A Cleansing of Souls by Stuart Ayris

places. He knew Big Town well and also thought he knew the sort of places to which Michael may go. If he could find him by luck or coincidence, then so be it. There were no such things as long shots for people like Ron; for they are the type of people who seek to control the likes of you and me.
     
    Time. Ron could have done with it stopping still whilst he looked for Michael. In a second, his life could change - a phone call, a letter, Michael arriving back home. Perhaps he was worrying about nothing. But he was not a man to take chances. Christine had hinted to him that there had been signs that Michael had been becoming 'unwell' in recent weeks; not like before though. It had been nothing as bad as that.
     
    Time. Time. Time.
     
    That morning, Ron scoured the museums, the churches and other places of solitude. He felt momentarily at peace as he wandered from silence to silence. He had not been to a museum for years, having once made the mistake of visiting one, as an adult, in the middle of the school term. On that occasion, he had fled the undisciplined hordes with their clipboards and their packed lunches. It still made him uneasy to think about it. But right now there were things of greater import to moisten his brow.
     
    As each of the preceding days had passed, so had the control Ron had exercised over his life become ever more tenuous.
    So as the Big Town bells chimed in the Big Town sky, Ron had a brief lunch in a restaurant off the main street and mulled over the relative lack of success the morning had brought. He thought about ringing Diane to apologise for the curt nature of his manner when he had left. It didn't take him long to decide against it. The wine he consumed at the corner table instilled in him some strange, alien sense of puerility. He felt for a moment as if he had been let out to play. It was a dangerous, unsettling feeling and one that, despite the encouragement of the wine, he swiftly laid to rest. It was however replaced by an overwhelming sense of guilt that made him feel ill. Childishness and guilt were two states that Ron had ever kept battened down deep within him. Puerility was a strange entity whose sudden appearance had surprised him on occasion; but guilt – well that could only ever have a walk on part in Ron's life. It could only ever be an extra, an afterthought.
     
    Diane had always been the perfect wife for Ron. She had ensured he had someone to return to. Hers were the arms in which he would lie, contemplating. She was the shade of grey that smoothed the edges of his black and white soul. And they would talk about the begonias often.
     
    Outside the restaurant within which Ron had indulged himself, a man lay on the pavement. Many people strode manfully by, convincing themselves that it was but a pile of rags. Ron emerged into the afternoon sunlight and almost stumbled over the dark, ragged mound, having to step back sharply in order to retain his balance. He was just steadying himself when he saw the fingers.
     
    The man was wearing a long, black coat and heavy boots. A dirty beard pulled at what little could be seen of the cracked face, and tiny insects made their busy way across the limp left palm, following each other in streams up the sleeve. This man could have been ninety years old. He could have been twenty-five.
     
    Ron stepped around the man and, in doing so, was gripped by a chill. Was this what death looked like? He couldn’t be sure. Somebody would call an ambulance soon or maybe the Police would come along and deal with the situation. Anyway, this was probably a drunk or one of those ‘addict’ people.
     
    That cold, lifeless man could have lain there for a hundred years. Nobody would have helped him. And all who passed, well they would just bear fleeting witness to the steady decay of the remnants of a man’s life. The bones would turn to dust and the beard would grow and grow until it enshrouded the whole grimy face. Through rain and snow it would have