The Passenger - Silas Speaks

The other lads were playing football. They were good at it. Dad said he had two left feet. He sounded disappointed when he said it. Yeah, Simon Stark couldn’t play football. Or cricket. In fact, sport wasn’t his thing. 

He liked the library. Books were brilliant. He decided a while ago he wanted to be a writer. Yeah, that would be great. Miss Greaves, his English teacher, said he could be. Sound, he liked that.

But then, there was his mum. She was odd. She wasn’t like the other lads mums. She talked a lot of stuff about the church. The bible and that. Simon went to the library. He did a lot of reading and it was obvious. Like, proper obvious. Science was the thing. It didn’t make things up. He tried reading a book about physics. It was hard. He didn’t get much of it. But it was enough. 

He looked around his room. Not a lot in there. His bookshelf. Jammed with books. His bed. And a desk and chair next to a small wardrobe. That was it. Nothing on the walls. His classmates talked about Liverpool and Man United. They had posters on their walls. Two problems. First, he wasn’t allowed to put things on his walls. But if he was? It wouldn’t have been football posters. 

—Simon! Get down here. Now! 

—Why? 

—Don’t you dare question me! Give me cheek. Here NOW!

He sighed. Clenched and unclenched his fists. Walked down the stairs. He went into the living room. 

—Ah, go and do the washing up. Make sure the water is hot. 

—Yes, mum—

—And on Sunday? You are doing a reading at Sunday school. 

—No, mum. I don’t want to—

—When did I say there was a choice? Father Murphy thinks it would be good for you. 

Tell her you don’t give two fucks what Father Bullshitter thinks. 

Simon flinched. Did he say that out loud? He looked at his mum. She was glaring at him but not in shock. Phew, those words were in his head. He walked through to the kitchen and started the dishes. 

—Simon? 

He looked around. Nobody, of course there wasn’t. 

—Oi! Yer twonk, I’m in yer mind. 

—Go away, I’m too old for an imaginary friend—

—Simon? Yer think that’s what I am? Mate, yer gonna have to learn. 

—Learn what? 

—Follow me. 

Simon found himself walking into the living room. He hadn’t meant to. He was there. Somehow. 

—Mother? Tell the fucking priest to do one. He can stick his readings up his arse. 

He flinched. His mother lost all the colour from her face. She clasped her rosary beads. He did say it, that time. Out loud. What was going on? 

—I’ll tell yer. I’m yer best mate. Yer need me. 

—Go AWAY!

—No. 

—Who are you? 

—I’m the bloke what’s gonna save you. 

—I don’t need—

—Fuck off, Simon. You’re too young to know what yer need. 

—SIMON STARK! I will wash your dirty mouth out! How DARE you—

—Mother? Sit down. 

He didn’t recognise the voice he spoke with; it was deeper. Too deep for a ten-year-old boy. But it worked. His mother froze.

—Who.. are.. you? 

—Well, yer daft old bag, I’m Silas Stark. I been around a while watching yer damage young Simon. Well, no more. He ain’t yours. He’s mine. 

Simon felt himself sweating and shaking. The words were coming out of his mouth, but he wasn’t the one saying them. It was madness, and even at ten years old, he knew it.

—DEVIL! You’re possessed—

—Oh, fuck off, will ya? With all that fuckin’ god stuff? Jeez, it’s borin’. 

Simon watched in horror as his mother passed out. She crashed into the coffee table. Her head caught the mantlepiece and blood spurted out. She lay very still on the living room carpet, blood pooling under her head.

—Mum! 

—Nah, fuck her, mate. She were bad news. 

—You killed her—

—Ah, now, young Simon. All that reading and you still don’t get how facts work? Fact, you spoke to her in a certain way, is all. She decided to pass out and crack her head on the mantle. Weren’t mine or your fault. 

—Who…

—You heard. I’m Silas Stark. I’m yer passenger. 

—Passenger? 

—Yeah. 

—You live in my head? 

—Defo. 

—And you make me do—

—Nah, not make. Show yer how to sort things out. 

—I’m ten. 

—And?

—You’re an adult. You sound like one—

—Yeah, yer daft sod. Of course I am innit? But there’s no point me taking over a mind that’s already been set. That’s not how we Starks do things. 

—I don’t understand. 

—Nah, and I don’t expect yer to. Not yet. But yer will. Now, do as I say, right? 

—What do you want—

—Go to their drinks cabinet. Yer know where it is. 

Simon walked over to where his parents kept their special drinks.

—Pull out that bottle, yeah the one that says Whiskey. And get a glass. 

Simon found himself doing what Silas asked. 

—Now, pour a nice glass of it. 

—I’m not drinking—

—Fer fuck’s sake, yer numpty! Of course not. Put it on the coffee table but get those napkins. 

Simon did as Silas asked. 

—Right, wipe down the glass. Don’t touch it anymore. Keep clean napkins in yer hand. 

—Okay…

—Pick yer mum’s hand up and put it round the glass.

—I can’t—

—Fuckin’ do it. 

Simon did it. He spilled some of the whiskey. 

—Don’t matter. In fact spill a bit more out of the bottle. 

Simon did it. His mind, the bit that was him, felt numb. 

—Now, tip some around her mouth. 

—No way—

—DO IT. NOW. 

Simon did it. Silas stayed quiet. Simon stood there and realised what he’d done. 

—You made it look like mum was—

—yeah, now he gets it. She was what we adults call pissed, mate. Drunk as a skunk. Fell over and banged her head, she did. 

—I can’t—

—Shut up whinging. Let’s go fer a walk. 

Simon walked to the front door, opened it, and stepped into the afternoon sunshine.

—Walk then, numpty. Down to the park. 

Simon started walking.