"Do you believe in God, Mr. Carson?" Thomas Barrow queried as he gazed at an unseen spot in the middle distance, his voice so low that it was barely above a whisper, "I used to attend church all the time with my family. Every Sunday, I would sit directly in front of the pulpit with my mother and my father on my left and my sister, Margaret, on my right." These were the first words he had voluntarily uttered since the telegram had arrived that morning. Up until this point, the under butler had mechanically performed his duties as though he were an automaton, punctuating every action with a quiet "yes, m'lord" and "yes, m'lady."
Unsure of how to navigate the emotionally tumultuous inner waters of the somber man sitting across from him, Charlie Carson slowly nodded to the affirmative. "I will not deny that the family has experienced an inordinate share of grief in recent years," he began carefully. Indeed, the heartbreak of so many deaths seemed to reverberate throughout the walls and corridors of Downton Abbey; it scarcely seemed fair to Carson that one family should carry such a burden. And, yet, there it was. "Mr. Barrow, I've gathered that you may have received some," he paused for a moment as he searched for a suitable word, "unfortunate news this morning, but we must not lose our faith in the good Lord even when it is difficult for us to understand—"
Nodding his head as though the other man's words had only just barely registered, Barrow interrupted, still speaking in the same, nearly inaudible tone, "My father died yesterday morning."
"I'm very sorry for your loss. Perhaps a good night's rest will do you—"
"I was twelve when I learned that He doesn't love me," breathed out Barrow in a single, halting exhalation. He stared down at his glove. He often imagined that others could see the perfectly circular scar pulsating beneath the thin leather shroud and that if they listened close enough, the scar would whisper his darkest secrets to the world. He imagined that it was screaming now. How strange that the glove was presently being splattered with droplets of moisture, he mused to himself as tears spilled unnoticed from his eyes.
For a moment, Carson fancied to himself that the pain emanating from Barrow's words was something tangible that could be plucked out of the air and soothed. Or, at the very least, mollified enough for them to call it a night. Why hadn't he asked Elsie to handle Barrow? She was always so much better at this sort of thing. "Thomas, I'm very sorry for your loss, but I'm sure that your father loved you very—"
"No, I mean God. God is supposed to love all of His children; He created all of His children to be just so. He made me this way, and He damns me for being this way. How can God love me if it's His will that I burn?" There was no anger is his voice; rather, he spoke as someone who had long ago accepted a simple truth.
"Thomas?" the butler asked gently, feeling somewhat bewildered at the direction of the conversation but wanting to be supportive nevertheless, "I'm not sure I follow." He knew that he was lying, and he felt his stomach knot up around the lie.
"Do I really need to quote Leviticus 18 and 20 to you, Mr. Carson?" Barrow leveled his gaze at the other man for the first time that day. Continuing, his voice quivering with a flood of emotion as tears continued to fall unheeded from his eyes, "It's like you said, Mr. Carson. God made— He made me— God made me twist— He made me twisted and— and foul. He made me this way. He made me this way even though He says that I should burn for— for being the way that He made me."
A pang of guilt struck Carson as he heard his own words from years gone by echoed back at him and remembered the day Barrow stood before him, hat in his hands, a look of utter despair and anguish upon his face as he pleaded not to be cast out. "Thomas, I cannot pretend to understand or to approve of your," he searched the air for a word that was better than perversion, "proclivities," (well done, Charlie!) "but please believe me that I've never wished you any unhappiness. I apologize if my choice of words have caused you pain."
"I thank you, Mr. Carson, for saying that. Really, I do. But my father was a mere mortal man. If God Himself does not love me, how could I ever expect something like that from my father? How could I ever expect anyone to love me when I've been created entirely unworthy of love?"
Carson swallowed, his throat feeling increasingly parched as he grappled with how he might assuage the situation. "Surely, you don't believe that? I seem to recall a rather proud young man throwing my words back at me," he ventured, hoping to rekindle a bit of that prideful spark.
But Barrow only shrugged his shoulders and responded with yet another non sequitur, "He painted over the sign."
"The sign?
"Barrow and Son Clockworks. I was going to follow in his footsteps. Did you know that, Mr. Carson? That workshop has been in my family for five generations. My father thought that he would pass his life's work down to me just as his father did and his father's father did. And I was supposed to pass it down to my son. But we both know that's never going to happen, don't we?
"I'm not sure what I believe. I'm honestly not sure whether I believe in anything," he paused for a moment before whispering almost to himself, "No, that's not true. God heard me that one time." He sighed deeply as though a heavy weight pressed down upon his shoulders. "My father believed it; I know that for certain," he continued, "He believed with every fiber of his being that his only son was damned. He died believing it."
The two men sat in near silence save for the sound of jagged breathing as the younger man wept. Charlie Carson had never in his life struggled to find the right words; once a word was chosen, once a decision or action was made, well, that was it and there was no use wishing otherwise. Truth be told, he wanted nothing more in this moment than to be asleep in his bed. Wearily he entreated, "Perhaps you could talk to your father about these things when you attend his service?"
Barrow let out a chocked sob as he retrieved a folded slip of paper from his coat pocket. "'Father died. Stop. Stay away if you are still the same. Stop.' My sister certainly has a way with words, doesn't she?" With a defeated shrug of his shoulders, he shook his head, "They don't want me there."
"I'm sorry."
As if struck by a sudden, agonizing pang, Barrow ripped off his glove and began to massage the raised scar-tissue feverishly with his thumb as though the action might return the flesh to its once pristinely smooth state. "He heard my prayers once. God. He heard them. I was up to my knees in blood and mud. There wasn't a single day in that I didn't have to watch somebody die. Not a single day that I didn't have to look into the lifeless eyes of a man who had only moments before been so full of life. And then, he'd be gone; a bullet between his eyes, his limbs mangled and bleeding. It doesn't matter. In the end, he was dead. I keep waiting for a night when I no longer dream about them."
Carson blinked rapidly with surprise, "I had no idea you felt that way."
"Why? Because I don't scream like a bloody loony the way Mr. Lang did?"
In spite of himself, Carson nodded. The nocturnal caterwauling of his lordship's one-time-valet had been, if nothing else, a great disturbance to the efficient running of the household.
"I prayed to go home. I was just so bloody sick of it all— of everything. So, I prayed to go home. And," he raised the damaged appendage before him, "He heard my prayers and He delivered me from that hell hole. I thought that maybe it was a sign that God really did love me, and I guess I still believed that I might have a chance at being happy. That God has something other than eternal hellfire and what-have-you planned for me.
"At any rate, it doesn't matter now. Last time I saw my father, I was fourteen, and he— he caught me. With a friend," ignoring the barely stifled sound of choking coming from Carson, he continued, "I think he always knew what I am, but it devastated him when his suspicions were confirmed. He painted over the workshop sign that very same day. Barrow Big Splotch of Brown Paint Clockworks. 'I have no son. My father's legacy dies with me' is what he said. And he told me to only return once I was— once I was normal. And, I've tried. I really have tried. But God made me this way. Even though He could never love me. Even though he could never love me. And, well, now he's dead."
They sat in silence for what felt like an eternity but was more likely only a few short minutes. Finally breaking the interminable tranquility and endeavoring to keep the reproachfulness out of his voice, Carson prompted, "But didn't you go to visit your father last year?"
Letting out a sharp laugh entirely absent of mirth, Barrow responded truthfully, "I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. I lied to you. Please, don't be cross. I went to see a doctor—well, a quack as it turned out—but, he said that he was a doctor." He sighed as his cheeks reddened in embarrassment at the memory of how he had so foolishly allowed himself to be duped, "The truth is, I spent nearly a week getting myself electroshocked because some charlatan with a stethoscope said he could make me normal." Again, he laughed a mirthless laugh, "And now I have a crater in my arse because I let myself believe that I can bend God's will with a few injections of contaminated saline!"
Blinking at the coarseness of Barrow's words, Carson found himself struggling to understand. Above their heads, the muffled tones of a grandfather clock striking the hour could be heard, and it was as though a spell was broken. Two o'clock in the morning. And even though he still wasn't entirely certain to what the under butler had subjected himself in lieu of visiting his father, Carson felt too fatigued at that moment to pursue the matter any further. "Thomas, perhaps it is best that we call it a night. Get some rest, and I'm sure things will look brighter in the morning."
"Yes, Mr. Carson."
"Good night, Thomas."
"It's Mr. Barrow, Mr. Carson." Gone from his eyes was the barely contained, yet honest and pure, emotion from only a few moments ago; in its place, a mask of stoney inscrutability. Charlie Carson had always believed that look to be another mark of Thomas Barrow's selfish pride and arrogance, but now he knew better.
"Good night, Mr. Barrow."
"Good night, Mr. Carson."
In the library, the great pendulum of the grandfather clock continued to mechanically swing, and if one were to look closely, one would be able to decipher the words so finely engraved on the metallic works. Barrow and Son Clockworks.