6. The Vigilante Argument

6

The Vigilante Argument

 

Growing up, I was a huge comic book fan. I still am, there’s something about that particular way of story telling that appeals to me. Beautifully drawn pictures, speech bubbles and masked super heroes have a certain charm that I’ve always found irresistible. After the initial stages of becoming a comic book geek, reading things like Spiderman and Superman �" joyously bright images containing spandex wearing heroes and lots of ‘Kapow!’ style onomatopoeia. One eventually moves on to ‘Mature Comics’. Things like ‘V for Vendetta’ and ‘Watchmen’, the kind of graphic novels that win awards usually reserved for ‘proper books’. I remember when my friends and I first moved onto these types of stories; we were around fourteen years old. My friends giddy with excitement would talk about the high levels of gore in the fight sequences and the naughty words that even the good guys said. I however was excited by something else in them. Sure the gore and swearwords were exciting in a primal, novelty way but what gripped me immediately was how these ‘mature comics’ challenged the way I thought about vigilantes. ‘The Punisher’ was the first one I read and what separated him from all the heroes I’d read about prior was that he would kill the bad guys. Unlike Batman, Spiderman etc. who would just catch the baddies and bring them to justice, The Punisher would wade in with a shotgun and brutally kill anyone who had it coming. What’s more, he had flaws, lots of them. A theme expanded on in an astonishing way in ‘Watchmen’. This to me posed an incredible question, one I’d never asked myself before. Would real life vigilantes be a good thing?

                 Does anyone have the right to take another man’s life because he feels it’s just and right to do so? Legally the answer is obviously ‘no’ but what about morally? On one hand the legal systems we have don’t work at delivering justice one hundred percent of the time and in that sense, vigilante justice would merely help address that. If a serial killer escapes justice through legal means, is it such a bad thing if he gets killed/stopped illegally? The flip side is, if people were to start taking the law into their own hands to the same extent The Punisher did we’d live in a dangerous society of chaos and disorder, a complete state of anarchy. What if that serial killer is actually just the fall guy for a bigger problem like organized crime? Then you’ve just killed a man that was already a victim and another will have to take his place. Like so many things the whole topic is one big grey area.    

                  I’m not a vigilante I know this. I’m merely a murderer. In the spur of the moment, I’d stabbed a man in anger and then watched him bleed out. I find myself revisiting the question of vigilante justice though because for the first time in my life it applies on some level to my own situation. The man I had killed was responsible for the death of a thirteen-year-old girl; he’d sexually abused her and taken her life then dumped her body in a nature reserve. There was a strong argument for him deserving to die, statistical and psychological evidence suggests he would do it again. I’m sure the parents of his next victim would look me in the eyes and thank me with all of their heart for saving their precious child from the evil whims of such a monster. The counter to this argument was the presence of doubt; I had no real evidence that he’d hurt anyone. I was certain, I knew it in my heart of hearts that he’d done it but I’m flawed and capable of mistakes much like anyone is. If in fact he was innocent, as he claimed to be right up until the moment I ended his life; then I was merely a cold-blooded killer and deserved punishment. According to the law I deserved punishment regardless and no matter who’s blood it is, the blood on my hands will send me to prison for a long, long time.

              These thoughts and a million others race through my head as I find myself sitting at the back of a church. The man at the front is enthusiastically preaching about the Sermon on the Mount. He is a man of African descent and speaks with a certain verve, waving his arms about as he does, animated and eye catching. I can see Rachel sat near the front; it’s surprisingly comforting just to see her.

                 Hours earlier I’d awoke in a pool of blood on the kitchen floor, Paul’s blood. Paul was sat in my favorite chair, parts of his stomach were on his lap and he was slumped dead and motionless. I’d stood up and looked at him for a minute, my clothes had blood all over them and my hands were covered. I went to the bathroom, took my clothes off and washed my skin. Contrary to films I’d seen and my memory of reading Macbeth, blood is surprisingly easy to remove from skin and I’m virtually clean within ten minutes. I’d done everything to this point in pretty much autopilot; I was waiting for the gravity of the situation to hit me. Waiting to be sent flying by the realization that I’d just killed a man and my entire life was about to change. I put some fresh clothes on and went back into the kitchen, as I did I saw the card that Rachel had given me in the coffee shop lying on the kitchen table. On it ‘The Church Alive’ was written as well as an address. I knew where it was, less than half an hour’s walk away. It’s Sunday I thought and looked out of the window, the sun was about to rise and I left the flat to head to church. I wanted to see someone, talk to someone and �" as sad as it is, Rachel was about the only person I could think of. I locked my front door and set off walking, leaving my flat with bloody clothes in the bathroom and a dead body in the kitchen. Still in shock perhaps but the whole thing felt too surreal to bother me.

            Now here I am at church, I’d been to church before as a kid but this was considerably different. As a child I remember wooden pews, a vicar and old people. A big, majestic building with beautiful stained glass windows and high ceilings. I remember the calm and boring manner in which the vicar spoke and how all the songs were played on the organ and seemed to sound the same. This in comparison isn’t a church. In the place of wooden pews are plastic chairs, the man at the front isn’t wearing a dog collar and there are more young people than old. The building is a community hall and when the music was played it was by a band with electric guitars and a drum kit. The songs still all sounded the same but nevertheless…

           “We’re gonna get some healing up in here today!” The preacher shouts. His voice emphasizing odd parts of the sentence, “We’re gonna get some healing up in here today!” I can’t help but think to myself that healing is the showpiece word in that particular statement. “I can feel God’s presence, people” He closes his eyes and tilts his head back slightly. “He wants to heal you.”

             He invites people forward to receive prayer and an apparently mild mannered woman goes forward. What follows is bizarre and surprising. The preacher stands opposite her and puts his hands on her shoulders. They both bow their heads and begin what I presume is silent prayer. A few minutes later, a loud shriek makes me jump out of my skin. I look up and the woman is violently shaking, the preacher is holding her and speaking in tongues. I think it’s tongues, I’d only ever heard about them before never had a live rendition like this. She shrieks again, the convulsions becoming more and more exaggerated. I shift in my chair, thrown from my comfort zone by this loud and unexpected show. The woman starts to wail as though submersed in sorrow; the preacher stops speaking in tongues and instead begins shouting “Jesus, Jesus!” His face is one of happiness, contrasting the situation, which seems like it might be painful for the poor woman. Eventually she collapses and is caught by a man standing behind her. The preacher throws his hands up in the air “Hallelujah, Jesus!” He sounds a combination of exasperated and joyous. The church falls silent but for a smattering of “Hallelujah’s” What the hell was that? I think to myself. “Amen!” The preacher shouts addressing the room again, his smile is big and infectious.      

              Then it happens; the feeling I’ve been waiting for, dreading; hits me… hard. I have to fight not to collapse again. The realization that I’m a killer dawns on me. My future flashes before my eyes, I’m found guilty of murder and sent to prison. My life is never the same again; I’m never the same again. I shouldn’t be here I think I’m no Christian, I’m a murderer. This is a mistake. The service is finishing and everyone is beginning to chat and mingle. No one has noticed me yet and I get up as inconspicuously as I can to leave. I’m a few steps away from the exit when Rachel shouts to me. “Stewart?” I pretend not to hear and carry on walking. It’s mild and eerily foggy outside, the whole world seems to be moving in slow motion. Everything looks different, strangely more valuable. I’m viewing things as though I only have a limited time to live. “Stewart” I turn around, Rachel has chased me outside. She’s slightly out of breath and when she sees my face she looks consumed with concern. “Stewart, what’s wrong?” I realize I’m showing my feelings, the strange concoction of guilt, despair and loss of hope. I try to force a smile. “Hi Rachel.” I want to grab her and hold her tight, I want to cry and have her tell me everything will be fine. “Are you ok?” She asks. I blurt my answer “no.” My honesty surprises me. She puts her hand on my arm and looks deep into me, “what’s wrong?” “Ah” I’m fighting back tears, I shrug and avoid eye contact with her “I’ve just had the worst couple of days.” You don’t know her I think She doesn’t really care. “It’s nothing really, I’ll be fine” I force another smile and turn to go, she starts to walk alongside me. “Have you thought about praying?” “No” I answer coldly It’s too late for that “Look, I’m not going to pry” she says “but whatever it is… work, something with the family. Whatever, God can help, just pray. Let him in.” The words are said as a plea, rather than as advice. As though I’d be helping her as much as myself. I turn to her; she’s beautiful and looks as though she cares. I have no idea if I can trust her but contemplate telling her the truth. “It’s not like that.” I inhale big gulps of air through my nostrils, not wanting to cry in front of her. Still overwhelmed by my situation. “I’ve done something.” I compromise; I can’t tell a near stranger that I’m a killer. “Something really bad.” She smiles at me in a close to patronizing way. “You don’t need to worry about that… God forgives.” There’s a believable confidence to her words, reassuring and pleasant. “Look Stewart, whatever you’ve done, I’ve been there. Ok, we’ve all been there.” Her arm gestures in the direction of the church. I seriously doubt you’ve been here I mutter inside. “But God forgives, he’s forgiven me… so many times.” I drop my head. “I don’t think he’ll forgive me.”  I realize I sound pathetic but I mean it. Rachel was obviously referring to lying, blasphemy or even stealing, more basic and forgivable sins. Not murder, there is no penance for that, other than incarceration. She smiles again. “From the moment I first met you God told me he had a plan for your life.” I want to laugh; it sounds like a ridiculous thing to say. “If you just repent, he forgives and he wants the best for you… There’s no point wallowing in guilt. There are good things for you to achieve and you shouldn’t let anything get in the way of that. If God can forgive you, you should learn to forgive yourself.”

          The sentence resonates with me for a while, I don’t suddenly believe in God but the words “good things for you to achieve” strike a chord. “Thanks Rachel.” She hugs me; I say my goodbyes and start walking home.

            I regularly came to the conclusion that real life vigilantes would indeed be a bad thing, for the anarchic example they set and the loose ideology of justice they represent. As I walk home I found myself thinking about it. I wasn’t a vigilante; I’d made a grave mistake and killed a man. I can’t go back in time and undo that; there was only what was to come that I could have any influence over. There are good things for me to achieve, things I can’t do if I’m locked away. I’d killed a man that was a killer and may of killed again and saving the life of a potential future victim. A yet nameless innocent young girl was surely worth the life of a sadistic pedophile. I justified it in my head, if I could dedicate my life to helping people, to achieving good things. I could absolve myself of this heinous act. I was only half way through my walk home when I’d made my mind up. No one can know that I’d killed Paul, no one must ever find out. I would devise a way to evade legal justice and set about making things right my own way. My first task then; get rid of the body.

 

Reviews

[Jennie Baron]

What I most like about this chapter is the way you set forth Stewart's conflict in the beginning and reinforce it in the end with his justifying his actions. And the church scene is a good touch. Very intelligent and very well structured.

[AprilRN1210]

nicely titled addition to the story.. I can't wait to see where you go next!