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In this short story, a journalist is interviewing a homeless man for a human interest story, but everything is not how it seems...

“I don’t think you understand, George. I am not asking you. I am telling you.”

“But human interest, Malcolm? Can’t you give this story to one of the cadets?”

“Stop whining, George. I expect this story on my desk by the end of the day.”

“Fair enough, Malcolm. You’re the boss.” George ended the call and sat for a minute, grimacing at his phone. He left change on the table for the coffee he’d been drinking and stood. If a human interest story was going to be his last ever piece for The Sun, it was going to be the best damn human interest story in the history of journalism.

As George left the café, he lit himself a cigarette. He was a fool to be smoking with patches on, but it was a poor day to give up smoking. “Human interest.” He sighed and stubbed the rest of the cigarette out on the ground. “Human f*****g interest.”

George’s modest sedan looked impressive amongst the beat-up cars outside the soup kitchen. George didn’t make a habit of locking his car, but thought he’d make an exception in this case. It was a bad neighbourhood to leave a car unlocked.

John Parker was not as George had imagined him. For a start, he was clean-shaven. He kept his hair long, but it was tied neatly above the collar. He was well-dressed for a homeless gent, although gent might have been too strong a word.

George shook John’s hand. “George Foreman. Like the boxer,” he said. He smiled thinly, and John’s eyes creased as he smiled back.

“What can I do for you, Mr Foreman?” he asked.

“I won’t beat around the bush, John. I am a journalist from The Sun. I’m doing a story on homelessness in the inner city.”

“Oh. Giving homelessness a face, hey?”

“If that’s okay with you, John.” George prided himself on being a good judge of human character, but he had trouble reading John’s expression. Distracted, if he was to guess.

“Yes, that’s okay. I thought you might have been a lawyer.”

“A lawyer?”

“Or a detective. I imagine my family is missing me by now.”

George drew out his notebook. “You have a family?”

“Yes, but that’s strictly off the record, Mr Foreman. Need to know, that is, and you don’t need to know.”

“What can you tell me about yourself, John? On the record?”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Anything. Your story.”

“How much is it worth to you, Mr Foreman?”

“How about we talk about that after I have my story, John? If I think your story has merit, I might be willing to pay you a little more.”

“That’s fair.” John closed one eye, and squinted through the other. “Are you familiar with God, Mr Foreman?”

George smiled. “No, we’re not aquainted.” He leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. He needed to approach this from a different angle. “Do you follow the news, John?”

John visibly started. “I don’t know anything about that,” he said.

George leaned forward. “Know anything about what, John?”

“You know, and I know, Mr Foreman. Now please get out of my head.”

“Out of your head?”

“They’re my thoughts, Mr Foreman.” He glared at George. “My thoughts.” His expression softened, and he smiled. “You still want to hear my story, right?”

“Yes, sir. I have to bring my editor something.”

“Something interesting, right?”

“Sure.”

John was squinting again. “I am a prophet, Mr Foreman. An intercessor, too.”

Intercessor. George scribbled the word in his notebook before he forgot it. “What is an intercessor, John?”

“Isaiah instructed us to never give God a minute’s rest, Mr Foreman. To pray ceaselessly. I stand in the gap between God and another person, and I pray for her ceaselessly.”

“Her? Who is she, John?”

“That would be telling, Mr Foreman.”

“Is she a relative?”

A haunted look passed over John’s face. “She is my wife, Mr Foreman.” He sighed. “Was my wife,” he corrected.

“What happened to her, John?”

“I can’t say, Mr Foreman. I promised to never speak of it.”

“Promised who, John?”

John inhaled deeply, and let his breath out slowly. “You ask a lot of questions, Mr Foreman,” he said softly.

George set his pen and notepad on the table and cleared his throat. “That’s my job, John. I’m a journalist.”

“Journalist? I thought you said you were a lawyer?”

“No, John. I’m a journalist.”

“That’s right. You want my story, right? Well, buckle up. This is about to get ugly.” He smiled, and there seemed to be genuine humour in his expression.

“Shoot.” George picked up his pen and notepad.

“I was normal once, Mr Foreman. A normal guy, with a normal wife, a normal job and a normal car.”

“And now, John? Are you no longer normal?”

“I have schizophrenia, Mr Foreman.” Once more, he closed one eye and squinted through the other. “It’s a disease.”

“I know what schizophrenia is, John,” George said. He attempted a smile, but it felt forced.

“I don’t think you do, Mr Foreman. Nobody knows schizophrenia without having experienced it. Explaining schizophrenia to someone else is like trying to explain blue to someone born blind.” He paused, and shook his head. “I have been through hell for her.”

“For your wife, John?”

“Yes, for her. You see…” He leaned forward in his seat. “You see, she won’t ask for forgiveness, Mr Foreman. She is an unforgiven sinner. I stand in the gap.” He pulled at the sleeve of his shirt. George saw several angry wounds. “They are cigarette burns, Mr Foreman. I suffer for Lyla.”

“Why do you need to suffer for her, John?”

“Someone must, Mr Foreman. Someone must suffer if she is to go to heaven.” He shook his head. “They’re not fair to me, Mr Foreman.”

“Who are not fair, John?”

“It is hard for me to explain, Mr Foreman. I hear them. They talk to me. But they lie about who they are.”

“You hear them? Are they like voices, John?”

“Voices? No, they are more like thoughts than actual voices.”

“But they talk to you? What do they tell you?”

“They pretend to be her, mostly. They tell me she’ll be back.”

George was beginning to feel uncomfortable. There was too much John was not saying. He was hiding something. George would have put money on it.

“Back from where, John?”

“I can’t say, Mr Foreman.”

“Start at the beginning, John. This is your chance to get your story heard. How does a normal guy with a normal wife end up on the streets?”

John sighed. Suddenly, he appeared weary, world-worn. “Lyla left me for another man, Mr Foreman. That was how it began.” He scratched absently at the wounds on his arm. “She took the children. She took the car. She took… no, she didn’t. She didn’t take the house. She left me the mortgage.” He smiled wanly. “I couldn’t pay for it, Mr Foreman. I had to give up our home. She might as well have taken that, too.”

“That’s not good, John. Not good at all.”

“No, it’s not. And it gets worse.” John blinked rapidly. “I heard God, Mr Foreman. He said Lyla would never be forgiven for what she did to our family. Never. Can you imagine?”

“Why do you believe in God, John?”

“How can I not, Mr Foreman? Since I was a child, His spirit has convicted me of the truth of the Bible.”

“There are unicorns in the Bible, John.”

“Erroneously translated as unicorns, Mr Foreman. Most scholars agree that those verses refer to wild oxen known as aurochs.”

“If you say so.”

“I do, Mr Foreman.” He paused. “It does not matter whether you believe me, or believe the same things as me. I believe in God, and that’s that.”

“But you also believe you hear people talk to you, John.”

“At times, yes. But does it matter? Think about it, Mr Foreman. I lose very little by believing in God, and stand to gain very much. You gain very little by doubting Him, and you stand to lose everything. It is simple pragmatics, Mr Foreman.”

“So you believe in God because it’s pragmatic to do so?”

“No. I believe in God because I cannot not believe in him. He has convicted me of his presence.”

“John, you have been through hell. You have lost your wife, your children, your car, your house, and your mind. What makes you think God cares about you?”

“Because He came to this world and died for me, Mr Foreman.”

“He died for you? How does God dying benefit you? I’ve never understood that.”

“God gave us breath, Mr Foreman. We took that breath, and responded by lusting for His job. That is sin, Mr Foreman. Sin is an extension of selfishness. It has destroyed our relationship with God. God died to bring us back into unity with Him.”

George wiped his forearm across his forehead. It was warm in the hall. “I don’t understand, John, and I don’t think I ever will. But I’m okay with that. Tell me, though. If God died for you, how come you think you need to suffer for your wife? For Lyla? Isn’t God’s death enough for her, too?”

John leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes. For a full minute, he remained silent. When he spoke, he did so very softly. “Mr Foreman, I do believe you are closer to the Kingdom of God than you think you are.”

“How so, John?”

“A piece in the puzzle, Mr Foreman. You are a piece in the puzzle.”

“I don’t follow, John.”

“The divine game, Mr Foreman! The battle for our immortal souls!”

“I am afraid I still don’t follow, John.”

“Never mind, Mr Foreman. This puzzle is mine, and you have supplied me with a crucial piece. Now, what can I do in return?”

“You can tell me the rest of your story. How did you end up on the streets?”

“After I lost it all �" including my mind, as you so rightly pointed out �" I found myself unable to work. I am physically capable, Mr Foreman, but my mind responds unusually to stress. It is most unfortunate.”

“Can’t you get government assistance, John?”

“I do, Mr Foreman. I self-medicate, I’m afraid. The small pension I receive is enough to cover my medication.”

“Medication? Do you mean alcohol?”

John smiled. “If that were only so, Mr Forearm. I am a heroin addict.”

George blinked. His hand moved to cover his mouth. “Heroin, John?”

“I’m afraid so, Mr Foreman. I am what you might call a junkie.”

“You believe in God, and take heroin?”

“Yes, Mr Foreman. I am human, all too human.”

“Isn’t that wrong, John? You take money from government, and spend it on heroin. I’m sorry, but that doesn’t marry up with what I know about God.”

“You don’t pull any punches, do you, Mr Foreman?”

“Have I offended you?”

“Not at all. I am not easily offended, Mr Foreman. I have very little ego left to offend.”

“Have you thought about getting help, John?”

“It’s not that easy, I’m afraid. Help means methadone. Are you familiar with methadone, Mr Foreman?”

“No, I can’t say I am.”

“Poison, Mr Foreman. More addictive than heroin.”

“But legal, John.”

“Yes, but legal.” He sighed. “I am not yet resolved in my mind what to do, Mr Foreman. I want to give it away, but I can’t.”

“You can, John. Get on the methadone program. It can help you get clean.”

“Is that what you think methadone does, Mr Foreman?”

“Isn’t it?”

“No. Methadone is just an alternative to heroin. A different drug.”

“I see. Have you tried counselling, or a group?”

“Counselling, Mr Foreman? All the therapy in the world won’t fix what I have.” He frowned. “Not even shock therapy worked.”

“Shock therapy? As in electric shocks?”

“Yes, electroconvulsive therapy. I have been shocked a dozen times, Mr Foreman.”

“They still do that?”

“They do.”

“What is it like, John?”

“Honestly? It was terrifying, Mr Foreman. They would wheel my bed to the operating theatre, strip me, cover me with probes, and put a mask over my face. I would be instructed to count backwards from ten, and the next I knew, I’d be waking with a splitting headache and ringing ears. I came to hate that mask. I hope to never lie on the table again.”

“Barbaric. What about medication? Regular medication?”

“Regular medication never worked for me, I’m afraid. It made me restless. I couldn’t sit still or sleep.”

“Oh.” George mulled that over in his mind. What had civilisation achieved if it could not help a man like John? “I don’t know what to say, John. I wish I was more helpful.”

John smiled warmly. “You have been very helpful, Mr Foreman. Do you know how many chances I have had to tell my story?”

“How many?”

“One, Mr Foreman. I have told my story once.”

“And where does your story end, John? Will you always be a heroin addict, living on the streets, hearing people talk to your mind?”

“God knows, Mr Foreman. God knows.”

George absently drew a square in his notepad and began to fill it with ink. If his years as a journalist had taught him anything, it was how to spot when somebody had something still on their chest. “What are you not telling me, John?”

John shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “I could tell you, I suppose. It may change both of our lives, though.”

George stopped doodling, and fixed his gaze on John. “Tell me what, John?”

“I was not always John Parker, Mr Foreman. John is not what my mother called me.”

“Why, John?” George shook his head. “Can I still call you John?”

“Yes, John is fine. I’ve been John for a long time now.”

“Why hide by a different name, John? Who are you?”

“That doesn’t matter, George. Not to you. Not to me. Not to your readers.”

“What are you running from, John? Are you running from your wife? From Lyla?”

John tapped nervously on the table. “Can I have one of your smokes, Mr Foreman?”

George reached into his pocket and drew out his packet of cigarettes. “How did you know I smoked, John?”

“You’re wearing a patch, Mr Foreman. The odds were you had a smoke on you.” John lit his cigarette, drew in deeply, and exhaled slowly. “I killed her, Mr Foreman.”

George felt a lump form in his throat. “Killed who, John?”

“You know who, Mr Foreman. Lyla.”

 “Why, John? Why would you do such a thing?”

“You don’t understand, Mr Foreman. When she told me she was leaving me, I went through my knees. I literally fell to the floor. In a way, I never got up from that floor, Mr Foreman. I am still there, crying for the lost Lenore.”

“The lost Lenore?”

“A literary reference, Mr Foreman. As a journalist you should know your literary references.”

“I got the reference, John. I am familiar with Poe. It was odd, is all.” George’s hand was trembling. He took a cigarette from his packet and lit it. “So you killed your wife?”

“Yes, Mr Foreman. I am homeless. I am schizophrenic. And I am a murderer. Do you think you have your story?”

“It’s a bit scant on details, John. Who are you? Why has nobody reported your wife missing? Why aren’t you in prison?”

“Who said I’m not, Mr Foreman?”

George ran his hands through his thinning hair. “Yes, I have my story. Thank you for your time, John.”

John stood, and extended his hand. George hesitated. John’s confession changed everything.

“Aren’t you forgetting something, Mr Foreman?”

“What’s that, John?”

“You said you’d pay me if my story had merit. I gave you a story.”

“Yes. Yes, you did.” George withdrew his wallet, counted out several hundred dollars, and handed the crumpled notes to John. “Is there anything else you want me to know, John?”

“Yes, Mr Foreman. There is one thing.” He smirked. “Never let truth get in the way of a good yarn.”

Author's Note

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