The Knife Sharpener (11)

11.

Helmut waited on the Chapel St footpath. Behind him he could hear low thrumming bass. He rang the doorbell again. Tossed the remains of his smoke into the gutter. Waited and then rang the doorbell again.

            There was a muted shuffling behind the door. Slowly, it opened. A grey-haired man there. His skin hung heavily in visible folds under a black and silver spotted robe. There was a feverish glint in the narrowness of his pupils. He was sweating. Breathing heavily through his mouth. Helmut felt a moment of unease. A ripple of displacement that perhaps he should not be here.

            ‘Welcome,’ said the man. ‘You must be the knife sharpener?’

            ‘Yes,’ said Helmut.

            ‘Holdingstock says you have, “great talent.”’

            Helmut shifted on his feet. Some builders walked past him drinking tinnies. Still in their hi-vis and site helmets.

            ‘Are they true? She exaggerates. You saw, yeah?’

            ‘I sharpen knives,’ said Helmut.

            The man inhaled. A short sharp breath. ‘Finally,’ he said. ‘We knew you would come.’

            ‘Yes.’

            ‘Oscar has been waiting for you. Yes, good. I will take you to him.’ The man turned back into the building. It was grey and dusty. ‘Follow, now.’

            Helmut trailed the robed man into the building. Scarred and impure timber beams, like the interior had been gutted. A few cheap table lamps on the ground threw light and shadow. Some rooms separated to either side with open doors and windows empty of glass. Offices, likely. There was no furniture. Helmut felt dust in his eyes and his ponytail. The sweat under his arms drying out. Humidity sucked dry by the inert air.

The man led Helmut to another door. ‘Through here,’ he said and grabbed hold of Helmut’s shoulders. ‘Can you feel it?’

Helmut remained silent. Gripping onto his tools. He thought about Messer at his flat. The news was due to start soon.

‘Not even a change, sharpener. A complete stop. Something completely new.’ The man looked to the sky. Helmut stared at the bland visage of a man caught in unexpected ecstasy. Under the robes he probably wore a crispy white business shirt. He felt tense again. This was surprising. An unknown. Helmut preferred the predictable. Even Carmel, with her loose discourse, complied to the strangeness of her social stations Helmut had grown accustomed to.

‘Come. It must now be time’ said the robed man, taking his hands from Helmut’s shoulders and opening the door. ‘Though, soon it won’t be. The duration sliced –’

‘Is that the knife sharpener?’ A preening, Australian, beer business washed voice. Though, high pitched.

There were about twenty-five people in a large rectangular room behind the door. A mostly even mixture of men and women. All of them, except one, wore the same black and silver spotted robes. The exception was clothed in a filthy, shimming silver robe. He lay slumped on the floor, surrounded by the others seated on plastic fold out chairs. There were two trestle tables topped with large boiling water urns, coffee and tea stations, and an assortment of biscuits. Lit by electric candles and fairy lights strung up on the walls. There was another door at the rear of the room. Small with a rusted iron handle. Smells of sweat and dust and instant coffee. Stale red wine.

‘Bring him in, please,’ said the same voice, coming from a stumpy short gentleman with coifed blonde hair and glasses. He stood and moved to stand over the unmoving figure on the floor. The other figures bent over, looking to the floor. Appearing to vibrate a little. Some movement in the chest of the person on the floor.

Helmut was ushered into the room. The blonde man came over with his hand held out.

‘Oscar de Valle,’ he said.

‘Helmut,’ said Helmut. He took Oscar’s dewy palm slowly. His grip was firm, familiar.

‘Welcome to the Church of Violentiam Movetur Sidus.’

The other people in the room all made a hissing, explosive noise through mouths and noses. Then silence.

‘Carmen was very complimentary,’ said Oscar. ‘She said you are exactly the type of person we need.’

‘I sharpen knives.’

‘Right. Though, today, it will only be the one knife.’

‘Okay.’

‘A very special knife, in need of very special care. It needs to be extremely sharp. So sharp it could cut a star.’

As with the man who had let him into the building, there was something unremarkable about Oscar. A neutral body language. A figure suited to comfortable, serviceable, professional clothing. Unlikely to be playing dress up and being involved in any spiritual pursuit. Someone who organized meetings and cake in the break room. Finding him here, in a dusty Church that was likely once a physiotherapy clinic or Pilates studio, felt off to Helmut. He thought that Oscar should have been managing real estate. His taxes. His insurance.

‘Pierre,’ said Oscar to the man who had escorted Helmut. ‘Please go fetch the knife.’ He turned back to Helmut. ‘Would you like coffee? Tea?’ Pierre yanked hard on the iron latch on the door in the rear of the room to get it to turn. He ducked down and disappeared through it, descending down creaking stairs.

‘No,’ said Helmut. ‘Thanks.’ He watched the robed congregants with their heads down. They throbbed and occasionally spluttered out with little explosive noises from their mouths. The silver robed figure groaned.

A very tall and very fat man stood from his chair. Kicked the side of the person on the floor with expensive loathers. ‘Enough,’ he said. ‘Be still, Bearer.’

Oscar looked at Helmut. He shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about that. It’s all ritual, trust me. Completely normal.’

‘Ritual?’ asked Helmut.

‘Absolutely,’ said Oscar. ‘Today, our friend, Paul, he pays penance.’ He pointed at a small mouse haired woman. ‘Julie, help Paul with his sacrament.’

She stood. With quick, small steps walked to the man on the floor and kicked him in the face. ‘Pay, Bearer,’ said Julie.

Oscar smiled at Helmut. ‘He asked for this,’ he said. ‘Really, it’s quite good for him. Good for us all. Our mission stops when we stop. We cannot stop, yet. We haven’t really begun. Paul needs to remember how long things can go for.’

Another of the robed figures stood and kicked Paul in the shin. ‘Pay, Bearer.’

‘Afterwards, we all have a bickie. Tea. Might break out a bottle of shiraz,’ said Oscar. ‘Good heavy stuff. From South Australia. Kind of wine that makes you feel full. Spicy. A bit juicy. Like, rich.’ Another robed figure laid his feet into Paul’s midsection. ‘Though, perhaps not today. There mightn’t be time.’

Helmut stood still and impassive. The freaks in the Wastes and around the north were bad. He had had many run ins with them. Always managed to escape with his van and his tools. Before, too. In a different time when things were only just starting to go crazy. Compared to their wanton frothing at the mouth, this was almost civilised. But wrong. He wanted to sharpen and leave. He wanted a cigarette. The robed figures all let out another explosive exhalation.

Pierre stepped back through the small door. He looked for Oscar. The robed figures on the chairs all turned to him. Paul struggled to his hands and knees.

‘It’s not there,’ he said.