like a body builder. Sandra reached across the bar and wrapped her fingers around the hardened muscle.

‘I knew it! You must work out.’

‘I have been known to go to the gym. When I’m not fighting crime in Gotham.’

Ben relaxed and placed his forearm back on the bar, but Sandra did not let go. She continued to stroke his shirt and watch his lips as he raised his glass with the other hand. Ben knocked back most of his drink and replaced the glass.

‘I bet you could get me another one without your boss knowing.’ He smiled as he toyed with the tumbler.

‘I bet I could get you a lot of things without my boss knowing.’ She winked at him.

The pub door opened and there was a rush of cold air from the street. Ben looked round and there stood Sarah, coat wrapped tightly around her, rain dripping from her nose as she pulled back her hood. She didn’t see him at first, she had expected him to be at his usual table, not propping up the bar.

‘Ah, someone’s called my wife.’ Ben said, checking his watch. 'I suppose I should go home.'

Sandra grabbed a beer mat and scribbled her phone number on it. ‘Not without this, Batman.’

Sarah walked over to them, scowling as she noticed the barmaid’s hand on her husband’s. Ben indelicately stuffed the beer mat into his pocket and turned to face her.

‘Hello Sarah, you really didn’t need to come and get me, I’m fine.’

‘That’s not what Dave thought.’ She looked across to the table by the pay phone and waved to a short dark man sitting there with a couple of friends. ‘In fact he saw the landlord take your keys.’

‘Oh yes, your keys.’ Sandra said, fiddling behind the bar. She soon found them and held them up.

‘I’ll take those.’ Sarah said, rolling her eyes.

But Sandra passed the keys to Ben, an unsubtle ploy to touch his hand one last time. She smiled and blew him a kiss as he took them.

‘I’m honestly fine to drive.’ He said standing up from his bar stool and staggering a few steps towards the door.

Once in the carpark Sarah unleashed her rage.

‘I don’t mind you having a few drinks Ben, but what in Hell was going on with that barmaid? I’ve never seen anything so brazen. What did you hide in your pocket? Has she given you something? It’s a disgrace, she must be at least twenty years older than us. And it’s obvious you’re married, or is she blind too?’

‘Oh it’s nothing, she’s just friendly that’s all. Get in the car, I’ll drive.’

‘I really don’t think you should drive, give me the keys.’

‘No. I’m fine. Besides, I’m Batman. No one else can drive the Bat Mobile.’

Ben got into the driver’s seat before Sarah could argue any more. He started the engine before she even opened the passenger door, and began to reverse out of the parking space before she could close it behind her.

‘Put the lights on!’ Sarah said as they pulled out onto the road.

‘But then everyone will see me coming.’

‘That’s the point. Either put the lights on or stop the car and let me out.’

‘You can’t get out, it’s raining. And I’m going too fast for you to jump for it.’

‘You’re going too fast full stop!’

‘It’s fine, I’m practically invincible.’

The next thing Ben remembered was the broken windscreen. Rain pelting his face through the shattered glass. Sarah lifeless. Sirens. His own voice screaming.

. . .

He’d got out of prison determined to forget. He’d got a job, found a flat, grown a beard. He’d regained contact with the few friends who were still talking to him, and he hadn’t touched a drop of drink since December 1982. Nearly forty years it had taken but he’d had counselling, medication, group therapy. He’d come close to getting a normal life back, close to forgiving himself, close to starting over.

The fortune teller was supposed to be a way to look forward, start building a future, getting grounded again. But she had betrayed him, stuck him right back in the past. Back in the bottle. Back in the gutter.

The whiskey tasted like broken glass, blood and regret on his tongue. But he couldn’t put it down. Swig after swig on the hallway floor. It forced its way down his tightening throat, flavoured his tears, scented his breath, heavied his limbs.

Ben grabbed the corner of the sideboard and dragged himself to his feet, taking several attempts and banging his knees as he went. He staggered a little as his legs took the unsteady weight of his drunken body. He rummaged through the envelopes and papers lying on the top and found a sturdy metal letter opener. Picking his keys up off the floor he opened the front door and let himself back out on to the street.

Twenty minutes later he was alternating between ringing the bell and thumping the knocker at 4 Compton Road. It took a little while for anyone to answer.

‘Who’s there?’ came a voice from behind the door.

‘I saw you earlier, you told me my past. You told me to come back if you could help.’

‘It’s freezing out there, come in you poor man.’ The door opened revealing the bent over white-haired woman. ‘I’ll make us some hot tea.’

Ben followed her into the kitchen and took a seat at the breakfast table as she indicated.

‘You were supposed to show me the future not the past.’ He growled, fingering the point of the letter opener in his pocket, wondering if he would have done better to bring a carving knife.

‘Unfortunately, I cannot control what I see. The eyes are the windows to the soul and a troubled soul only reflects that which unsettles it. Perhaps you need some help to get past what happened?’

‘I’ve had so much help I can’t be helped any more. I don’t deserve any help. I hardly deserve even the cold comfort this brings me.’ Ben held up the bottle and swilled the remaining whiskey around inside. ‘Unless you can tell me my future will be better than my past I may as well be back in prison.’

‘If your past traumas are your own fault then you must live with them. I cannot see your future until you are at peace with your past.’

‘You brought it all up again! After forty years you made me relive it! Made me look back through that broken window. You made me hate myself again! You made me drink!’ He stood up and pulled the letter opener from his jacket pocket.

‘We can talk it through. Let’s just talk it through.’

Ben stepped across the kitchen and grabbed the old woman by the wrist, raising the letter opener as he pulled her towards him. He stabbed her in the throat and pushed her to the floor. Then he stood back in horror at what he had done. Blood flowing across the tiles, around his feet.

. . .

As Death arrived at the old woman’s side, always fascinated by human lives, he took a moment to pull back his ghostly hood and look deep into her eyes. He saw the best and the worst of her through those windows to her soul. And the worst thing she had done? The thing that had created the most adverse ripples through time?

She had given her phone number and a set of keys to a young married man in a pub in December 1982.