Make Me Shine
By
Mark Towse
For Susan.
Tedium drove me. Ego, too. And I begged for the chance.
Michael Joseph fucking Siddharth.
I sat behind the wheel for some time, almost talking myself home at one point, before I finally summoned the courage to grab my pad and leave the comfort of the car.
I knew the article would never be as good without offering the reader something more authentic, above and beyond what I could deliver from the confines of my small office.
Trembling, I was, standing outside those walls, feeling like a child about to stand up in class for the first time.
“Here we go.” After flashing my press pass to the guards and trying my best to appear as nonchalant as possible throughout all their protocols, it wasn’t long before things started to get to me—the echoing footsteps, the jeers, metal on metal.
I bit down hard on my lip and walked as tall as I could through those corridors.
When we finally arrived at the cemetery itself, my shoulders dropped.
Standing amongst the evil dead on a chilly September morning, swallowing the damp air and surrounded by the ghostly mist, did nothing for my nerves.
Without Frank and Tony standing behind me, I might have turned and run back to the car.
“Air feels more charged than usual,” Frank said, leaning back against the stone. “Probably excited. Don’t get many visitors.”
“Which one is Michael’s?”
“Six rows down, fourth one in, Mr. Farland,” Frank replied.
“James, please,” I said, already on my way.
“Be careful,” Tony shouted after me. “He bites.”
The words already sounded distant, as though the mist had a tangible thickness. When I anxiously turned, only their silhouettes were visible. “You hear me, guys?”
But nothing. I asked them later if they were fooling, but they just looked at me blankly, as they would, I suppose, if it was a private joke. The mist only seemed to get thicker with each step, its movements more aggressive. Air feels more charged than usual. The words bounced in my head.
I think I’d counted five rows but couldn’t be sure.
Then I heard it. Or at least I thought I did, what sounded like an inaudible whisper carrying on the breeze.
“Guys?”
And another, dry and throaty, as if someone was trying to find their voice.
“You got me, guys. I give in, okay!”
I followed the husky whispers through the mist, finally catching sight of his gravestone.
There was nothing unusual about it, a slight lean, but nothing to set it apart from the others.
At least that’s what I told myself. I could feel it, though, the pull.
Something else, too, a stale, putrid smell that made my stomach turn.
Another whisper.
Closer.
That’s what it sounded like as I approached as if Mr. Siddharth himself was beckoning me. “Come on, guys,” I said, my tone much firmer. But there was nowhere for them to hide unless they were in the ground with him. Blood thrummed in my ears, and my heart pounded.
Closer.
Less than three feet from the white cross, I came to a stop, still chewing at my lip. Dewy droplets covered my clothes, and I felt cold moisture on my eyelids, but sweat dripped down my back.
Closer.
I snapped my head from side to side, but only wisps of fog awaited. Likely less than fifty yards separated me from the guards, but it felt as though I’d slipped into a different realm.
Closer.
Up until stepping foot in that prison, I would have laughed in your face if you’d brought up the subject of ghosts. But as I edged forward towards the grave of Michael Joseph Siddharth, I felt like a child braving the darkness of a long hallway.
“Guys! Come on; this isn’t—”
I saw something then, weaving between the wisps of fog, darkness within the grey. “Hello?” Breath held; the silence created even more of a charge. A storm was coming; I felt in my bones.
“Is someone there?”
Michael Joseph Siddharth. Serial rapist of men and women. At least twenty-six victims, all of whom had their throats slit afterwards. Some so young.
“Hello?”
I felt like I was right where he wanted me to be.
I tried not to blink, afraid I might miss him coming at me.
Feeling heavier, weighed down, as though the mist, no longer swirling, was falling across me, layering me with guilt never claimed, I almost threw up as a hand clasped around my left shoulder.
Make me shine.
I snapped my head around to the voice.
Nothing but mist.
My heart was pounding so fast; I thought I might keel over there and then.
Laughter began shortly after, interspersed with those three words—Make me shine—this time delivered without so much as a crackle, as though the owner had finally found his voice.
Menacing, taunting laughter swallowed me.
“Help!” I shouted. “Help!”
The howling intensified. Shadows moved within shadows. Shades of grey in every direction.
“Help!”
Impossibly cold, I staggered forward, managing only four steps before another stone brought me to the ground.
Make me shine!
Close to tears, remaining bravado out the window, my body trembled.
“Help!”
I saw a silhouette coming towards me through the mist. Scrambling backwards, I desperately kicked my heels into the ground. I wanted out, to get as far away from Fairgate Prison as possible.
“Help!” I sobbed.
Only when I had a crystal-clear view of the wrinkly face and the prison insignia on the ruffled shirt did I stop lashing out.
“Easy,” Tony said, hooking his arms under my shoulders. “Easy.”
“He was here,” I said. “Michael.”
“We okay?” Frank’s voice came from behind Tony’s concerned face.
“Yeah, we’re all good,” Tony responded, dragging me to my feet and offering a wink. “Only our friend, James Farland, claims he just had a one-to-one with Mister Siddharth.”
Frank nodded. “This place can do things to you. Chills the soul just thinking about what some of these monsters did.”
“You need a coffee and a nice sugary bun,” Tony said as he started towards the exit. “I’d keep this to yourself, friend, if I were you. If word gets out that you’re talking to the dead, it won’t be long before you find yourself somewhere similar, only with thick padding lining the walls.”
“Did you ever meet him?” I said to both, feeling foolish and shaken.
“Know someone that did,” Frank said. “I’ll give you his number on the way out. Getting on a bit now, but he ain’t in nappies just yet.”
I said my goodbyes, and with no word of a lie, as soon as those double doors closed behind me, I felt a free man, as though emerging from years of incarceration. I had that coffee and sugary bun and felt a lot better for it, too.
After getting home and almost convincing myself I’d just got carried away with events, I rang Frank’s contact, Gerald.
The nice old man gave me some gems, and by the time my wife, Susan, arrived home, kids in tow, I’d written nearly a thousand words.
By the time we’d put the children to bed, had a couple of glasses of wine, and decided to retire ourselves, I’d doubled that.
I printed two copies, one for my personal file and one to read in bed to ensure it was flawless.
Superstition, habit, call it what you will, but that was my routine.
After re-reading twice and knowing it was the best thing I’d ever written, my finger still hovered over the laptop a good few seconds before I finally hit send and put the laptop away.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”
“Nothing, love.” But the reflection in the bathroom mirror told a different story. A sense of burden still shrouded me, my skin taut and pale, and my eyes sunken. I splashed some water on my face and climbed back into bed, knowing the interrogation wasn’t over.
“You’re not you, James.” She put her book down, and I felt the burn of her stare. “What happened up there?”
Eyes lingering on my notepad, a lengthy list of the worst of the worst, I must admit, I felt a momentary urge to spill all. But I knew how that would be received.
“Prisons aren’t the most uplifting of places, love.”
“If it’s going to hit you like—”
“Susan, I’m fine. Just tired, okay?”
“You’re just like your father.”
We kissed, turned out the lights, and by the time sunshine leaked through the side of the blinds, I guessed I must have had no more than two hours sleep, haunted by shadows and voices in the mist. Squinting against the light, I threw my legs out of bed, offering a sharp inhale as I noted the circle around the name on the notepad next to my bed. Thomas Butterworth.
Trying to think back to the night before, I remained there for some time.
During nights of broken sleep, I would often write things down by phone light, notes for some of the more creative stuff I was working on.
Illegible and useless most of it, but now and again, there was a golden nugget waiting for me.
I took the circle as a sign, prioritising Thomas Butterworth as my next project.
“Where did you put the copy, Susan?” I asked.
“Haven’t touched it, James.”
After breakfast and giving my wife and kids a kiss goodbye as they went about their day, I snapped open the laptop.
James, this is magnificent. Next-level stuff. Take the reins on this one and go wild! James Farland is going to be a bloody household name!
Gut-instinct and moral fibre, easily overridden by a few nice words and a bit of ego-stroking. I guess that’s the definition of narcissism.
That first article changed everything. The weekly, never getting more than a few letters at the best of times, mostly the bored or elderly pointing out errors, was flooded with praise. People wanted more, and we were about to give it to them.
Anyhow, within five minutes of reading my editor’s praise for the third time that morning, I made arrangements to see Thomas Butterworth’s gravestone on the other side of the region.