Our Protest Story
There is no music in a revolution. The air is full of sound, but it’s the hum of errant chatter and the stampede of shoes traversing asphalt; it’s the roar of engines and the pings of shattering glass; it’s the chorusing of lone cries into a symphony of voices. I hear the crack as polycarbonate fractures bones, the buzz of blaring sirens, the whistle of gas canisters, the pops and rat-tat-tat of gunfire, the BOOM of explosives. Sometimes I even hear singing, but there is no music in a revolution. At dawn, I step into the cool, crisp fall wind and start east until I come across an old steel framed cabin with cracked wooden walls. The cabin rests on the street opposite the university campus, and features windows boarded with wrought iron bars. On the south facing wall’s interior, there’s a colorless poster of Martin Luther King, Jr. standing in front of an American flag, behind a podium, frozen mid-sentence, brow pressed down against his steely eyes. His right arm is extended forward as if reaching out to greet your palm. Beneath him a quote reads All Labor Has Dignity. Something to boost morale, I guess. The cabin is the hub for custodial operations. For as long as I’ve been a student here, I’ve held a position with the maintenance staff. It’s a work-study job, something stable, and the only one that fits my schedule. Up until I started working here, I had been living off scholarships and loans, and when those started to run out, well, I needed the cash. The pay is abysmal, and, in addition to my collegiate responsibilities, I’m required to clock in at least twenty hours each week. Still, the bi-weekly check I received delivers a momentary exultation on the first and third Friday of every month, every time. I taste the sweet semblance of emancipation borne by a thin, quartered sheet of paper with my name printed on it. It’s not much, but it’s something. If I keep this up, by the start of the next semester I’d pay for Dostoyevsky and Rousseau and Tocqueville out of pocket, no loans. Hell, with all the extra hours I work, I might buy myself the time to write my own treatise. For now, anyway, I work. This cabin only has enough space for a single office, so our equipment is stored in a rusted shipping container adjoining the north wall. I check the assignment sheet, unlock the cargo doors, retrieve a broom and dustpan, and start towards the university grounds. Every now and then I daydream about walking out of that cabin for the last time, throwing my broom to the floor, shredding my nametag, burning my uniform, and never looking back. But it’s just a dream. I never act on it. Instead, I escape into an existence of fragments and purity, a space detached from the whole mess and pain and truth of the world. I burrow further and further into a hidden, hollow pit veiled by a frail daze of contentment. It’s all the same to me really, now. Sometimes, I launder and fold gym towels with deep yellow-gray sweat stains marred across the white cotton surface. At other times, I scrub the top of steel cafeteria tables with an opaque, soapy concoction that reeks of white vinegar and lemon juice. Occasionally, I mop the resin floor of the chemistry labs during the inactive hours of ten p.m. to midnight before trekking home accompanied only by the dim glow of a distant moon and the pungent stench of remnant cleaning material carried in my clothes. At dusk, I step into that other world to confront the mess of progress. It’s in that other world where I see the sights of new beginnings and listen to the concerto of struggle. That world which reveals a snapshot of what’s to come behind the smudge of today’s woes. That world rings a melody but falls shorts of something like music. The sights in this world are alluring. Tonight, a fire brings the city to its knees. The flame is sensational; white at its core, engulfed in a pronounced orange glow, crusted by thick black smoke lifting into the night sky. The blaze reaches up some forty feet above the ground and radiates through the chill of this autumn night, piercing my skin with harsh heat. I’m terrified; but I’m not alone. There are at least two hundred of us, maybe three. We occupy the street in front of City Hall and the two blocks east of it. Most are young, angry, hostile, and dressed in long black clothes with bandanas covering their faces. Some are wearing thick, dark vests with backpacks and gloves; others have gas masks fitted firmly around their heads. I came with a friend, but I lost him hours ago. A segment of the group has pushed ahead to rattle a fence separating us from the steps. Every few minutes a firework is shot through the barrier, flaring out bright flashes of red, blue, yellow, orange, and green. I’m behind the front line. It’s loud and tense and the heat is incredible. I’m standing shoulder to shoulder with a woman to my left whose hair is twisted in two braids underneath a tactical helmet and she’s shouting behind a mask; sweat is pouring down her temple. To my right, a man’s veins are bulging from his neck and spit is flying from his mouth as he yells. He’s wearing protective eye gear and a helmet. I’m yelling too, but I’m underdressed. At curfew, a thick white haze envelops the group at the fence, and they scatter back from the steps. By the time the haze reaches the rest of us, we’ve begun to break our formation. We’re corralled back to an intersection, shoved by long black shields and prodded by thick batons. The woman who had been standing to my left is thrown to the ground before kicking and thrashing, trying to release the grips on her wrists and ankles. Some ten feet in front of her, a tall, heavy set man is struck repeatedly with a club to the beat of an unheard drum. I spin around and at another ten feet, someone is shot by a close-range rubber bullet; thick streaks of blood begin pouring down his cheek. I hear a long hiss behind me and panic. I feel as though a thousand needles are coursing down my throat and my limbs tense up, straining to reach my face. I start to choke and cough incessantly and my eyes are stinging, struggling to open. Around me, others are bent over their knees spitting and hacking. Gradually, a white mist expands the entire block. Those out of range flee to refuge. Quickly, a small unit in gas masks charge into the mist, pick up the canisters and throw them across the intersection. I hold my breath long enough to stumble behind a brick building around the corner. My heart is racing and I’m nauseous. There are still at least a hundred of us running and shouting in the intersection. Sudden sporadic bursts fill the air and almost all hundred or so bodies duck down, placing their hands behind their head for cover. Others disperse. A helicopter lowers beneath the treetops. It’s blades cut swiftly through the air, stirring up dust and pebbles in a thunderous gust of wind. It’s shining a blinding light onto the pavement and echoing commands to leave. I join the evacuees and dart through the street, mapping my escape home. The flame is still casting a dazzling glow over the shadow of the night. When I return to my apartment, I find an envelope in my mailbox. It’s return address belongs to a woman I had written to weeks ago. Her name is Sandra Brown. Last winter the woman’s grandson was killed in front of her home. Her grandson, Nate, was seventeen years old and weighed no more than a hundred and thirty pounds. It made no sense, then, when the police officer who killed him explained that Nate had put up a real fight. The officer stands just above six feet and weights at least double what Nate does. There’s no way a boy like that could so much as have shaken this officer, but that was his story. The officer was responding to a call about “a suspicious dark man sort of lurking in the neighborhood.” Within minutes of his arrival, the arresting officer had Nate in hand cuffs, pinned to the ground, and one of his large, muscular arms wrapped firmly around the boys neck. After a minute, the boy was unresponsive; after three, lifeless, there, on his family’s estate, where his body laid for some time before an ambulance could arrive to treat him. The trial was a joke. Within two days, the city’s police department presented the facts of the case to a jury and, in three and a half hours, the officer was cleared of all charges. A mother had lost a son. A father had lost a son. A grandmother lived in a home stained by the blood of her child’s son. And nobody could explain why. It’s true that inexplicability has a way of producing anger, and the public outrage here was palpable. A community was lost. The boy’s death was a spark that lit a fuse; a fuse wound around an incendiary injustice, that undermines any postulation of judicious integrity. We began to ask ourselves; how could we coexist with a body that’s payroll hinges on an incentive to seize ours? We could not, was the answer. We could not live as prey. We took to the streets because the rules governing our lives were not written into any constitution or municipal statutes. No, the four-word edict commanding our existence was enshrined in the laws of nature: survival of the fittest. I bring the piece of mail up to my apartment, I retrieve a knife, slice through the adhesive between the paper, and take out a letter. The message inside reads: Please come by 828 East Washington Ave. on Saturday at 8 a.m. It’s the little brown house with the white fence in front. Thank you. I fall asleep consoled by the letter and the thought of the woman’s gesture, the expression of a warm spirit, a comforting spirit. On Saturday, I get on the bus and go south. I stay on it for six stops until I reach downtown. The address from the letter leads me to a neighborhood two blocks from the stop, the same district that housed the city’s former precinct, a building now reduced to ash and ruble. The neighborhood is full of run-down homes surrounded by chain link fences. Angry, stout dogs roam the sidewalk; a trademark of the wilderness of a ghetto. I arrive at the address and see a tawny home with an attic and a four-foot white fence stretching across the yard. I open the latch on the gate, ascend a short flight of stairs and knock on the door. The home is a relic of another century; the stairs squeak and crack with every step and the porch bows inward as if wilted by time. It’s an old home, certainly, but the most well-kept on the block. Moments later, the door opens, revealing an elderly woman, no taller than five feet, with short curly hair and small wrinkled hands. She raises her head, and her face is full of life. I stare into her eyes which are like stones. I toil with the image of this woman. “You’re late,” she says. “Yes. Hello. Sorry. Are you Mrs. Brown?” “Ms. Sandra Brown. You the one who wrote me?” “Yes, Ms. Brown.” “Well, you’re late.” I apologize again. She steps aside and gestures for me to enter her home. It smells like mint and carpet cleaner. The living room is furnished with deep magenta curtains that match a long couch. She has a walnut coffee table positioned in front of a vintage television set. She offers me a glass of water, which I accept. The east facing wall has a shelf adorned with portraits of her family, various African figurines, and a map of the continent. Ms. Brown must catch me looking at them because she asks, “You ever been?” “No, ma’am.” “How old did you say you are?” she hands me the glass. “I didn’t. But I’m twenty-one.” “Oh, you’re so young. You must visit someday.” I tell her I would like to. There is an awkward silence that fills the air. The woman is old and leans forward slightly when she walks. It looks like she might fall over with every step. She paces in front of a second shelf on the opposite wall, a shelf lined with hundreds of books. “What is it you study in school, young man?” she asks. “Politics.” She looks at me funny, “Is that right?” She looks back to the shelf before handing me a copy of W.E.B. Du Bois’s The Souls of Black Folk. “This was my absolute favorite. I used to spend hours talkin’ to my kids about just this one book. Here, take it and tell me what you think about it.” “Looks interesting,” I respond. “See, I was a teacher,” she explains, “many years ago. I used to love talking about great black writers. And this man here, he was the best.” She sits down on a cushioned chair in front of the coffee table and gestures for me to sit on the couch. “You know, you almost look like him, too,” she says. “Who?” “My grandbaby.” There’s a photo of her grandson hanging against the wall behind her. I think she was just making conversation because there’s hardly a resemblance. We have the same nose, but my lips are far too thin, his cheekbones sit lower than mine, and his eyes are much brighter and a different color than my own. “Is there a particular reason you asked me to come here today, Ms. Brown?” “Oh, yes. See, my grandbaby—he used to help out around here, but that was before he was killed. Now, I’ve got nobody helping me to keep the yard, fetch my groceries, or fix my television when it’s broke, see. It’s just been so hard,” she says behind tired, tearful eyes. “And, I figure, since you wrote me, I might have you step in from time to time. If you can.” I open my mouth to speak, but she interrupts me. “Only if it’s no trouble to you of course.” “Well–” “And I will pay you.” “I would love to help.” “Oh, I am just delighted to hear you say that.” Before I leave, she shows me a couple of very old images of her family. One is of a field. In it, a group of slaves are hacking through thick sugar cane under a brilliant summer sun. They’re young and they have tough, dark skin. The men are wearing loose linen shirts, woolen trousers, and brown leather shoes; the women, woolen waistcoats with full skirts worn above the ankle and the same leather shoes. Another is a painting of a second group of slaves is sitting around a fire behind a shack beneath the stars scattered across the night sky. Some are laughing, some are dancing, others look like they’re crying; they all look tired. One man is standing, speaking to a small group of children with a book in his hand. I wonder what he’s reading. She tells me how about how hard these people worked and that her grandson was just like on of the men in the field who she points to with her long finger. The images remind me of my job, my uniform and of these deep, dark spots I come across on the on the hallway floors. The thing about them is, no matter how hard I scrub, they don’t go away. My hands can be clenched in fists around the handle of my mop, knuckles white and bulging, but it won’t do any good. Whatever they are, they won’t go away. I can keep wiping and wiping, I can soak and wring the mop and push and pull the handle and press the bundle of thick loose strings across the floor, back and forth. I can move the mop, but some things just don’t change. The next Saturday, I get on the bus and I stay on for six stops. I walk through the neighborhood until I come to the white fence. Ms. Brown is seated on the porch with a broom leaning against the wall behind her. She has a big grin on her face and yells from across the lawn. “What’d you think of the book?” she asks. “Haven’t read it yet,” I say. “It’s a real masterpiece. Make sure and take your time with it.” “Will do, Ms. Brown.” She rises from her chair, descends the steps, and looks up at her home. “I thought we might start with the roof.” She hands me the broom and a pair of full-length gloves. I climb to the top of her roof and, for some time, sweep the leaves that have fallen from tall trees this autumn, then I scrape out debris collected in the gutter. The sun, fully awake, strikes against my dark skin and my clothes cling to the sweat on my body as if stuck by glue. When I finish, I climb down from the roof and Ms. Brown asks me to replace that old television in her home. I don’t know much about electronics, but I agree to help. Some time passes with me tampering with wires of every color, screwing and unscrewing bolts and nails, plugging and unplugging cords until, I call the company that made the set. The representative is incredibly helpful, and we get the thing working no time. When I turn on the power, it’s set to a local news channel. They’re covering the recent protests. The anchor says, “The unity at these demonstrations is truly remarkable. This is something we have never seen before. Black, white, brown, everybody is coming together for this cause.” “That’s right,” the co-anchor affirms, “Folks on the ground are saying now is the time for change, that this young man was the straw that broke the camel’s back. We are watching history.” I turn to Ms. Brown who is standing behind me staring at the screen. She says nothing. Her face twists into a deep frown. Her lips begin to quiver, and I think she’s about to speak, but she grabs the remote from my hand and turns the television off. “You know, Ms. Brown, I’ve been out there some nights. It does feel different. I think we are bringing about real change.” “You’re foolish!” she snaps, “My baby didn’t die for some cause. There ain’t none of that. Just death, senseless, meaningless killin’.” I struggle to find the words, “I just mean, we’re finally being heard. My generation is more outspoken on these issues than any before us.” “And my baby’s still dead,” she says sharply, “Marching and shouting and burning ain’t gonna to do nothing but wear you out. This’s been going on since Emmett Till and my baby’s still dead. He died ‘cause he didn’t have no choice. This country been tellin’ folks like us the same thing since before I was born, young man, you hear me? It’s the same story you’d have heard marchin’ on the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma or boycottin’ the city bus in Montgomery or shirkin’ your crop yield in Virginia. We’ve always been the burden. And that’s all my baby was to them: a burden.” On my way out the door, she cups her frail hands around mine which are cold, and in a soft, quiet voice, says, “I already lost one baby. I ain’t losing any more.” In the evening, I return to my apartment and find the copy of The Souls of Black Folks. I open it to the first chapter, and I read. I fall into the sea of Arthur Symon’s poetry. I drown under the mass of his words, longing for black tears to cease. I drift along his rhythmic muse and find myself caught between a space of ease with the flow of time and resistance to the tides of anguish. I want to cry myself; I want to cry all night. Like the poet, I cannot understand the voice of my heart and I cling, desperately, to Ms. Brown’s words, searching for something familiar, something familial. Maybe she’s right, I conclude. Maybe some things don’t change. In the morning, I rise to a clear, dark sky. I lift open a window to let in a soft breeze ruffling the leaves adorning a grove of pine within view. I listen. It’s the only sound at this hour. It’s dawn and I start to prepare something to eat. I cup my hands under the cold water flowing from the kitchenette faucet, watching it cascade down the bright, ruby skin of my apple before collecting in the sink and clearing. The sweet, smoky aroma of warm roasting coffee penetrates my nostrils and I look over to the clock. I have time. I step outside; the sun is still rising out beyond the landscape and, a few hundred yards out, I can see some two dozen students sauntering through campus. Before work, I cut through the university’s courtyard, a pristine piazza with monochromatic wildflowers, thick oak trees, and an imposing clocktower. In the winter, most of the leaves have left their posts, gathering along the pavement leaving a trail of burnt scarlet leaves scattered along the walkway. Finally, I arrive at a large, exposed brick building with chipped beige paint. The building’s interior is populated with portraits of former deans, chancellors, and alumni; and where there aren’t images, there are busts of renowned painters and writers and poets. One of the busts is of Mr. Du Bois. I notice he has the same stony eyes as Ms. Brown. I look at the sculpture of the man, a descendant of slaves, and I think, she’s wrong. A change will come, and she’ll be here to see it.
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PAWGS: Field Trip “Don’t say he never gets you anything,” said the homunculus beneath her father’s lab coat. Chela opened her eyes, one natural, one bionic, and took in the buggy gleaming in the searchlight from the tallest tower of the castle. “You gotta be fucking kidding me?” she said. The Father scratched the skin of his stomach where the homunculus had been grafted. It smelled like decaying milk. “You’ve been an obedient girl lately,’ he said, ‘worked hard to develop your skill set and refrained from unnecessary violent behaviour with the local children.” “The local kids are scum who hate mutants. Screw ‘em.” The Father raised an eyebrow. “The puritans would burn this castle down if they were not so afraid of what lurks inside,’ said the homunculus, ‘don’t antagonise them so that their hatred overrides their fear.” She rubbed her fingernail between her teeth, spat on the floor, nodded then jumped into the driver’s seat. “Right then,’ she said, ‘let’s get this thing on the fucking move.” The homunculus pointed to the device in The Father’s hands. “All in good time,’ said The Father, ‘Ms Trounce has advised me that your school trip will be no longer than 72 hours, so that leaves you ample time to return here within your usual seven-day limit.” “Yes, Father,” said Chela. “Exceed the limit and you know what happens.” “Yes, Father,” said Chela. “For my records, how is the metal plate in your head?” Chela rubbed her eyes and temples. “Getting migraines,” she said. “It could be your regenerative abilities constantly trying to expunge it, could be something else. We’ll investigate when you return.” The Father clicked a button on the controller, opening the gates to the castle. He clicked another button and nodded at Chela. She grinned and started the buggy. “Now, don’t drive fast or dangerously unless necessary,” said The Father. The buggy burst down the winding mountain path before her father had finished his sentence. Chela drove her buggy with the pink ribbon still tied around it towards the location of her friends. She put a cassette into the tape player causing noise to erupt into the black sky. Her nose screwed in a grimace and she switched it off, settling into the engine growl of her new machine instead. With her oversized scorpion claw she held the steering wheel steady as she popped open a small bottle of beer from the top pocket of her dungarees, spat out the window then downed a mouthful of the harsh liquid as she roared past the insular village of Sorrowsong towards the Desert of Twisted Limbs. Babs Tabasco sat outside the wooden hut in the mountains overlooking the sludge sea on one side and the Desert of Twisted Limbs on the other. She pulled an oversized black and red jumper over her faded dungarees and purple hoodie. Behind her identical twins were lacing the boots of the other and a lithe olive-skinned girl was in the Downward Facing Dog stretch. Beside a small campfire a thin girl in a large green parka shivered into a mug of soup whilst an overweight girl undressed. “Dunno, why you wear all that baggy shit when you have tits like that,” said Sindy ‘Sickie’ Malone stirring the cup of soup. Babs snorted. “Shit, you’d still have to wear this shit even if you did have massive tits, because you always catch cold, or are cold, or trying to prevent a cold,” said Babs tying her red hair into bunches. “Mine look like someone sucked the juice out with a vacuum,” said Sickie. “Your whole body looks like that,” said Puffy squeezing into a red latex dress. Sickie rolled her eyes. “Puffy, you look like someone forgot to inflate you completely, all those ripples,” said Babs. “Pockets, baby, pockets,’ said Puffy adjusting the dress like lava flowing over a sierra, ‘loads of chaps are ready to dive into this.” “Bet most fucking drown,” said Babs under her breath. “What?” said Puffy. “Said, I think Chela’s on her way, can see dust down there,” said Babs. Sickie put a telescope to her sunken eye. A buggy churned its way along the narrow path towards them. “You’re right,’ said Sickie, ‘it is her I think, driving a bit fast if you ask me.” Babs laughed. “That girl is straight up mental,” she said. Two girls with long purple hair joined them. “Not her,” said Tiffany Terror, the one on the left. “She’s so boring,’ said Rain Terror, the one on the right. Sickie and Babs exchanged an eye roll. Puffy scratched between her legs then shook herself out. “Didn’t fully drip dry,’ she said, ‘anyway girls, you’re just jealous because she has the life force of both of you in her tiny frame.” “Mutant life force,” said the two girls simultaneously. Puffy, Sickie and Babs shared an eyeroll at the expense of the Terror Twins. Chela hopped the buggy towards the hut and pulled a skid churning grey dust at the row of girls watching her. She laughed and leapt out of the seat. “You guys up for a field trip or what?” she said rubbing her hand and pincer together. The girls crowded around Chela and her new buggy. “I’m surprised your dad got you that,” said Babs. Chela held one finger over a nostril and blew a snot missile to the dirt. “He lets me out for ‘wholesome, group survival activities’, plus I believe he and Trounce have some other deals going on. Don’t think he’d be so quick to let me out in the buggy if I was meeting a boy.” A bullish woman in her 50s appeared in the doorway of the wooden shed, dressed in a khaki top and shorts with a scout hat. She hooked her thumbs into her waistband and lifted her stomach and coughed. The girls immediately stopped talking and formed a line. “Ahoy girls,” she said. “Ahoy Scoutmaster Trounce,” said the line of girls. Trounce positioned herself in front of the row of latex, dungarees, badly dyed hair and attitude. “Hope you girls are ready for our PAWGS field trip?” she said. The girls cheered. Trounce raised a baton settling them down. She waited a few moments. “The plan is to set out in the Twerk Machine and survive the desert and whatever it throws at you for the next 72 hours, utilising the various skills and badges you have earned, so campfire building, cooking, hunting, tracking and so forth will see you in good stead.” The girls all grinned. “Of course, it should be stated that in a world recovering from the effects of a multiple apocalyptic orgasm that all manner of predator - animal, mutant or human, should be prepared for and expected. That’s where you can employ the various self-defence badges, knot tying, advanced weaponry, evasive tactics and so on.” The girls all winked and raised their eyebrows at each other. “You girls will set out on your own and return here in 72 hours.” Babs raised her hand. “Babs?” “You mean you ain’t coming, miss?” Trounce shook her head. The line of girls lost themselves in positive proclamations, fist pumping and hand slapping. “If I hadn’t been your age once, I would take that reaction as an insult,’ said Trounce, ‘however, I was your age and I managed out there alone. It is crucial in your development as PAWGS to brave the harsh world alone. So please ensure those of you who have parents or guardians have your permission slips ready.” Trounce walked to the front of the line to face the first girl who was short dark skinned with long black hair in a tight plait. “Licorice Katana, reporting for duty,” said Licorice handing her permission slip. “This should be an opportunity to utilise your excellent tracking and scouting skills,” said Trounce nodding at her and moving to the next girl. “Sindy Malone, reporting.” “Surprised to see you here Sickie,’ said Trounce, ‘but well done.” Trounce looked Puffy up and down. “Puffy Luscious, here,” said Puffy fidgeting with her skirt. Trounce tutted and moved on. “Where’s Marcy Tallapalenka?” said Puffy. “She’s having her stomach stapled again,” said Trounce. Puffy shook her head. “She should embrace her large size, like me,” said Puffy. Chela elbowed Babs. “Yeah right, if we meet cannibals we know who they will catch and eat first,” she said. “Yeah we’d be part of the tribe by the time they finished her,” said Babs. The two girls laughed. Trounce stared at Babs who quelled. “Babs Tabasco, miss, reporting for duty.” “You impress on this trip, then we will see about getting you those attack dogs you wanted,” said Trounce. Babs smiled and straightened herself. Trounce flicked her eyes to Chela. “Chela, reporting for duty,” said Chela yawning and looking to the sky. “Not sure what this trip is going to do to develop you, personally Chela, maybe it will help you interact with others and force you to keep that attention deficit hyperactivity disorder in check, who knows? But remember I have a direct line to The Father.” Chela flicked her nose. Trounce turned to the Terror twins who were making faces at Chela. “Girls?” The girls turned to Trounce with wide welcoming smiles. “Rain and Tiffany Terror reporting for duty, miss. You are looking well today,” they said. “Now, girls try not to assert control over the rest of the girls on this trip, this is a democratic group activity,’ said Trounce clasping her hands together, ‘Chela you will drive the Twerk Machine, your buggy will be safe and sound here, I will monitor you via radio.” The girls picked up their backpacks and poured into the Twerk Machine which was a restored 1977 Chevy Blazer Chalet camper sourced and restored by Fat Al’s Junk Yard, painted in pink, black and yellow like a piece of confectionary. “Just one thing, girls,” said Trounce. The girls all looked at her, ready to leave. “Tops! Make sure your scout shirts are on. I’ll let you off the shorts, but tops must be worn.” The girls groaned as they searched their packs for their uniform and half-heartedly threw on and buttoned their PAWGS shirts then stared at Trounce. Once Puffy had finally put her shirt on, Trounce tapped the roof and the vehicle blew down the mountain road. On a battered road within the Desert of Twisted Limbs an overturned camper smouldered. Two girls lay in the road, their battered and bruised bodies already attracting vultures and insects. “Damn shame those girls died on impact,’ said Grand GG PhaseFucker twirling the ends of his moustache with oily fingers, ‘I could have done with dipping my wick.” “We still could boss,” said Shitslinger rubbing his stubbled head tattooed with a crude skull and crossbones design. “I draw the line at any necro stuff,’ said PhaseFucker munching on a cooked leg, ‘it would be a step too far.” The bikers sat around a campfire not far from the vehicle they had raided. They wore leather jackets with the ‘The Ruffians’ scrawled on the back in white above the stencil of a rat riding a motorcycle. Stacked beside them were two male bodies with a third legless and turning on a spit above the fire. PhaseFucker passed the leg to the thin man with a pencil moustache and pupil-less eyes next to him. “With all due respect boss, I reckon it should be up for debate, I mean, once you’ve eaten someone, there really shouldn’t be any more boundaries left,’ said Shitslinger, ‘what you think Rev?” The thin man took a small bite from the leg. “I’m chewing it over,” said The Reverend Orke Danneals with a voice that sounded like a parasite. The gang laughed. “Well I’m not sticking either of my dicks in any dead girl,” said Larry rubbing his hands over his hair to ensure the integrity of his quiff. “What’s it like having two dicks Larry?” said Anvil, the largest member of the gang. Larry stared seriously in Anvil’s craggily carved face. “Double the pleasure, double the pain. Luckily, I’m ambidextrous,” he said clicking his fingers and pointing two hands at the group. The gang filled the air with greasy giggles. “Still,’ said Larry Two Dicks, ‘shame you were so quick to kill that last bloke, that twink could have been femmed up and would have done me.” Grand GG PhaseFucker stood up. “Okay, clarification on the law of The Ruffians, dead chicks are off limits. If you are still so worked up you are considering it, I recommend popping one off in the bushes. That said, we will get some chicks for the back of our bikes soon.” “Amen,’ said Reverend Orke raising his hip flask then downing a shot, ‘take a swig boys then pass it on.” The guys cheered and chugged alcohol as they enjoyed their hearty meal. “I feel sick,’ said Sickie, ‘can you slow down?” Chela pushed her tongue against her teeth, Babs rested her head against the vibrating glass. Licorice sat between the Terror Twins her eyes closed as they chomped chewing gum and blew pink bubbles. Puffy gazed into a compact mirror whilst carefully applying eye makeup despite the frantic bouncing of the vehicle. Sickie was breathing heavily and a gentle shade of green. “Crack open a window,” said Chela. “But then I’m cold,” said Sickie. Babs gritted her teeth in the rear-view mirror. “Man, you’re giving me a fucking headache. Can you please just stop whining?” she said. Chela slowed the Twerk Machine to a gentler speed. “There you go, it’s not as fun when someone’s constantly whining. Besides we’re far enough away now. Licorice, you got the stuff?” said Chela. Licorice opened her eyes, smiled and nodded. “What you got?” said Puffy leaning forward knocking Sickie up against the window. The Terror twins’ eyes widened as Babs grinned and met their gaze. They took their gum out and stuck it behind their ears. Licorice pulled up her seat and took out a cooler from a secret compartment. The girls started to whoop when Licorice opened the lid and threw a bottle of clear liquid to each girl. “This is 98% proof guys, so go easy on it,” she said. She pulled a bottle of dark liquid and plonked it in Sickie’s lap. “Get a mouthful of that, hun,’ she said, ‘it’ll settle your stomach.” “What else you got?” said Puffy. Licorice took out a bag of purple powder, a bag of cannabis and a sheet of paper with images of radiation symbols. “Now that is what I’m talking about,’ said Puffy, ‘all the supplies for a proper trip.” “Let’s do ‘em now,” said Babs. “Yeah alright,” said Sickie. The girls cackled. “You’ve perked up, ain’t you?” said Babs tearing the sheet and handing out tabs to everyone. “Keep it under the tongue then swallow,” said Licorice. “Good advice for many acts,” said Puffy. Chela parked the Twerk Machine in a clearing, the girls poured out of the camper immediately setting up a camp, with Babs starting the fire, Chela and Licorice setting up warning signals, Puffy setting up the chairs, and Sickie and the twins setting out the supplies and rolling joints. Music churned from the Twerk Machine’s amplifiers to the campfire scene its headlights illuminated. Chela, Babs and Puffy were dancing together, Licorice sat cross-legged travelling the roads of her own imagination as Rain and Tiffany lay back gazing at the mess of stars in the rainbow-kissed sky. Sickie huddled close to the campfire lost in the flames. “Wonder what Trounce would have to say about this?” said Sickie. The girls who were dancing joined her around the fire. “Trounce seems like a goer to me,” said Babs. “Definitely,’ said Puffy slugging vodka down her throat, ‘reckon she’s chugged on loads of cock.” Chela giggled spraying vodka over the Tiffany and Rain. They tutted and wiped each other down. “We’ve shared a few guys before,’ said Tiffany, ‘but they can’t handle us both.” “What about you Sickie?’ said Babs, ‘or are you allergic?” Sickie barely able to lift her wasted eyes shook her head. “I believe in love, saving myself for the right one.” The girls all looked at each other, lost in the silent aftermath of honesty. Music from the radio drifted over them. “That’s beautiful, Sickie, good for you,” said Puffy. The twins flashed a sly glance at each other. “What about you Chela? You popped your cherry yet?” they said. “Nah, but wanna know how many people I’ve killed? ‘Cos I’ve definitely popped that cherry.” The girls looked at the mutant girl illuminated by the fire, staring at them with a real eye and a bionic eye, scratching an oversized pincer where her arm should be. They lowered their gaze. “I popped a different type of cherry recently,” said Babs. When all the girls looked at her she turned around and pulled up her shirt. ‘P.A.W.G’ was tattooed on her lower back. “Hardcore!” said Licorice. “You have a nice ass, Babs,’ said Puffy, ‘like a ripe peach. I’m happy with my body, but if I could change one thing it would be having an ass like that, mine’s a little droopy.” “Me too!” said Chela. “What you have a droppy ass?” “Chela’s ass is tight!” said Sickie. “Nah, I mean, I got a tattoo recently.” The girls flicked their gaze as she turned and pulled off her top to reveal a full back tattoo of butterfly wings in ultraviolet ink. “Beast!” said Sickie. “Now that is cool,” said Puffy. “Cheers, If I was to change my body, I’d have Babs’ tits,’ said Chela, ‘those things are weapons of mass destruction.” Babs marched around the campfire thrusting out her breasts and shouting, ‘take that!’ whilst the rest of the girls whooped and cheered and then chanted. “PAWG Power!” “PAWG Power!” “PAWG Power!” Chela stirred in the twilight, the lightest this part of the world got without being bombarded by solar flares. Laid out across two camp chairs she watched a scorpion cross the dirt beneath her. Sickie was curled next to the campfire which had burned out, the Terror twins snored in the front seats of the camper, Babs and Puffy were asleep on the vehicle’s roof. She couldn’t locate Licorice. Chela took a snort of the purple powder in a small pile on her chest and lit the spliff that had been tucked behind her ear, inhaling deeply she searched her memory for hints at the events of the night before. She exhaled filling the air with a jet of black smoke along with any desire to worry about the previous night. She strolled to kickstart the campfire, pulled the blanket over Sickie and took a swig from the whiskey bottle cradled in her arms. The camper was remarkably inviting in the blue light, so she staggered towards it and stared at her image in the glass, sniffed and rubbed her eyes caught in a combination of the post-high cosiness and the chill of the new day. The furry seat had a lovely warmth that she purred into, closing the back door gently not to alert any of the girls to her newly claimed resting place fearing having to share. She smoked the spliff, flicking the ash onto the camper floor until she drifted back to sleep. “It’s your fault,’ said Babs, ‘both of yours.” “Is it fuck,” said the Terror twins. Chela yawned deeply. Puffy groaned still half asleep on the camper roof. Chela wondered whether Puffy was directly above her and imagined what would happen if she fell through. “Come on guys,’ said Sickie, ‘it’s no one’s fault.” “And what are you doing building the campfire that high, it’s practically a bonfire, any freak will be able to see that,” said Babs. “I’m cold,” said Sickie. “Pretty sure there’s a garage a way down the road, I can be discrete, see what I can get, what you reckon?” said Licorice. Sickie looked at Babs. Babs raised her head in pronounced thought. “Yep, you do that Licorice, but make sure you have water and supplies,” she said. “Already done,” said Licorice, who turned on her heel and ran into the darkness towards the road. “Who made you chief anyway? Barking orders at everyone,” said Tiffany. Chela got into the front seat and searched the compartments until she found a bottle of vodka, which she took a deep gulp from. In front of the camper she could see Babs and the twins face to face ready to go at it. She pushed the horn. She took another swig and upon seeing that the girls still hadn’t settled she pushed the horn again. Squinting at the girls she realised that not only were the girls difficult to see, the horn had not made any sound. “Battery flat?” she said. “Oh, here’s the genius,” said Rain. Babs pushed her hard. Tiffany retaliated by grabbing the bunches of Babs’ hair and headbutting her. The girls fell to the floor in a scramble, rolling about as a threesome, scramming, pulling and biting at each other. “Fuck’s sake,” said Chela rubbing her head unsure if she had a hangover or if the metal plate in her head was playing up. She walked over to the tangle of girls and separated them. “Come on girls you’re better than this,” she said. The Twins bowed their heads and Babs looked away. “You know two against one isn’t fair,” said Chela. “You’re right,’ said the twins, ‘sorry Babs.” Babs nodded sternly accepting their apology. “Okay, we’ll tag team,’ said Rain, ‘I’ll go first.” Babs grinned rubbing her hands together. Rain pulled Tiffany to her feet and then stepped out of the makeshift ring the rest of the girls had quickly cobbled together with the camp chairs. With all the distraction the girls were oblivious to the sounds of motorbike engines in the distance. “Alright boys let’s move out,” said Grand GG PhaseFucker combing his moustache in the handlebar mirror. “Bit early, ain’t it?’ said Shitslinger scratching in his pants, ‘I’m still knackered after that meal.” Anvil was busy doing push ups whilst Larry urinated two streams of dark piss into the dirt. “You ever tried to write your name twice?” said Reverend Orke Danneals, his slimy laugh filling the sky. The two streams of urine converged and trickled beneath Anvil. “Fuck’s sake Larry, got your piss on me,” said Anvil wiping his face and spitting. “Best to get moving whilst the twilight’s on, save battery power,’ said Larry buttoning his jeans and shaking his hands, ‘better riding in the blue light after a snort though.” Grand GG ceased combing his beard and pursed his lips until a smile formed in the corner of his mouth. “Alright, form a queue,” he said. The gang of Ruffians formed a line as PhaseFucker pulled out a bag of purple dust placing a bump on his fist. Each man devoured the mound with a hefty snort. They danced and punched the air as the kick hit them and then rode the wave across the Desert of Twisted Limbs on their bikes until PhaseFucker pointed out the campfire in the distance. “A fire might mean cooking and cooking might mean girls,” he said revving the accelerator. The Ruffians cheered increasing their speed. Babs’ breasts swung like pendulums as she pounded her fists into Tiffany’s bloodied face. “Stretch out,” said Rain reaching out with her hand. Tiffany stretched enough to brush fingers with her sister. Rain leaped from the chair and crashed into Babs with a flying clothesline manoeuvre. Babs scattered backwards skidding across the desert floor with a look of bewilderment across her face. “Get out the ring,” said the spectators to Tiffany, who responded by rolling out. Rain gave herself a run up and came down with an elbow drop on Babs, who clutched her stomach and rolled about winded. The impact had knocked some of the enthusiasm out of Rain, who struggled to get back to her feet. Chela looked at the fighters, all three were banged up and had more than preserved their honour. Puffy and Sickie were cheering whilst sharing a bottle of vodka. Chela stepped into the ring between Rain and Babs. “Ding Ding!” she said shaking her claw. Babs, Rain and Tiffany shared sighs of relief. Tiffany helped Rain to her feet, and in turn both helped Babs to hers. They shook hands. “Sounds like we missed a fucking good show,” said PhaseFucker appearing from behind the camper. “Yeah, a nice bit of girl on girl,” said Reverend Orke Danneals. The figures of Larry Two Dicks, Anvil and Shitslinger followed. Chela eyed up the bikers, she inhaled to calm her pulse, which was racing more out of annoyance at being surprised than fear. “Where’s your bikes?” she said. PhaseFucker turned to Orke nodding his head with an impressed smile. “She’s pretty quick this one,” he said. “Yeah, a mutant too by the looks of it, love me a mutant girl,” said Orke. Sickie moved behind Puffy, who was busy tidying her hair and shortening her dress. Tiffany, Rain and Babs stood side by side ready to fight as a threesome. “No need for edginess girls,’ said PhaseFucker, ‘the boys and me are here on good terms, we didn’t want to roll up engines blasting and give you the wrong impression of us.” Chela laughed. “You mean, you wanted to surprise whoever was at the campfire,” she said. PhaseFucker applauded. “Told you she was quick, didn’t I?” “You sure did,” said Orke eyeing Chela like a leathery tongue licking an ice cream. “True,’ said PhaseFucker holding up his palms, ‘that said, if we meant you girls bad intentions, I wouldn’t have introduced myself. You look like you are having a party, and well, we’re always up to party, ain’t we boys?” The bikers laughed. “Introductions are in order, my name is Grandmaster GG PhaseFucker and I’m head of our little Chapter called The Ruffians, you might’ve heard of us?” “Nope,” said Chela. “Well, we can’t be all that bad, can we?” he said. “He’s got a point, Chela,” said Puffy walking forward. Chela flashed a gritted frown at her. Puffy offered the back of her hand to PhaseFucker like a dainty fairy. “My you’re one playful looking sausage roll,” said Reverend Orke taking her hand and licking it. “This is Reverend Orke Daniels,’ said PhaseFucker, ‘excuse his lack of pupils, some sort of genetic thing. The slobbering skinhead behind me is Shitslinger, and the carved statue towering behind him is Anvil.” “Who’s the quiff?” said the Terror twins. “Well, that is Larry Two Dicks,” said PhaseFucker. The girls raised their eyebrows. “No misnomer,” said PhaseFucker smiling. The Terror twins stood up and walked towards Larry each taking a hand and leading him to sit by the fire. “There that’s nice and friendly,” said PhaseFucker sitting down and patting the chair next to him whilst looking at Chela. Anvil stomped over towards Sickie and offered his coat. “You shivering, like coat to keep warm?” he said in a voice that sounded like friendly stone. Sickie smiled and nodded like a mouse agreeing to eat out of a person’s hand. She took the coat and wrapped herself in it. “May sit?” said Anvil. Sickie nodded and Anvil sat beside her. “Large fire, but right size for me,” he said. Shitslinger rubbed his eyebrows and walked towards Babs offering her a hand. She did a backwards roll and then sat on the other side of the campfire. Shitslinger gritted his teeth and shook his eyes bemused. Chela noted the vein bulging in his temple. “No worries there Shitslinger, not every gal is looking for a dance partner, come join me and my new friend,” said PhaseFucker. Chela sat down next to PhaseFucker and Shitslinger took the seat next to her. She winked at Babs, who smiled back. PhaseFucker lit a joint and inhaled deeply. “I must say I am intrigued,’ he said slapping his thigh and exhaling, ‘what is a pack of fine beauties doing out unprotected in this harsh land, surely your fathers must be worried?” The bikers laughed like an oily engine through a gear change. Puffy and the twins laughed too. “We’re PAWGS, baby,” said Puffy jiggling her tits. “Yeah, we don’t need no protection out here,” said Tiffany rubbing Larry’s left thigh. Chela pushed her tongue into her cheek and shook her head. “PAWGS eh?’ said Orke, ‘sounds naughty girl, and what exactly is a PAWG?” “Powerful Artillery Wielding Girl Scouts,’ said Rain rubbing Larry’s right thigh. Orke chuckled. “Well you sure don’t seem to have many big weapons on you,” he said. “What about these?” said Puffy shaking her tits again. Orke threw his head back with a wild grin and then brought his head down into Puffy’s cleavage. She squealed and squeezed her tits against his face. “That’s the thing about names’ said PhaseFucker, ‘they are funny things, designed to inspire fear, like when I started this gang, some of the guys wanted a scarier name than The Ruffians, but to me it is actions not names that matter.” Shitslinger placed his hand on Chela’s knee and began to rub her leg in waves, each time closer to her groin. She leaned into him, leaving herself open to PhaseFucker at her left. Shitslinger grinned as the curly haired girl moved in responding to his moves. She winked at him as her grin became a shrug. His eyes became quizzical then bulbous with shock as the claw around his neck tightened. “Afraid I have to say no,” said Chela. He lifted his hand off her thigh and she responded by relinquishing her grip on his throat. “Well that’s not very hospitable is it?’ said PhaseFucker,’I thought you mutant girls were right goers, could at least throw a fuck our way, seeing as your friends are taking care of our compadres.” Chela stood up unzipped her pants and pulled them down to reveal a mechanical contraption encasing her crotch. “Sorry boys, daddy says no,” she said pulling her trousers back up. “What was that?” said Orke winking at Puffy and nodding towards his crotch. “Chastity belt, won’t come off, trust me I’ve tried,” she said sniggering. PhaseFucker stood up, shrugging his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “Well your mouth works don’t it?” he said unzipping his fly. Chela smiled. “Not in the way you’d like,” she said biting her teeth together. PhaseFucker pulled out his gun. Chela was ready to pounce but a cough behind her disarmed her. Chela turned to see Orke’s revolver pointed at the top of Puffy’s head as she nuzzled her mouth into Orke’s lap. The splashing sounds and grunts of Puffy seemed absurd to Chela in the circumstances. She turned back to the two men as PhaseFucker clocked her in the side of the head with his revolver. She fell flat into the dirt. “That’s okay, wouldn’t want to fuck a scorpion anyway,” he said. Puffy looked up as the two men kicked Chela in the chest and stomach. Sickie shivered inside Anvil’s large leather jacket and arms oblivious to her surroundings and the Terror Twins were riding Larry Two Dicks as they watched the beating. As the boots pounded into Chela’s body, Puffy’s voice floated into her ears. “Hey guys, no need for that, there’s plenty of me to go around, leave her and join me and your friend here,” she said. “Well I need to blast my load first,” said PhaseFucker taking out his revolver and aiming at Chela’s face. Babs bolted into the darkness as PhaseFucker pulled the trigger. The gunshot cried into the desert sky. The last thing Chela thought before the blackness took her was that Puffy was a true friend and she would have to limit the number of fat jokes at her expense in the future. Chela woke with a fierce inhaling of air. She shot to her feet ready to fight, saw that she was alone next to the dying campfire and fell back to the ground. “Shit,” she said clutching her body. Her body raged with pain. She would regenerate the damage soon enough, but for the meantime she would feel the effects of the beating. The pain indicated that she had been out less than 24 hours, probably only a few hours in total. She touched her face and pulled out the bullet lodged in the metal plate in her forehead. “Psst,” said a voice from the darkness. “Who the fuck is that?” said Chela. “It’s Babs, you okay?” said Babs. Chela nodded, then grimaced, then grunted. “Get over here and help me up then,” said Chela. Babs crept from the cover of darkness. She rested Chela’s head on her knees and held a bottle of vodka to her lips. Chela sipped the liquid, then gulped it devouring half the bottle. Babs held out a bump of purple powder on her fist, which Chela snorted. “That should help you on your way to forgetting about the pain,’ said Babs, ‘sorry I didn’t do more to help.” Chela dismissed Babs’ apologies with a wave of her claw. “Look girl, we were caught without our weapons, I should have just cut the guy’s head off and took on their leader, but I couldn’t read the situation, the other girls didn’t seem to be on the same page. What happened to them?” “The Ruffians took them,’ said Babs downing a slug of vodka,’ they took Sickie and the twins.” “Predators always go after the weak and the lame,’ said Chela smirking, ‘what about Puffy?” Babs nodded her head. “Well I owe her one, she took one for the team last night.” Chela scanned the campsite, shrugged, then performed a variety of stretches. “I can’t believe I left my hammer in my buggy,’ said Chela shaking her head, ‘so dumb.” Babs rubbed her eyes. “We didn’t even bother getting the guns from the Twerk Machine, amateur hour, or what?” The two girls walked to their dead vehicle, left untouched by The Ruffians. They pulled up the floor in the back revealing a small arsenal of weaponry. “Shame Marcie Two Bellies isn’t here, she’s a whizz with the M60,’ said Babs ‘speaking of which, you take the shotgun.” Chela grinned caressing the double-barrelled shotgun against her face, she stuffed her pockets with shells. “Reckon I should take the bazooka?” said Babs twirling a bunch of her hair. “Really need permission?” Babs winked and swung the strap over her shoulder, she picked a case of rockets up. “Shame the vehicle is shagged, walking is gonna be a bitch,” she said. “Speaking of walking, you seen Licorice?” Babs shook her head. The girls gathered supplies of water, ammunition and drugs and were about to start their journey when they saw a jeep bounding over the landscape with a person parasailing off the back of it. The driver waved at them in the lowlight and slowed the jeep allowing his partner to land behind him. He drove towards the campfire. “Hey, hope you don’t mind us interrupting, this is as good as any other place to take a break,” he said. Chela looked at Babs and raised her eyes at the jeep. Babs returned a nod unable to hide a smile, which fortuitously the boys in the jeep assumed was flirtatious. They watched as the driver untied his friend from the parachute. “Would either of you like a go?” he said. The girls shook their heads. “I’m Wired by the way, the guy behind me is Jaxxon Sativa,’ he said smiling at Chela and offering his hand, ‘it’s the lightest it’s been for ages these last few days, thought we’d catch it while we could. You guys had similar thoughts?” “What you mean?” said Babs. Chela touched Babs on the small of her back to calm her nerves. “The campervan,’ said Wired, ‘you out here enjoying the light too.” “Yes,’ said Chela, eyeing the young man’s smile and offering her claw, ‘something like that.” Wired held Chela’s claw and gently shook it as he stared into her eyes. “It’s good to meet you,’ he said, ‘you mind if we sit by your fire, warm up?” “Sure,” said Chela. Jaxxon wound the parasailing equipment up and put it away in the jeep. “Hey girls, fancy a smoke? Really makes you crave the green stuff when you’re up there risking your neck all day.” Jaxxon eyed Chela’s claw and switched his smile to Babs as he joined Wired at the campfire. Babs made a brief gesture with her hand as though rolling an invisible pair of dice. Chela smirked. She looked at Wired’s back. He turned and smiled waving her over. She walked towards him and sat beside him. He held a vaporiser in a large gloved hand. “What’s up with your hand?” she said. “Oh nothing, I’m a technomancer, it’s a contraption I’ve been working on, I call it the PowerGauntlet, so far I’ve managed to tweak it so that it can generate 100 volts of electricity in the palm.” “Sweet,” said Chela genuinely impressed. “I’m not the strongest guy, and out here you need to make use of every advantage to level the playing field. Don’t you think?” She smiled holding out her claw. “That’s my advantage, or disadvantage,” she said. “Flaws are just a matter of perception,” said Wired placing the vaporiser in her claw. Chela took a hit of the vanilla flavoured weed contemplating the words of the young technomancer, whilst in her bionic vision she enjoyed the way he looked at her when he thought he was unchecked. She passed the vaporiser to Babs who took a hit and passed it to Jaxxon beside her. Upon taking his hit Jaxxon bolted up and flipped into a handstand and walked around on his hands. “You cut your head?’ said Wired pointing at his own forehead, ‘You okay?” “Yeah I’m fine, it’s just a bullet hole.” Wired laughed. “You from round here?” said Wired. Chela nodded. “Up near Sorrowsong.” “Really?” “Yeah, I know, don’t worry, I’m no Purist,” she said. “Well I got that from the claw,’ he said, ‘pretty sure they’d want to kill you on sight for that.” She laughed. “What about you?” Wired was about to respond when Jaxxon’s voice cut across them. “There’s a water pool down there, who’s up for a swim?” he said. Wired jumped up and ran to look. “Typical ain’t it?’ Chela said scratching her chin, ‘I’d actually like to join them.” Babs clicked her tongue and shrugged. “Yeah we will be there now, just getting our costumes from the camper, meet you there,” said Babs. Chela and Babs threw their weapons into the back seat of the jeep and climbed into the front. Chela was about to hotwire the engine when she realised Wired had left his keys in the ignition, normally she would laugh at his naivety, but for some reason she sympathised. “Start the car then,” said Babs tapping her thigh. Chela shaken out of her reverie started the engine. Babs grabbed Chela’s shotgun and pointed it at the boys who stopped instinctively raising their hands. “Sorry boys, under normal circumstances, we would genuinely love to hook up with you, but we need to go kill some guys and rescue some girls,” said Babs. Chela watched the boys disappear in a haze of dust in the rear-view mirror. “Why do you keep slowing down?” said PhaseFucker. Orke thumbed at Puffy sat behind him, he loosened her arms around his chest and sighed. PhaseFucker revved towards Larry, the twins behind him. The lines on his face formed the impression of a worn horseshoe, his eyes sagging beneath his dishevelled hair. He looked over at Anvil’s blissful stone face like a statue of a smile, Sickie behind him shivering in his leather jacket. PhaseFucker rubbed his crotch, the blowjob he’d received the night before had been unsatisfactory; a combination of teeth and reluctance to use the tongue or mouth itself. The girls had wanted to stop too often for his liking too, toilet breaks, sight-seeing, rest stops along with the contingent having to match Orke’s slow speed. He saw the service station in the distance and his moustache raised revealing a blackened toothy smile. “Rest ahead, fellas,” he said powering the bike ahead of the pack. The service station seemed to be made of rust with a side-line as a museum; old engines and shells of vehicles littered the forecourt. The shop itself housed inside a large grey cube of reinforced concrete and bulletproof glass, outside of which a few wooden benches and tables were scattered. The bikers entered in single file led by PhaseFucker who parked close to the dirt road. “Right then girls,’ said PhaseFucker wiping his brow and holding out credits, ‘you go and get us some drinks and some treats for yourselves.” Orke’s bike chugged in behind them. The twins leapt off the bike and grabbed the credits from PhaseFucker. “Come on Puffy, we’re getting some refreshments,” they said. “Ace, that seat sure has caused me discomfort and I’ve had at least two sets of man batter slaloming down my legs the entire way.” The girls cackled as Orke’s face twisted in disgust. “Uh, boss,” said Anvil. “What is it?’ said PhaseFucker watching the girls walk away, ‘go on Sickie, join your friends.” Sickie shivered and hugged into Anvil. “Boss,’ said Anvil bolstered by the love of his life’s arms around him, ‘I’m leaving the gang, going to live with Sindy.” “Are you fucking crackers?” said PhaseFucker. The four bikers watched open mouthed as their strongest member turned his bike around and rode off in the direction they had just come from. Puffy and the twins ran towards them. “Where’s Sickie going?” said Puffy. “Can’t believe Anvil pussied out,” said PhaseFucker eyes still fixed on Anvil’s bike. “First taste of pussy and he leaves the life to settle down,” said Orke shaking his head. “Maybe it’s true love,” said Puffy. Anvil and Orke both spat on the floor. “Pah,” said PhaseFucker. “Larry,’ said the twins, ‘we need you to carry our things for us whilst we shop. Also, need you to shampoo our hair later.” “Yes, be there now,” he said. PhaseFucker and Orke turned incredulous at Larry, who was draped over his bike like a sack of rotting vegetables. The twins and Puffy walked back to the service station. PhaseFucker took out a telescope from his waistcoat pocket and watched Anvil riding away on the long road. Dust spat up on the tip of the horizon, he focused on it until into view he saw a jeep driven by the mutant girl he’d shot in the face. “Right guys,’ said PhaseFucker rolling his shoulders and fingering his moustache, ‘emergency meeting.” The four bikers huddled together. “These chicks ain’t worth the hassle,’ said PhaseFucker, ‘besides I’ve just seen that mutant chick and the other girl with the huge tits driving towards us.” “Time to leave,’ said Orke, ‘that chick is screwing my rear suspension and slowing me down, we have to ditch her.” Larry nodded. “Man, these are first girls we’ve encountered that have wanted to go with us,’ said Shitslinger, ‘last night was the first time I put my dick in a woman for ages.” “You have her on your bike then,” said Orke. Shitslinger looked at Puffy then shook his head. “Too much aggro. Let’s ditch these ass pains,” said PhaseFucker. The Ruffians nodded their heads, started their bikes and rode away from the service station. The twins ran to the road followed by Puffy, screaming insults and throwing their snacks against the floor. “We’re coming for you Larry!” said the twins. The bikers whooped and punched the air. “Boss, I reckon they will come after us, that mutant’s gonna be pissed and the twins are mental,” said Larry. “Affirmative to that,” said Orke. “Well, let’s have a surprise for them then,” said Grand GG PhaseFucker. Chela and Babs brought the jeep to a stop at the tangled mass of flesh and blood. “What is it?’ said Babs, ‘roadkill?” Chela hopped out of her seat and walked across the bonnet and jumped into the road. She crouched at the mangled corpse. “It’s roadkill alright, just not the good stuff,” she said. Babs wrinkled her nose. “What you mean?” “It’s Licorice,” said Chela. Babs jumped out of her seat and leapt off the bonnet to join Chela. “What the fuck? How can you tell?” Chela held up a long braid of black hair. “Gross,” said Babs. Chela scanned the road. “The Ruffians stampeded her,’ said Chela walking towards the scrub at the side of the road, ‘may not have been intentional.” “Really?” “Nah, probably intentional,” she said. Chela pulled a black object from the scrub and held it up for Babs to see. “She found a battery then?” said Babs removing Licorice’s scout shirt, folding it neatly and shoving it into her pocket. “Yeah, she was a competent scout.” Chela put the battery pack in the jeep and in a determined silence the pair drove after The Ruffians desperate to enact vengeance. The road stretched out in uneventful blandness until a biker emerged from the hazy twilight. Chela focused the zoom option of her bionic eye. “It’s the giant one, with Sickie,” said Chela. “Exercise caution, he may be bringing her back,” said Babs. Chela stopped the jeep in the road. She racked the double-barrelled shotgun using the door as cover. Babs did the same with the bazooka. The biker approached them slowly with Sickie waving a scarf. “Stop there,” said Chela. Anvil stopped the bike and held up his hands. Sickie got off the bike and ran in front of him. “Don’t shoot,” she said. “Why not?” said Chela. Sickie took Anvil’s hand. “He left the gang, we’re going back to mine, Anvil wants to work on my garden. We’re in love.” “True love,” said Anvil. Chela and Babs exchanged glances. “Fair enough,’ said Chela, ride past slowly on my side.” Chela closed the door of the jeep and took cover on the other side of the car with Babs. “Slowly,” said Chela. Anvil complied nodding at the girls as he passed the jeep. “See you later,” said Sickie. Babs and Chela trailed them with their weapons. “Congratulations,” said Chela. “Yeah congrats,” said Babs. Sickie smiled and squeezed into Anvil as he raised a hand to wave. Then they picked up speed and continued their ride home. Chela and Babs waited until the bike was out of sight then thundered after the remaining gang members. The service station soon came into view along with their browbeaten friends, slumped over wooden benches on the forecourt. They pulled the jeep into the garage. “It’s Chela and Babs,” said Puffy throwing her hands up in cheer and climbing into the back seat. “We’re hunting bikers, you coming girls?” said Babs. The twins grimaced at the girls, tutted then slumped towards the jeep and squeezed in the back seat with Puffy. “Larry Two Dicks is ours,” they said, their faces full of petulant thunder and chewing gum. “We got dumped,” said Puffy. Chela stifled a laugh with the rev of the accelerator. Babs explained their acquisition of the jeep and their discovery of Licorice as Chela focused on following the bikers’ tracks in between thoughts of the blonde-haired boy she’d wanted to go skinny dipping with. Then Babs took great delight in regaling the girls in the back seat about Sickie and Anvil finding true love which Puffy found delightful and the twins distasteful. The jeep followed the road on the edge of a ravine on Chela’s side. She maintained a healthy speed when something disturbed her. Ahead of her she could not make out any more trails as though the bikers had disappeared. She saw a thin flash across the road at eye level that connected to a mast at the top of the ravine. “Duck!” she said. The jeep smashed through a thin line of razor wire tied across the road which tore through the windscreen, whipped above Chela and Babs’ heads as they threw themselves beneath the dashboard. Tiffany and Rain managed to do the same but Puffy only said ‘what?’ before the wire tore through her neck decapitating her. The jeep swerved and Puffy’s head landed next to Chela’s where their eyes met. Tiffany, Rain and Babs threw themselves from the jeep landing heavily onto the road. The jeep flipped over and plummeted towards the bottom of the ravine. Chela looked up and saw the ground below coming towards her with the full weight of the jeep above her. She threw herself out of the jeep towards the mountain side and tumbled, crashing through the branches of decaying trees and into the grey sand. The air from her chest escaped and as she fought for oxygen the pain in her back tore through her body. She made out the figures of the bikers at the top of the ravine looking down at her. Her final thoughts before the shadow took her was on how she had been a total rookie for most of this field trip. On the road the bikers cheered. “Told you it would work,” said Orke. “Man, gotta say that is some evil shit,’ said PhaseFucker adjusting his crotch and peering down into the wreckage at the bottom of the gorge, ‘that’s one dead mutant. Shame really ‘cos she was a stunner.” “Apart from the claw,” said Shitslinger. The tangled bodies of the Terror twins lay in the road, their eyes fixed on Larry who gazed down at them adjusting his quiff. Babs, spattered with her own blood, breathed shallowly as her body spasmed. “Right gather them up,’ said PhaseFucker, ‘we’ll take them back to the HQ, chain them up as our personal sex dolls. Don’t worry girls, we’ll let you heal first, we’re not animals.” Chela awoke from 12 hours of blackness to find a scorpion crawling over her chest. She tried to flick it off, but her hand wouldn’t lift. Pain swelled in her lower back. Her toes twitched in response to signals from her brain which gave her some comfort. The bonus of being experimented on as a foetus by an insane scientist father figure to engineer a genetically modified killer was the various benefits she had over the regular girls growing up; heightened reflexes, enhanced IQ, strength, durability, a body adaptable to weather extremes, and the benefits of rapid healing. Her physical body only required 24 hours to recover from injuries if she wasn’t killed outright. She spent the first eight hours immobile running through various self-defence manoeuvres in her mind, detailing then disassembling, cleaning and reassembling of various weapons, she even visualised herself completing her vigorous workout routine, push up by push up, pull up by pull up. Then she concocted various tortures on the men responsible for her current predicament and then she relived her first meeting with Wired, his smile and his touch upon her claw. She breathed out and her hand moved towards her crotch. Her eyes widened and she laughed. The scorpion upon her chest began to move. She picked it up by the tail. “Mama, mama,” she said before placing it in the pocket of her dungarees. Her skin was covered in blood belonging to her and her friends, she ran her hands over her body checking for bleeds, but the blood had dried and there were no wounds to deal with. The bullet hole in her forehead had completely healed, but aside from the broken back that had repaired itself most of the damage she had sustained was superficial that although susceptible to further damage while repairing was not inconvenient. Staggering to the jeep she tore a large strip from the parasail to create a bag, which she filled with scorpions collected from the grey sand then tied to her belt. She tied the battery Licorice had found over her shoulder, located her shotgun and a few scattered shells, fruitlessly searched for her friend’s head, then set about climbing the steep ravine towards the road. Her eyes scanned the ravine assessing the best mode of ascent, she blew snot from her nostrils and spat on the floor. The climb was slow and wearing on her damaged frame, but her anger fuelled her legs like pistons forcing her crawl up the vertical rise with the methodical compulsion of an insect. At times she would punch into the dirt with her claw to secure herself to rest, where she would look down at the jeep below. As her climb progressed, she was taken by a fit of the giggles, lost in a wave of surprise at her own abilities, strength and endurance at surviving such a massive fall. She grasped a rock with her human hand which relinquished its connection with the earth, and she slid, she plunged her hands into the dirt to slow her descent but her body hit a ledge which flipped her body and she tumbled back towards the gully. She lashed out with hand and claw to save herself and crashed into a stunted tree stump shoulder first dislocating it, causing her claw arm to hang flat at her side. “Woopdifuckingdo!” she said clutching the roots with her bleeding hand. Ignoring the throbbing pain in her shoulder, she gritted her teeth and steadying herself with her feet, pushed up and clutched the earth. Chela repeated this motion until she emerged at the lip of the ravine and heaved herself onto the road. Puffy’s body was plonked in the road in an island of her blood. Chela tore her latex skirt down revealing knickers with teddy bears cuddling on them. Her bubblegum perfume still fresh and amply applied. “You poor thing,” she said cutting Puffy’s skirt in half. Chela dropped the battery to the floor and stood straight to regulate her breathing. She pulled her claw arm straight forward and then back, repeating this motion deliberately and patiently until her shoulder popped back into place. The relief of it caused her to crash to the floor panting, her body caked in a sweaty mix of blood, oil and dirt. She set about manipulating the red latex dress into a sling pulling it into a tight knot with her teeth. A brief search of the road led to the discovery of a metre of razor wire and the tracks of the three girls converging to one long drag pattern and then the trails of the bikes. She removed Puffy’s PAWGS shirt, folding it as neatly as she could and tucked it away in her pocket. Chela snickered, checked the shotgun and placed the spare shells inside her sling. “My turn to get some killing done,” she said following the gang’s tracks to their hideout. The hideout was 5 hours walk in the rain, by the time she arrived her claw arm had a range of motion, despite discomfort. The Ruffians’ hideout was pathetic, consisting of an outside toilet across the yard from a small bunkhouse with an open garage housing a row of motorbikes and a flagpole with a hand painted gang sign on it. It stank like oil, shit and dirty-minded men. She scouted the area, finding the toilet unoccupied and the only light coming from inside the cabin. Inside the men were playing cards and grinning, on the table sat a bucket catching drips from the ceiling. The twins were chained to a rusted washing machine in the kitchen area, their bruised faces grimacing at the back of Larry Two Dicks. Babs was chained to a radiator against the opposite wall. Shitslinger leapt to his feet and started dancing, PhaseFucker dressed in stained long johns poured the drinks as Larry looked to the sky in defeat. The white-eyed Orke threw his cards at Shitslinger and downed his drink. He grabbed a folded magazine and lantern and left the cabin as the other men started another round of cards. Chela stalked the figure of Orke jogging across the sodden ground towards the toilet. He opened the door and hung the lantern from a hook on the wall, unbuckled his pants and let them drop. He jumped round in a ridiculous motion, plonked himself on the toilet and grabbed a rope attached to the door and pulled it shut. Chela did not hear him lock it. She pocketed the shotgun shells she was keeping in her sling and stuffed the shotgun in her pants and crept towards the door placing her ear against it. There was a grunt followed by a slopping sound and she took the advantage pulling open the door and shoving her claw around Orke’s throat. His white eyes surprised as he looked up from the faded porn magazine still trying to register the attack. He moved his hands but Chela squeezed just enough to make him raise them. “Interlock your fingers behind your head,” she said. Orke complied. “Open your mouth,’ said Chela, ‘but make a noise and I snip, I’m just here for your boss.” Orke nodded and opened his mouth, it reeked like a cancer-ridden fish. Chela stuffed Puffy’s red latex dress into Orke’s gob and then squeezed her claw severing his head from his body, blood coated her claw whilst she held Orke’s head by the hair in the other hand. She placed his head on the toilet roll holder and searched his trousers finding a lighter and a switchblade. Chela used the salvaged metre of razor wire to create a trip wire outside the bunkhouse door, sticking the blade handle into the ground a meter and a half from the trap so that the knife end stood proud in the air jutting from the ground like an erection. She pulled the gang flagpole from the ground and tore the flag from it and pushed Orke’s head onto it in its place, then plunged it into the ground a few meters directly outside the bunkhouse door. With gentle precision Chela climbed onto the bunkhouse roof and located the source of the leak. Through the hole she emptied the bag of scorpions she had collected and moved to position outside the door. The men screamed. “What the fuck?” said PhaseFucker running out the bunkhouse. He saw the severed head of Orke as he tripped on the razor wire and smacked into the ground taking the blade trap fully into the groin. Shitslinger stalled in the doorway. His eyes flicked from the head of Orke, to the writhing body of his boss to the figure of Chela emerging from the darkness as she pulled the trigger of her shotgun. Chela fired both barrels into Shitslinger’s stomach and he crashed onto the poker table his guts splattering the walls of the bunkhouse. Chela reloaded and stamped over the whimpering body of PhaseFucker into the cabin. Larry saw her and covered his eyes before Tiffany and Rain dragged him to the floor and pounded blows into him. Chela saw a ring of keys on the table and used them to unlock the girls. Tiffany and Rain immediately used the chains to enslave Larry as Chela helped Babs to her feet. “Thought you were dead,” Babs said. “At least twice so far,” said Chela smiling. Chela took PhaseFucker’s pistol and shot a hole in the base of his bike’s petrol tank. Petrol began to leak over the bike and into the dirt. “I thought that would explode,” said Babs. “Nah,” said Chela. Chela kicked PhaseFucker who rolled over and pulled the blade from his crotch, squealing into the air, gobs of spit tangled into his moustache. “Okay boy, if you get on your bike, you’re free to go,” she said holding a finger to her lips when Babs looked at her. PhaseFucker groaned as he crawled towards the bike Chela held for him. She even put the key in the ignition. He draped himself on the bike, blood filling his trousers, his lips quivering. He started the engine and rode away, a trail of petrol following him like the blood of a wounded animal. Chela sparked Orke’s lighter and dropped it onto the trail of petrol igniting it. PhaseFucker sobbed oblivious to the fire roaring behind him until he caught its glow in his rear-view mirror. He yelped as the flame engulfed him and dived for the dirt frantically rolling to extinguish himself. He stifled the flames and lay on his back whimpering, steam emanating from his trembling body. Chela stood over him. “Typically in a situation such as this, I would respond like for like, seeing as you shot me in the face, I could shoot you, I have your weapon after all,’ she said twisting his revolver on her forefinger, ‘but this one is for Licorice, so I’m going to kill you with this battery, which she was bringing to us when you left her like roadkill. And I’m going to bash your head in for Puffy.” PhaseFucker begged for his life but Chela didn’t even register the words. “Either way,’ she said holding up the battery, ‘you’re getting fucked by a scorpion.” She smashed the battery into his head with just enough force to not kill him, watched his body spasm for a few moments before finishing him with the second hit. The PAWGS stripped the hideout and bodies of weapons, credits and anything else that could be traded or sold. “Anyone want a leather jacket with a defunct motorbike gang on it?” said Babs dumping the leather jackets into a heap. “Yeah, sort of an ironic fashion statement,” said Chela. Wearing their new leather jackets they mounted the remaining bikes. Tiffany rode Larry’s bike, with Rain behind her and Larry behind her holding a chain attached to a dog collar around his neck. Babs tied the severed heads of Orke, Shitslinger and what remained of PhaseFucker’s to her seat and dragged them behind her satisfied by the sounds of the skulls smashing and battering the road. The girls shared a bottle of whiskey taken from the gang’s poker table as they rode back to the Twerk Machine saluting the corpses of their fallen friends along the way. Chela had hoped Wired would still be there waiting at their campsite but wasn’t surprised to see that the boys had cleared out. Chela wiped the battery with the tattered flag of the Ruffians and then fitted it whilst Larry gathered their belongings and loaded them into the camper. “Right, let’s load the bikes too,” said Chela discarding the flag in the dirt. Tiffany and Rain exchanged glances and inaudible mouth movements. Chela had always assumed they were psychic. “We’re not coming back yet,’ said Rain, ‘tell Trounce to expect us later.” “Where you going?” said Babs. “Where going on a double date with Larry, bit of quality time, fully break him in. Isn’t that right Larry?” said Tiffany tugging the chain. Larry nodded obsequiously and stood by his bike like a servant. Chela wondered if Larry’s fate was worse than the rest of The Ruffians. She spat on the floor. The girls strutted to the bike, Tiffany got on the bike first, followed by Rain, followed by Larry. Babs and Chela waved them off then got in the Twerk Machine. They sat in silence all the way back to the PAWGS HQ. Chela parked the camper and opened the door. “You think you learned anything on this field trip?” said Babs touching Chela’s claw. Chela closed the door and considered the question. She wrinkled then rubbed her nose. “Yeah, attack when it is good for me to do so and let everyone on my side catch up. If I’d done that, Puffy and Licorice might still be alive. Not that I feel guilty, because that is just how things go out here. I learned I can survive alone, that I can die more than once. That I’m a genetically modified killer and that it is a pretty fucking beautiful thing.” Babs breathed Chela’s thoughts in. “What about you?” “To not run, to react quicker, to never be without a weapon, ever. Other things I’m still computing.” After listening to the girls detail their experiences Trounce unfolded the shirts of Licorice and Puffy and gazed at them. “Real shame, both good girls, they will hang on the wall with our other fallen members. It is good they were avenged.” Trounce took a cheroot from a wooden box on her desk and lit it, she dismissed Babs with the order to get immediate rest in her bunk. Chela and Babs shared a smile as Babs left the room. “Right Chela,’ said Trounce, ‘I think it is time for you to leave the PAWGS, tell your father you graduated.” “Miss?” “You’re too extreme for these girls and it is time for you to work solo, the intention of you joining us, was always for situational training and experience to develop and prepare you to be utilised by your father. You have more than demonstrated that you are ready for that role. You will be using your new buggy for such tasks, which is why you received it I imagine.” Chela shrugged. “Okay, I’ll be off then, but I’m keeping my shirt as a memento,’ she said, ‘and the shotgun.” The journey home was a quiet hell after the mass of life events poured into the last few days, driving to become a practical slave for her father who would send her out into the burnt world particularly gnawed at her. At least she would get to kill stuff. She caressed the shotgun in her lap when she saw a familiar figure walking along the side of the road. She pulled up beside it. “Dangerous walking these roads,” she said. “Tell me about it,” said Wired resting his hands on the buggy. “Is that what the shotgun is for?” Chela smiled. “Just my weapon of choice, I call her Butterfly,” she said. He grinned and stared at her lips. “Where’s your friend?” she said. “Jaxxon? He buggered off when you swiped his jeep, blamed me for leaving the keys in.” “Sorry about that, next time you see him, tell him I’d have hotwired it in seconds anyway.” She bit her lip in the warmth of his gaze. “I waited around for you to return, had the feeling you only wanted to borrow it,” he said brushing his long blonde hair back. Chela imagined his hair caressing her chest. “It was true what Babs said to you,’ she said not looking at him, ‘we would have loved to have stayed with you, but we had things to do.” She waited for him to say something, anything, but he remained silent until she flashed a glance at him. “You gonna let me in now?” he said. END
Dark Kate |
E. David Brown arrived in Canada in 1976 to attend the University of British Columbia where he met his wife and received an MFA in Creative Writing. He later went on to the receive an M.A. in Education from The University of McGill. They have lived in Montreal for over forty years and have a daughter, Flannery. In 2000 they bought a house on Lac Travers in Saint-Adolphe d’Howard and now divide their time between the city and the country. The Laurentians hold a special attraction for David. They remind him of the Taunus Mountains in Germany and the foothills of Colorado where he lived briefly as a kid. David’s career incarnations have included being a bartender, probation officer, freelance writer, Human Resource Director, and CEGEP professor. At UBC he received the CBC award for screenplay and documentary work. In 1999 Plateau Press published his novel “Tell You All”, a black humor retelling of the story of Lazarus. His most recent story “Wildflowers of Colorado” was published in the Scarlet Leaf Review. |
Another Superfluous Man
The smell is what sticks with me, not the mustard coloured walls or old men absorbed by arm chairs in the lobby of the YMCA. The old men’s eyes are trained on a black and white television secured to a metal platform that hangs from a wall. There are young men as well. Like me they have come to this place not by choice but by circumstance. Like me they want to believe it is only a temporary shelter. They want to believe this but their eyes settle on the old men whose eyes are trained on the black and white television and they fear that they, we, will one day be sitting in arm chairs with the platform too high to permit us to switch channels.
But like I said, the fetid odour of cigarettes, fried food, and perspiration permeates the air like the promise of failure. It is not a rare smell. It hangs as a poisonous cloud over every street corner in North America. No matter how hard you try to wash it away, mask it with cologne or bury it under success it sticks with you.
*
I hitched a ride at the Oklahoma border with a card carrying John Bircher. Did my part and listened to him rant for three hours about how these here United States was going down the shit-tube because of peaceniks, draft dodgers, druggies, hippies, queers, pinkos and intellectual do-nothings. I didn’t tell him that I qualified for three of the miscreants on his list. He dropped me off at the Dallas YMCA. Constructed in 1943 the fourteen-story building looked like it had been lifted off the streets of Chicago and deposited on the corner of a cowtown comprised of cold war inspired federal buildings and warehouses. Mr. Love-it-or-Leave-it America lectured me on how my generation needed to straighten up its act. Somehow the fall of the Roman empire came up. It either had to do with willy-nilly orgies or lead wine goblets. Outside the Y an old black guy asked me if I needed help carrying my belongings. I said, "No sir."
My ride leaned over to the passenger side and rolled down the window. "You gotta be careful who you call sir. Some people might take you for a mark. Only say sir to those people who deserve respect."
I didn’t thank him, and did not say sir.
The desk clerk barely looked up from his crossword puzzle. He must have been at it some time; the paper was dated from the Sunday three weeks before. The headline read George Wallace Survives But Paralysed. When I coughed he rose from his stool and leaned over the counter top. He counted out loud the number of bags at my feet. It wasn’t a prodigious feat considering all I had was a backpack and a seabag I toted all the way from San Diego where I had been expelled from the Navy and throughout Europe.
The clerk tucked his thumb under his collar and pulled it away from his neck. The shirt, likely white, had taken on the greyish tint of several laundromat washings.
“I need a room for two months, maybe more.”
“Let me see ya I-Dee.”
“What kind of identification?”
“The kind that tells me if you are you and how old you are.”
I stooped over and fished my passport from my backpack.
“What the heck, ain’t you got a drivers license or library card or something?” He flipped open my passport and held it up comparing my face with the photo. “How old you gotta be to get one of these?” His lips moved as he read my name.
“At least old enough to register for the draft.”
“With or without a bathroom? The rooms with a john and shower runs three dollars a week more. That’s eighteen instead of fourteen bucks,” he said.
Tempted to correct his math I calculated how much cash I had to hold me until I got a job. A hand the size of a catcher’s mitt came down on the desk bell, muffling its ring. The hand belonged to a man two heads taller than me. His polyester beige suit reeked of body odour and Aqua Velva. His head resembled a jack-o-lantern. Black pupils pushed the whites to the corners of his eyes. His upper lip curled above his incisors when he spoke.
“405”, he said in a voice taxed from disuse and shoved a V.A. hospital card at the clerk.
“Don’t need an I-Dee Harland. I know who you are.”
“405,” the man repeated.
“Can’t you see I’m busy?” The clerk turned around, snatched a key from a pegboard and slapped it on the counter.
“Breakfast comes with the room but dinner will cost you an extra ten dollars a week, mind you we don’t serve on Saturdays.”
Harland curled his lip. “Not worth it. There are passable eats nearby.”
“We got services every Sunday at 10 a.m. and like to see our guests there.”
“I don’t go in for religion,” I said.
“Maybe you don’t understand. We like to see our guests at chapel.”
“I understand. I just don’t care.”
“Praise the Lord we finally got us a true disbeliever in this piss pot of salvation.”
“Ain’t you late for something Harland?”
“No Elroy, I always make time for you.”
“I’ll take the fifteen dollar room.”
The clerk removed key 406, from the board. “Looks like you and Harland are gonna be neighbors. We got a few rules here. You know the normal kind of things; no drinking, no women, no smoking in the rooms, no doing nothing that is against nature.”
“Jesus Christ, he means to say is no Hoovering down below or prospecting from behind.”
“No swearing or obscenities either, Harland.”
“No shit,” the man said and walked toward a caged elevator dragging his left leg behind him.
Harland held the cage open and waited for me to join him. He flattened himself against the wall of the lift and squeezed his eyes shut when it rose with a groan. At each floor Harland exhaled then inhaled deeply. “Damn it why don’t it just get it the hell over with?”
When the Otis opened at the fourth floor Harland announced, “Could have, should have died a thousand times over but I’m being saved for something special, some auspicious ending.” He rushed into his room and slammed the door.
I jiggled the key in my lock then withdrew it and saw the teeth were too worn to be of much use except to clean the grime under my fingernails. I was about to head back to the lobby and ask for another key when a kid who looked like teenage girl’s heart-throb stopped beside me. He was dressed in flame red pants and a yellow shirt so bright that it screamed remember me.
“I got the same problem. No use complaining to the cabron downstairs. That fat ass will just tell you to book a suite at the Plaza.” He took my key and placed one hand on the door jam, inserted the key and he pulled the door toward him. It sprung open like a jack-in-the box.
I extended my hand to shake. “Looks like you’ve had practice.”
His touch was feathery. His hand floated out of mine before I could give it a proper squeeze. He stood in front of me a moment waiting for something then threw his arms over his head. “Least you can give me is your name seeing as how I helped you out.“
“Blake, Blake Moore.”
“Good that’ll help.”
“Help with what?’
“Let’s say I see some certified pervert sneaking up behind you in the showers. I can scream Blake, Blake Moore turn around. Just as you can warn me if the cops show up. You can yell Trejos, Trey, haul ass.”
“Why would the cops hassle you?”
Before he could answer Harland appeared in the hallway. His massive shoulders blocked what little light the spent fluorescent fixtures provided. “Knock knock,” he barked.
I swept my arm into my room. “Come on in guys. Sorry I don’t have any refreshments but I didn’t expect a visit from the YMCA Welcome Wagon.”
“Funny.” Harland grunted. He jabbed a finger under Trey’s nose. “The cops hassle him because that’s what they do, hassle the hustlers.”
I backed away and rested my hand on a porcelain sink hanging on a wall more by luck than intention. Trey hip bumped Harland to the side. He waved his finger at me. “Don’t make no judgements. I’m not infectious.”
Harland coughed out the words, “Not-dangerous-either. That’s-my-speciality, my-burden “
“Harland’s not my chulo. He’s my friend. Maybe my only one.”
I slung my seabag onto the bed. The mattress buckled in the middle. “I don’t care what either you guys are up to as long as it doesn’t involve me.”
Harland took two steps into the room and pressed me against the sink. “I’m not his way.”
The air in the room was getting too close, too humid. “Harland, Trey, it’s a real pleasure to meet you. Know it’s rude, but I gotta get some sleep, heading out early to find a job”
“No jobs around here unless you want to deal dope or sell your ass-ets,” Harland said.
“Maybe I’ll tend bar in some local dive or work at a garden center.”
“Be a trip to see this güero filling sacks of shit with my brothers.”
“I’ve bagged more than shit before.”
The room was tight but more spacious than the brigs and jails I’d checked into. No reservation necessary. Just smile and tell Uncle Sam to do a full gainer onto a flagpole for refusing to go to war, pledge the allegiance to a rag, or fail to salute an asshole who looks he has just wandered in from The Pirate’s of Penzance. Doesn’t take courage or conviction, just the inability to engage the brain before the mouth. Can attest to that having told a Turkish custom official to sit on his Fez. That quip earned me two months in a cell without a view of Istanbul or a Bosporus beach tan. On the plus side there was zero chance of me contracting trichinosis from under cooked pork.
I inspected the pillow to find the least stained surface. Didn’t bother to undress and flopped down to snatch a few hours of sleep. The neon cross of a street mission across the street flashed an invitation of salvation and soup. I got up to fill a Dixie cup with warm tap water but reconsidered drinking. The communal bathroom was too far away. I figured I could hold off until my eyeballs floated to the top of my skull. I’d slept in worse digs. In Amsterdam I crashed at the base of a statue where someone stole my shoes and left in their place a pack of Gitanes and a cube of hash.
When morning arrived I did not open my eyes, having never closed them. From my seabag I took out clean underwear, a plaid shirt and pair of jeans along with a bar of soap and razor and rolled them up in a towel. My bare feet squished in the damp hallway carpet. Strips of wallpaper hung like dead eels down the corridor. When I entered the communal washroom Trey was pinned against a stall by two guys wearing green windbreakers with SMU SECURITY stencilled on their backs. Trey’s bloody nose did not indicate a friendly encounter. The head of the bigger of the guy was shaved completely. The thinner one drooled black crud from his wad of Redman every time Trey squirmed.
The bald guy jerked Trey back by his hair and slapped his face. “If I see you hanging around campus again they gonna find you floating face down in the Trinity.”
His buddy caught sight of me and spat a black glob at my feet. “Hey Mick, look another one of them.”
“Grady, he ain’t no twinkie just a sorry ass hippie.”
“Probably right but sure be fun to work him over a little to keep in shape.”
“Better rethink that,’ Harland’s raspy voice preceded him into the washroom. “You boys moonlighting? I know you don’t live here.”
”Fuck you Harland, Elroy put us on to keep things orderly,” Mick said and pushed his way past me.
Harland dug his fingers into Grady’s shoulder muscle so hard he sank to his knees. “Mick, tell Elroy I’m going to talk to him about his hiring practices.” He pulled Grady to his feet and pointed at the arched opening of the washroom. “Don’t let me catch either one of you candy asses on this floor again.” Harland turned his back on Trey and me and headed to the showers.
“What just went down?” I asked Trey.
“Not us, thanks to him.”
*
After pounding the pavement for three days I landed a job at Oasis Garden and Feed miles away from the Y. The boss at first didn’t want to take me on. He didn’t have a high opinion of wannabe proletariats who desired to chum around the working class.
“You ever done any hard labour?” He asked. “No don’t answer that, I can see the hardest thing you ever held is your own puny dick.”
“Least I know where to find it. Sure isn’t hidden like yours, trapped between two slabs of thigh blubber.”
“I outta stomp a mud-hole in you. Instead I’m going to put you to work. Bet you don’t last out the day. Be a gas to see how long it takes for one of my men to kick your ass for slowing them down.“
“Anything else boss?”
“Just two things. My name’s Virgil and this here isn’t fucking San Francisco. You sure the hell ain’t going to be wearing no godamn flowers in your hair. Either find a barber or wear a hat.”
By days end Virgil pulled me aside and said. “Well Ringo the guys say you take to this work alright. Let’s see if you last the week.”
“If I do I get a nickel raise, boss?”
“No, you keep this job and I throw in a pair of coveralls and work gloves.”
And that was it. If I worked it right I could save enough money to be out of the Y in four months. For the first few weeks I specialized in shovelling sheep and cow manure into 50 pound bags. Then I graduated to unloading sacks of fertilizer and paving stones from flatbed trailers. Eventually I learned how to identify a perennial from an annual. I discovered enough about herbicides, insecticides and generally killing unwanted things to be given an apron. Virgil told me to sell myself as an expert to people longing to transform their burnt North Texas plots into botanical wonders. I even convinced myself of my astounding horticultural expertise.
*
At the end of a day I smelled worse than the shit I loaded into truck beds. Elroy would toss my room key across the lobby when I returned from work. “You stink so bad the cockroaches are moving out.”
There was no quick comeback. I could hardly drag myself to the shower to attempt to scrub off the layers of dirt on skin.
One day Elroy stood at the entrance of the Y. “Moore, people are complaining about the stuff you’re tracking in. They say you reek worse than roadkill.” He handed me a urinal puck dangling from a string. “You can wear it round your neck like a peace symbol.”
I tossed the puck from hand to hand, mustering all my self control. “No thanks Elroy.” I slipped it into his shirt pocket. “You keep it. Use it as a breath mint in case the goat you’re fucking takes offence.”
Harland and Trey were seated in the lobby. Harland helped Trey to his feet. With each step Trey winced. A purple bruise covered the left side of his face. The big man shoved Elroy aside and opened the door for his friend. “Blake, you coming?” He growled.
“No, I’m beat, gonna shower and crash.”
“You need chow more than soap.”
I followed them out of the Y and onto a sidewalk vacant of the suits and skirts who worked in the business core of Dallas. When the sun went down the streets of Big D were given over to derelicts, drug addicts, hustlers of both persuasions and the occasional cop who seldom announced his presence prior to clocking you for daring to contaminate their turf. Two weeks earlier I had decided to hitchhike back from the Oasis. It did not turn out well. A cop wearing an old west revolver and Stetson picked me up and drove me ten miles outside the city limits and warned me to start walking. I got off easy. I could have ended up three months on a road crew charged with vagrancy or in a ditch with my face turned into salsa.
It was a short walk to Jack’s Shack, a double-wide converted into a dimly lit diner. Harland called it right. My grubby clothes and body odour went unnoticed at the lunch counter. Garbage, rancid bacon fat and incinerated toast smothered the cabbage soup stench of the patrons.
We sat on stools at the end of the counter. Harland waved over a waitress. “Where’s Jack?’
From a distance the waitress benefited from the low lights that concealed a creased face the colour of an overripe banana. “I’m his slop server not his secretary.”
Harland’s lips stretched in an expression approximating a smile. “Nora, you do a righteous job of it.
”Don’t do that Harland it looks like it hurts.”
A baby blue Camaro pulled up outside the diner. Four young men outfitted in pearl button shirts embroidered with roses and cacti and wearing bootcut Levis got out. They peered through the window. One guy pointed a finger at Trey. He grabbed his crotch then stuck his thumb in his mouth and moved it in and out. His three friends joined in. They jumped back in the car and drove off. Trey sunk his chin into his neck and wrapped his arms around himself.
“They the ones?, Harland asked.
Trey nodded.
“Just them?”
Trey shook his head and held up two fingers.
“Mick and Grady?’
“Don’t know. Didn’t see who was in the van.”
“Hells bells Trey, what did you think was going to happen when they spotted you plying on the corner? Don’t you know Texas has three pastimes, football, hunting, and queer bashing? Oh yeah, I left out racism and lovin’ Jesus.”
Trey slumped over the counter. “I need the money to get to New York. The one who picked me up looked nice, his friends showed up at the park out of nowhere.”
The big man cupped the top of Trey’s head in his hand. “It’s okay to have a goal so long as it doesn’t get you killed.”
Nora appeared holding a tray loaded with three bowls of chilli, a basket of crackers and a tub of onions and cheese. She slid each bowl off of the platter. Harland dumped a mound of onions and cheese on the red beans and beef. He crushed several packs of crackers and mixed them in his bowl. He shovelled a mound of chilli into his mouth. “I learned early if you’re gonna spend your days hopping from Y to Y it’s best to know how to stretch a meal of beans.”
*
My room shook when something slung against a wall woke me in the middle of the night. Even with a pillow wrapped around my head it was impossible to muffle the curses and howls. I opened my door and bumped into Trey.
“Blake, he’s really gone over the hill this time.”
Harland’s door stood ajar. Trey poked his head inside the room. “Oh god I think he’s dead.”
Harland’s bed was flipped upside down. He lay on the floor. An open bottle of Jim Beam next his ear. A brown halo of bourbon pooled around his head. “Yeah he’s dead, dead drunk.”
A Marine blue dress tunic hung over a chair. On the sleeve were three chevrons and three rockers. Official looking papers covered the floor. An ammo box lay open under a hole in the wall, its contents strewn across the room. I picked up two purple hearts, a bronze star, and a Navy Cross. On Harland’s right side I saw a 45 military colt and a full clip within arm’s reach. Clutched in his fist a clipping from The Dayton Daily News read, Local Korea-Vietnam War Hero Fails to Show For Key to City.
Trey stripped off the vomit soaked sheet covering Harland. Two columns of tattoos were inked from his shoulders to his navel on opposite sides of his chest.
Korea 1951-1953 Vietnam 1965-1968
Inchon 1950 La Drang 1965
Bloody Ridge 1951 Xcam 1966
Pork Chop Hill 1953 Khe Sahn 1968
Trey and I righted the bed. It took all our strength to lift Harland and move him onto the mattress. Harland bolted up staring into nothingness and yelled,“Enough, enough,” then collapsed again. With his face pressed against the mattress he struggled to breathe. We rolled him over. A mural covered his entire back, the image of a naked girl screaming,”Nong gua, Nong gua,” as she fled her burning village.
“Did you see all those medals? He never let on he was a hero,” Trey said.
“Maybe because he doesn’t believe it himself.”
“All that ink, it must mean something.”
I started to explain, but held back. It wasn’t my place, let someone else give him a history lesson. Every token of heroism on the floor, pistol and the full ammo clip spoke of a dark story not far enough in the past to be mercifully forgotten. Each tattoo, service commendation and news paper clipping hinted at a future lacking absolution.
Harland’s eyes shifted around the room without us seeing what he was seeing. He hung his head over the edge of the bed and spewed out his guts. “It burns it burns. Nong gua, Nong gua!”
Trey retreated to the door, his face squeezed as tight as a prune to block the smell of fresh puke. “Leave him alone, Blake. He needs sleep.”
’Get your ass over here. If we don’t prop him up he’s going to drown in his own vomit.”
Harland fought us but we managed to place a folded pillow and blanket under his neck. “Go on, I’ll stay here just in case,” I told Trey.
“In case of what?’
“In case he comes to and hunts for his 45.”
In the worst case scenario Harland might blow his brains out or do a Charles Whitman and start bagging pedestrians from the roof of the YMCA. Trey covered Harland with the filthy top sheet before he left the room.
When Harland started breathing normally I policed the clutter and packed it in the ammo box decorated with stickers and business cards of YMCAs from Boston to Anchorage. Stuck to its bottom was a bus ticket to Pensacola.
I sat down in the only chair in the room and kept watch. Harland didn’t move until sunlight trickled through the half open blind. He rose from his bed and glided past me without acknowledging my presence. He made his way for the dresser where I had placed the ammo box along side 8 ounces of Jim Beam.
“Rough night?” I held up the 45 and magazine. “This what you’re looking for?”
“Yeah, a royal head up my ass rough night.” He scratched his chest then realized he was shirtless and wrapped himself in the foul sheet. “For Christ sake, what are you staring at?”
“Never seen ink like yours before.”
“These aren’t tattoos. They’re a journal of places I’ve been and things I’ve seen.”
“Been easier and less painful to take snapshots.”
“Naw, pictures you put away in a shoebox and forget they exist.”
My muscles were wrapped like barbed wire around my calves, my ass numb from guarding Harland from Harland. “You recover pretty well from a ballistic binge.”
“Practice, practice makes perfect.” Harland pointed the bottle of bourbon at the 45. “You planning on keeping that?”
I handed it over butt first. He opened the top dresser drawer and put the pistol and clip inside. “On your way out don’t slam the door.”
“Wouldn’t think of doing that to a war hero.”
He pounded both fists on the dresser and spun around. “How long were you in for?” he demanded.
“What makes you think I served?”
“Didn’t say you served. That seabag you dragged in told me you did time somewhere. Treasure Island , Miramar, Portsmouth?”
I let it ride. It didn’t matter where I spent four months awaiting my sentence like a contestant on Let’s Make a Deal. Behind door 1- A Dishonourable Discharge, Door 2- A six year stretch at Leavenworth, or Door 3- A General Discharge Under Honourable Conditions. Luck was on my side I got Door 3.
Sure I liked to think that I sacrificed myself as an act of protest. But that’s bullshit. Sure I was opposed to the fucking war. What 18 year old kid who knew every lyric of The Eve of Destruction didn’t? My old man did thirty years, my two brothers another eight so I enlisted to carry on the patriotic carnival. To avoid killing I joined the Navy and trained as a corpsman. It didn’t take long for me to wake up to what my role would be; slosh through rice paddies and jungles to patch up guys who had their testicles blown off by pressure mines or stuff their remains into Giant Glad Bags; torso first, then legs, then arms, then head.
I joined a parade of sailors marching against the war. My adherence to the creed of non-violence vanished when local yokel cops and MPs cut a path through us like a combine harvesting wheat. Civilian protesters told us, “Don’t engage, don’t resist, don’t fight back. Go slack.”
When an MP’s baton came down on a WAVE’s clavicle so hard it snapped in half I lost it. I split his head with a lead pipe. Batons rained down of me from all sides. After three days in sickbay I was transferred to a genuine military prison.
“Blake we’re alike. We both want the same thing out of life. A promise, not a promise of something better, just a promise of a painless way out of it.” Harland’s voice brought me back to the present. “As one screwed up guy to another, Semper Fidelis, or more like Mori semper.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drained the 8 ounces. “Everyone in the world is Christ and they are all crucified. Wonder if Sherwood skipped his parade?”
I slammed the door behind me. It was Sunday, a day of rest. I intended to sleep through supper time.
*
Virgil had a good September hawking faux Italian fountains. The concrete monstrosities more often than not featured a naked nymph pouring water from a jug into a giant birdbath. He sold so many that he could not keep up with the requests to install them. If I wanted to earn a little cash on the side he’d show me how to install the pigeon pools and recommend me to clients.
“The folks we sell this crap to are so lame-brained that it takes two of them to make a halfwit. I’d ask Reggie or Miguel but the Texas Belles would pass out if some black or Mexican drank from their garden hose or asked to use their bathroom.”
“Boss, they should read more. Most serial killers are pasty white boys.”
I didn’t see much of Harland or Trey. Coming in from work I sometimes crossed paths them. Harland barely gave me a nod. Trey always smiled and asked how I was doing on his way to his corner. Countless times on his return he limped into the lobby. His face more often than not brusied and his clothes torn and bloody. If Harland was around he’d shake his head and guide Trey to the elevator and ask the same question. “Kid, when you gonna learn?”
“Only need a little more time and I’m outta of here.”
By the end of September I received a dollar raise and a name tag to attach to my Oasis Consultant Vest. Soon I would have enough money for an apartment and maybe take night courses at a local junior college. If I pulled it off I’d make a point of calling my old man to let him know that his fuckup son didn’t need him or anyone else to put him right.
*
The tepid breezes of a North Texas autumn were a blessing compared to the summer blast furnance that melted asphalt. When gardening season ended I became a varmint assassin. Virgil let go of most of the crew but kept a few of us on to exterminate anything that hissed, crawled or stank for squeamish clients. Virgil outfitted me with a tank filled with pesticides. He gave me a pair of rubber gloves and a bandana to cover my nose and mouth. He scoffed at the need for more protection. “I ain’t met nobody that died from this stuff, least wise anyone who came back and told me.”
During the down season Virgil converted the Oasis into a store catering to the upcoming holidays. Witches, ghosts, tombstones, glow in the dark skeletons and pumpkins filled the lot the entire month of October followed by more pumpkins and plastic turkeys. Truckloads of real and fake trees, inflatable Santas, and reindeers, illuminated candy canes and life size nativity figures started arriving the day after Thanksgiving.
I spent my days off hunting for a decent apartment and hanging out at El Centro Junior College. There I convinced professors to allow me to audit their courses until I enrolled in the winter semester.
Virgil told me if I took a landscaping certificate and a bookkeeping course he’d pay half the tuition. “You surprised me, thought you wouldn’t last a day. Go get a haircut and clean up good and I’ll make you an inside manager.”
One day when I returned from apartment scouting I found Trey outside my door. He took hold of my hand. “I want you to see something. Need your opinion.” He nudged me into his room. 8x10 glossy photographs of Trey adorned every wall. In one shot, no doubt doctored, he was frozen in a midair Nureyev leap. In several photos he gazed at the ceiling in an expression of artistic pathos or trapped flatulence. He handed me a large mailing envelope. Inside were duplicates of the photos on his walls.
“Okay, I give up. What do you want?”
“Take them back to your room and tell me honestly which pictures I should use.”
“Use for what?”
“The kit for the talent agent I signed with.”
“You mean a portfolio?”
“Yeah that’s it. He says every actor, dancer needs one to show people in New York. They’re begging for new faces.”
I didn’t need a crystal ball to see what kind of agent gaffed Trey. Some con-artist who placed an ad in the local rag promising fame and fortune to every aspiring performer.
For Only Two Hundred Dollars Your Dreams Will Come True.
“Blake, do you think you can get me on where you’re at for a few weeks? I don’t want to take a chance getting messed up again.”
“Not much going on now, gardening season’s over. My boss laid off most of the guys.”
“I can do a lot of stuff, load cars, start seedlings even set up displays. I really need the cash. My agent wants $300 for a January audition he’s arranged for me in Houston. If the talent scouts from New York like me I’m on my way.”
Instead of telling him to wake up I said, “How much money do you have stashed from your night-hawking?”
Two grand but I need that to live when I get to New York. Mr. Vander says I have a chance of landing a spot in a new production of Cabaret.”
It would have been cruel but merciful to set him straight. Tell him when he got off the Greyhound in Houston there would be no angels from Broadway. But dream crusher did not exist in my job description. A guy without dreams has no right to extinguish someone else’s fantasy. “Sure, I’ll talk to my boss. Maybe he has something for you,” I lied.
“You’re a real friend.” Trey spread his arms out and sang, “ Life is a cabaret old chum.” He stopped before he could go full blown Liza Minnelli.
As usual Harland’s voice preceded him into the room. “No it’s not a cabaret, young chum. It’s not a bed of roses or a beach. It’s a bitch and then you die.”
*
Everyday after work I peeked inside the lobby to see if Trey was waiting for me before entering. I’m not sure why I never brought his name up to Virgil. No, that’s bullshit. I know exactly why. Guilt by association figured prominently in this betrayal by omission. Trey was gay. Vouching for him might lead to the same conclusion about me. Ridiculous considering my rap sheet. Trey had never done drugs. I had not only partaken I peddled them at one time. Trey never hurt anyone that I knew of. It’s unlikely I could claim the same.
Lacking an option on how to fulfill his pipe-dream Trey headed to his corner or ventured to the park. Although I didn’t see him the rest of the month sometimes I heard him late a night. His cries penetrated the wall between our rooms. A week before Thanksgiving a fist crashed against my door almost taking it off its hinges. Harland flung the door open. His right hand snaked behind my neck. He pulled me into the hallway. “Nora left a message. Trey’s in the alley behind Jack’s Shack.” The black grip of the 45 stuck out of Harland’s waistband.
“I’m not going anywhere with you if you bring that.”
Harland went to his room. When he returned he lifted his shirt and turned around to show me he’d left the gun behind.
The downward cast of the streetlight splashed Nora’s shadow on the sidewalk highlighting her curved back. Her hand shook when she struck a match and lit a cigarette. “Could have been worse if I hadn’t come out to the dumpster.”
In the alley we found Trey sitting on an empty 20 gallon can of Crisco. A pink streamer of blood and tears flowed down his cheeks. He flipped a butterfly knife open and closed with one hand. His other hand lay on his lap. Its index finger was bent so badly that the knuckle aligned with his thumb. He spoke through chipped teeth.“You should see the other guys. Not a mark on them.”
“Same ones as before?” Harland asked.
“They all look alike.” He held up the butterfly knife. “Asked me if I ever saw a eunuch. Told me if I didn’t have five-hundred bucks for them by next month they’d show me. They took off when Nora came out to dump the trash and dropped this.”
Harland kicked a trash can. A black cloud of flies rose from the spilled garbage. “For Christ sake, give it up.”
“Can’t, need to make enough to get to New York.”
“What you got is a fairy tale. Go back to Eagle Pass. You’ll live longer. Pick grapefruits, work at a taqueria. Become a priest.”
“I’m a dancer Harland. I’m going to New York.”
“You think you’ll rise to the top there? You won’t. After three weeks you’ll be getting your ass drilled behind a tree in Central Park.”
“I’m a dancer.”
“Trey, I got a leg full of shrapnel and an ankle and knee held together by nuts and bolts. With all this I have more of a chance of becoming a Rockette than you do of being a dancing chicken in front of a KFC.”
Trey clenched his fist and punched the sky. “I should go back to Eagle Pass? You think I got it bad here? Will have it worse in New York?”
“Just saying you might be safer.”
“Let me tell you something. I’m a joto back home. Do you know what that means? It means I’m nothing. I’m a disgrace to my family. My brothers, my father, my uncles beat the shit out of me because I’m a joto.”
Harland avoided Trey’s eyes as he pressed his palm against his chest. “I don’t want to see you get hurt. There’s no future for you out East.”
“In my community there is no future period. The only way out for most is to box or play baseball. Not me, I discovered another way, with my feet. I worked as a bag boy, picked watermelons, hooked at the bus station to afford lessons at Arthur Murray. Learned to jitterbug, waltz, tap. You name it I mastered them all. I won a dance contest in El Paso. I won a ballroom competition in San Antonio. My partner knew I’m gay but she didn’t care because she wanted to dance with the best.”
*
Every guy has a reason for billeting at the Y. Just temporary until I get a job. Waiting for a spot in the dorms at college. It’s cheaper than a hotel. It’s a good Christian place to stay until I get the call to spread the gospel. Almost rings true. The overriding reason is that there is no other place to go. No other place will have us.
Trey sincerely believed the Y was a carousel. If he rode the unicorn long enough he’d snatch the brass ring and be on his way to Broadway.
Harland checked in and out of Ys across America because every room looked the same. When the time came to off himself it didn’t matter if it took place in Pittsburg or Bismarck. The decor never varied. Didn’t matter. In the end he’d be planted in a potter’s field, his medals dumped in a trash bin.
Me — I came for both a belated and prospective funeral. My mother died three months earlier while I sat in jail in Omaha for something I no doubt deserved but don’t remember. Ma took my father’s mental abuse like a Sister of The Divine Order of I am Nothing. Cause that’s what she heard over her 40 years of marriage. My sister told me mom had pleaded while coughing up blood to be cremated, her ashes scattered in the Gulf of Mexico. The old man interred her in his soggy family crypt in Baton Rouge despite there being plenty of dry holes in Irving where she lived out her final days. If I ever find the time and cash I intend to exhume and incinerate her, stand on the shoreline of Galveston and pitch her as far as I can on a windless day.
As for my father, I’d learned from my sister that he had cancer devouring every organ of his body except his heart. It had calcified years ago. She prodded me to make amends so he could feel forgiven and justified. I told her if I passed through Texas I’d think about it.
Harland sat in an armchair in the Y’s lobby. He looked up from a book propped on his knees. I noticed the author’s name and opened the conversation with, “Turgenev. What’s he write sci-fi, horror, mysteries?”
Harland stood up and thrust the book under my chin. “Just because my body resides in this dump doesn’t mean my brain does. Bet you’d be surprised to learn that I not only read books, important books, but that I also brush my teeth and wipe my ass when necessary.”
I slapped the book away. “Christ, how am I supposed to know about some Polish author?”
Harland smiled. “Russian, not Polish. Are you going to stand around all day or tell me what’s bothering you.”
The absurdity of spilling my guts to the only person more screwed up than me failed to register. I charged ahead and told Harland that my sister wanted me to see my father before he died.
“I don’t buy it. I think you want to kneel over him so you he can hear him gasp I love you son. Those words are never going to be spoken and even if they were, neither one of you would believe them. Put your bus fare toward toward buying a new shirt for the Thanksgiving dinner the benefactors of this noble establishment throw for its inhabitants.”
I took Harland’s advice and bought an Oxford dress shirt and pair of tan slacks at J.C. Penny. At least I’d dress the part of a student when I enrolled at El Centro Jr. College.
*
The days of November trickled by with as much energy as spilt molasses. Posters announcing the approaching Thanksgiving dinner hung throughout the Y along with notices of the religious services. Elroy passed out Pilgrim hats and head bands with a feather at the cafeteria entrance. The inmates of the Y marched in single file.
Every table featured a carboard turkey centrepiece. At each place setting were plastic cutlery and a mini-cup of mixed nuts sitting in the middle of durable paper plates. Compulsory speeches of gratitude for the benefactors of the feast followed by a subdued prayer and listless rendition of Jesus Loves Us launched the festivities.
Servers plopped mashed potatoes ladled with gravy the color of motor oil next to desiccated turkey breast topped with cranberry jelly and sweet potatoes shrouded under melted marshmallows.
I saved a seat for Trey but he never showed. Three weeks past without his returning to the Y. Harland spent everyday searching for him. One morning when I opened my door Harland walked past my room with Trey stumbling beside him. Trey’s thick black hair had been buzz cut. He licked his lips and jerked his arms and legs.
“Don’t talk to him,” Harland said. “They gave him so much crap to swallow that it’ll take a while for him to get normal. I kept sticking my tongue in and out of mouth and walking like a marionette for a solid month when I was locked up at the VA loony-bin.”
Trey had got the bright idea he could earn more money by moving his act to the swanky hotel district. He started hanging around the Hilton and the Statler to attract a better clientele. Didn’t work out. The concierge reported him to house security who in turn called the cops. He spent Thanksgiving week locked in the city jail with serious bad guys. Despite his screams not a single guard checked to see if he needed saving. On the Monday after the holiday the guards, tired of his crying, shipped him to the mental ward of a bedbug infested charity hospital. Harland tracked him down and bribed an orderly to spring Trey.
Only four months had passed since I met Trey. It might as well been ten years. The hundred watt luminance in his eyes had been extinguished. His smile replaced with a slash of desperation. Undeterred he pushed on, classifying his latest descent into a maelstrom as a temporary set back. Once his hair grew out a little he would be on the path to his version of Nirvana.
“A few more tricks and I’ll be flush enough to pay for the auditions in Houston.”
Harland and I ceased trying to dissuade Trey. We racked our brains for distractions to keep him off the streets. I took him to a meeting supporting Cesar Chavez’s United Farms Workers where I signed a petition to ban non-union grapes. Trey put his hand behind his back when I passed him the clipboard.
“I’ve picked truckloads of grapes and strawberries. I don’t need to write my name next to a bunch of white do-gooders who can afford not to eat something we didn’t have enough money to eat.”
Harland had better luck. He scored theatre tickets to Hair. Being a production mounted in the buckle of the Bible belt, minus the nude scene. Trey loved it. During The Age of Aquarius he danced in the aisle. An usher intercepted him as he moved toward the stage. He threatened to eject him. The usher retreated when other members of the audience joined Trey.
After the show he related his experience in the mental ward. “Think this is theatre? You should have seen the circus on the loony floor.”
The custodians of the hospital regarded homosexuality as something to be cured. An evangelical Christian charity funded the unit. They were determined to rid Trey of the unnatural urges that infested him. A Baptist minister visited him three times a day to persuade him to repent and be born again. “Vanquish those abominable impulses,” he commanded.
“Like I have anymore control of that than I did of being born brown on the north side of the Rio Grande,” Trey said. “But I played along. If you raise eyes to the guy hanging from a telephone pole and say forgive me Padre you get time off for good behaviour. The preacher wanted to hold me under water until I said I believe. I would have drowned before I gave in.”
*
The Oasis received a truck-bed of Colorado blue spruces. I swallowed my fear of guilt by association and told Virgil that I knew a whiz kid to to set up Christmas displays.
Virgil marvelled at how Trey transformed the dingy garden centre into a holiday wonderland. He promised to keep him on after Christmas to upgrade the lot, make it a go- to-place catering to Dallas millionaires.
Trey rode the bus with me but got off several stops before me on our way back to the Y. He chose his locations carefully, avoiding the same corner or park twice in a row. He started carrying the butterfly knife on his night outings.
A rare frosting of snow covered the Oasis grounds on the 24th of December. Trey convinced Virgil that there was no need to sell the remaning trees at a discount. He assembled a tree decoration package that sold at a huge markup. At the end of the day the lot was picked clean. Only a broken baby Jesus remained. Virgil brought us into his office for the season send off.
“You boys did real good,” he said and handed us tumblers of rum and coke. “We start up again in February. I had my worries about you Trey.”
“Because of what you think I am?”
“You and me got a lot more in common than you know. I saw you coming out of a club I sometimes frequent and head for the park. Think I’ve also seen you a few nights hanging around the Hilton. Be careful. There are people out there who don’t take to us.”
Boarding the bus Trey glanced over his shoulder at a white panel truck parked across the street. On the side of the truck was a red decal of a mustang with SMU written in bold letters above it.
“What did Virgil mean by us?” I asked.
“It might shock you but we come in all sizes, colours and levels of visibility.” Trey looked out the window. The panel truck did a U-turn and drove behind the bus. “He’s right. Better be careful. Think I’ll take the night off.”
Harland met us in the lobby. “The Y is no place to spend Christmas Eve.” He held up three tickets for Handel’s Messiah. Twenty minutes later we were sitting in the nose bleed section of the concert hall. Harland leaned to the side and whispered, “Tried to get tickets to the Nutcracker but they were sold out.”
“It’s beautiful. Almost makes you believe in God,” Trey said.
Harland jerked his hand away when Trey squeezed it. “I believe in God. But I’m damn certain God doesn’t believe in us.”
When we left the concert hall the same panel truck I’d seen across the street from the Oasis revved its engine. Harland walked toward the van. It sped away before he reached it.
On Christmas Day I tripped over a basket outside my door. Harland stood in the hallway holding a similar package. The baskets contained a summer sausage, pecan crusted cheese ball, bag of peppermints and an orange. The small card read, “To my best friends.”
Trey popped his head out of his room. “To my only friends.”
*
The days following Christmas were as dull as the empty streets of Dallas. Harland often sat in the lobby along with other residents resembling faded Polaroid photos. They stared fish eyed at the suspended TV with its volume turned down. Harland’s gaze seldom moved from whatever quiz show or football game on the muted Zenith. Whenever Mick and Grady finished their shift he rose and followed them to a parking lot.
On New Year’s Eve Trey knocked on my door and said, “This is no place to celebrate.”
I stepped into the corridor and saw Harland. Instead of the drab suits he habitually wore he had on a white silk shirt decorated with blue parrots. His shirt-tail was pulled out of his turquoise pants. He peeled off three twenties from a wad of bills. “You guys go on ahead of me. I’ll join you later.”
Trey pocketed the cash. “Make sure you get there before the ball drops.”
We caught a cab to small a pub on the corner of Knox and Travis street. Inside we were immersed in laughter, music and discussions on everything from football and politics to poetry. Businessmen, hippies, blacks, hispanics, bikers, straights and gays not only sat next to one another they communicated and embraced. This was not supposed to be happening. This was fucking Texas. Any moment I expected Dallas stormtroopers to smash the plate glass window. When Rainy Day Women spun on the jukebox and Dylan croaked out -Everybody Must Get Stoned- everyone raised their drinks and sang along with him.
The bartender placed a pitcher of Sangria in front of us and two wine glasses. I shook my head and he returned with a mug of beer. A young black woman who towered over most of the patrons palmed my wine glass. She motioned the barman to fill it to the top. “You don’t mind do you blondie?” She placed her lips next to Trey’s ear. “Sam, told me you’re headed for Houston and then onto the footlights of New York.”
“If things work out that’s my next stop, Laurice.”
“It’s a good dream sweetie.” She floated away to join another table.
Above a mirror covering the back-wall of the bar were strings of Christmas lights, ornaments and garlands. “Guess you’ll be taking those down soon,” I said when the bartender brought me another beer.
“Not a chance. Every night here is the night before Christmas. I hung those things Christmas Eve 1968. My wife left me the next day.”
A waitress raised the volume of a tv. The bar grew quiet. Dick Clark broadcasted from Times Square. Customers anticipating the descent of the silver ball stopped talking. Trey turned on his stool on each time the door opened. People counted down the final seconds. They yelled Happy New Year so loudly that the glasses and wine bottles rattled. The lights of the pub dimmed. People kissed in the dark. When the lights came on my face and Trey’s were pressed into the ample cleavage of a woman rappelling the other side of sixty.
“It only comes once a year and I’d be crazy not to make the best of it,” she said. Laurice took her by the elbow and guided her to their table. Take Five played on the juke box. Customers began filtering out of the pub.
“Guess Harland had better things to do than be with us,” Trey said.
We joined the other celebrants on the sidewalk. I tried hailing a cab with no luck. The buses had stopped running at midnight. We walked without talking, our arms crossed over our chests to stave off the chill of a North Texas winter. The brights of a van flashed us. It rolled slowly keeping two car lengths behind us. It turned off its headlights and waited for us to continue before following us again.
“That van’s been dogging us since we left the pub,” I said
At a traffic signal we hauled ass across a four lane boulevard before it turned red. The van burned the light leaving a slick of rubber on the pavement. We dashed across the parking lot of a Target and and hopped a fence. The white van idled on the corner when we came to another intersection.
The passenger side window cranked down. Mick stuck his head. “They’re all yours boys.” The rear door of the panel truck slid open. The four guys who had pasted their faces on the window outside Jack’s Shack jumped out. They wore SMU letter jackets and frat pins. Mick and Grady leaned against the van. They obviously intended to be the cheerleaders of the beating they’d engineered. The first jock advanced too quickly. I nailed the bridge of his nose with my elbow and a kneed him in the balls. He dropped to the ground squeaking like a mouse caught in a trap. His friends knelt next to him. Trey and I took off. We burst into a 24 hour Dunkin Donuts and took a booth. The van pulled in front of the shop. Mick entered and smiled when he walked past us. He ordered 6 coffees and a mixed baker’s dozen. “You twinkies can’t roost here all night.”
“Back off or I’ll call the cops,” I said.
Mick pointed at a phone booth on the corner. “Go ahead. You might even have enough time to hear a dial tone before my boys kick your ass.”
He was right. There was only so long we could spend nursing our coffees before the manager ordered us to hit the road. We were on our third cup when I saw the van pull away. No way were they calling it quits. Behind the display wall of donuts I spotted a door leading out the back. We charged through the kitchen. The manager shouted,”Hey that’s off limits.” Trey tossed him a twenty. The guy snatched the bill as it floated to the floor. “Take a few apple fritters and eclairs on our way out.”
Avoiding the main streets we walked through a series of alleys that ran several blocks. We weren’t more than a mile away from the Y and should be safe if we kept on this path.
A lamp post curved like a Bishop’s crosier spilled a circle of light on the pavement outside the last alley. The van rolled up and blocked our way blinding us with its high beams. Mick sat on the hood of the van. “Really, you thought you could slither by us? Your kind is like hunting squirrels. Let them run around long enough searching for their nuts and eventually they come right to you.”
Grady slid open the rear door. He flicked a lit cigarette at us. “Would have been easier on you if you just took your lumps back there.”
Three of the college kids sprung out of the van. The fourth one slowly exited. His nose bled despite the chunks of tissue stuffed up it. He covered his groin with one hand. In his other hand he wielded a short baseball bat. “Fucking faggots. We’re going to plant you tonight.”
I hoisted a rusty rebar from the ground. The look on his frat brothers’ faces betrayed their reluctance to go the distance. Mick hopped off the hood and held one hand up in a gesture of peace. “Trey, go to your nest and return with say a thousand bucks for selling your ass near these upstanding Christians’ campus and we’ll call it quits.”
Grady took the bat from the college kid and aimed it at me. “We’ll keep your friend here with us as insurance.”
I rushed Grady and brought the rebar down on the hand grasping the bat. Trey reached into his pocket. He sliced the air with the butterfly knife. The frat rats blitzed us driving us back to the wall. Trey leapt onto a green dumpster. Mick drove a knee into my back. I spun around but buckled when he caught me full force with a blow to the kidney.
As I raised my head Mick handed the bat to Grady. Trey sailed off the dumpster and blocked Grady’s swing. The bat struck his thigh and broke in half. Mick bent over and picked up the butterfly knife. He unsuccessfully tried to flip it open then tossed it to one of the college kids.
Trey was curled up like an amadillio. He had no protection from the frat rats kicks and blows. Mick and Grady pinned me to the ground with their boot heels. I struggled to break free. “Don’t be in so much of a hurry to join the party,” Mick said. “Your turn’s next.”
“That’s enough.” The boys stopped pummelling Trey. Harland stood spread legged at the entrance of the alley.
“Get out of here old man unless you want to play too,” one of the punks threatened.
“Really Mick, you rely on these chuckleheads to do your number? How much did you promise them?”
Mick smirked, “They’re doing it as a public service. We got enough lily white cocksuckers and hippies invading Dallas without adding his kind to the mix.”
“Mick, I knew if I followed you long enough I’d see who had their hand up these Phi Betta shit kickers asses.”
The frat rat with the tissue up his nose said, “You don’t hear so well. Get out of here or you’re next in line.”
“Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said that’s enough.” Harland slipped his arm behind his back. Everyone exhaled when he whipped out a pocketbook and not a gun. Harland held the book close to his face and read aloud, “While a man is living he is not conscious of his own life; it becomes audible to him like sound, after a lapse of time.”
“Is that supposed to mean something?” Mick asked.
“Probably not to them. They’re too young,” he answered and pulled the 45 from under his shirt. The barely audible noise of the slide pulling back was deafening. “Face the the wall, ” he ordered.
“Put the gun away, Harland. You fire that thing and the cops will be here in fifteen minutes,” Mick’s voice was calm.
“Yeah, tuck it next to your shrivelled dick,” Grady said.
Harland fired one shot at Grady. His kneecap exploded. When blood and bone confetti showered the the frat boys they screamed. Harland pointed the pistol at Mick. “Fifteen minutes you say? Take a bet with all the partying going on they won’t show for at least thirty. Let’s time it.”
“Hey man, we were just messing around. We’re sorry,” the kid with the tissue stuffed up his nose said.
“Of course you were just messing around. Did some of that messing myself a few times on tour. Only difference is the guys we messed with outnumbered us and could fight back.” Harland stepped over Grady. “Mick, see how is he twitching? Not even crying anymore? He’s in shock. Probably going to need medical attention soon.”
Trey raised his arms as if beseeching Christ to come down off his cross and intercede. “Harland let it go. He needs help.”
Harland turned his head from side to side. “Medic, medic, man down,” he bellowed. His gun hand jerked at one of the frat boys as the kid inched his way along the wall. “Where do you think you’re going? Thought you would have the same motto as the corps, no man left behind. Mick, hold Grady’s hand. He needs some cheering.”
Harland scratched his temple with the barrel of the pistol. “Looks like no medic is coming. Too busy bagging and tagging bodies in another country we decided to bring freedom and democracy to against their will.”
Harland helped Trey to his feet and embraced him. “In my room there’s an envelope taped to the back of the dresser. Maybe it’ll help you get to New York.” He motioned me over with the gun, pulled me into his chest and kissed my forehead. “That wasn’t so bad was it?”
Mick removed his belt and cinched it above Grady’s shattered knee. He held up his bloody palms. Harland lowered the pistol. “That’s not going to do any good. Loosen it or he’ll lose that leg.”
“Harland, it’s gone too far,” I pleaded.
“You and Trey run along. Mick and Grady will keep me company. These frat rats can leave too.” He fired several rounds into the air. “I wonder if Turgenev was right. Go on get out of here.” Harland pulled back the slide of the 45. “One in the chamber two in the clip. That oughta do it. Blake! I told you when I met you, I’m being saved for something auspicious.”
Trey and I staggered out of the alley. The street lamp hanging above us dribbled into nothingness as the morning sun climbed above Dealey Plaza’s grassy knoll. We made it a few blocks then froze. Three pistol reports disturbed the stillness of dawn. The banshee wails of police sirens filled the concrete and glass mirrored canyons of Dallas. A barrage of shots that could be mistaken for a string of firecrackers announced the failed promise of a New Year and the end of another superfluous man.
The Elevator
Lance reeked of tobacco, some of the embers burnt holes in his shirt of rainbows and buttons. He could still feel the cancer stick between his teeth and the more the clock ticked the more his cravings felt like needs gnawing on his patience leaving him with a scowl.
Trapped in a metal box with his goody two shoes advisor. Yolanda had stayed quiet the last few minutes, refusing to even look at him, her back straight and stiff as a steel rod and her lips pressed at an angle of control. Her disdain was warranted, Lance was not good. However you defined goodness, he felt he could not check any boxes on that list.
The longer he went without it, the more his thoughts tried to wander. Wander places thoughts should never go.
Not at eight a.m.
Not at all.
Crushed memories of touches toxic, more toxic than a deep inhale that blocked these thoughts with a rush and a high. Chemical reactions bury these thoughts. He fidgets, cursing bastard tears that he hadn’t even shed. And yet they pushed at the backs of his eyes taunting his strength. Showing and telling of weakness he wished to bury on his own but lacked the strength.
I just need a smoke…
Lance rolled his eyes, his nails bitten down dug into the skin of his palms as his limbs pulled tight begging for nicotine. He could tell she hated being trapped in there almost as much as he did, except maybe because of the nicotine withdrawals he suffered in silence. His stained fingers even ached with the tugs deep inside him.
Should he be ashamed that his vice would kill him one day? Should he try to kick it and let the poison on the other side flood in? Should he suffer alone without his best friend even if that best friend wished him dead?
Yolanda looked at her watch for the hundredth time and inhaled sharply through her nostrils, grating on his thin skin. Crinkled like paper and paste. He gritted his teeth before groaning.
“Every single time you check your watch time seems to slow more, they said thirty minutes so we have twenty minutes left. Take the pole out of your butt and relax,” Lance’s voice was malice and ice, his crystal eyes piercing her cool calm shell. Her shoulders sharpened like blades as she spun on her heel, bringing fire with her teeth. Control slips even for those than can hold on with an iron grip.
“And every time you breathe I smell cancer and death. You reek of incomplete cravings, you jitter and rock moving this metal coffin. Every day I have to ride up it with you to the office and now I’m trapped with it. Every. Day. I watch you from the corner of my eye, lackadaisical.” She grits her teeth as her lips curl. Every moment magnified her dislike of his presence, like running graters down her spine. Another bound bag to add behind his wall. The cracks he could feel in the dam would be sealed nice and tight soon. He had to believe that…
Lance wore smug even if pain filled his irises. How many times can a man die before he finally stops living? “So you want me to stop breathing, and I want you to stop moving. Maybe we’re better off dead the both of us.” His tone was dry and rasped from the smoke.
Silence eked soon after, both staring at the other with sour intent and barely veiled rage. He could smell her rosemary perfume, he could notice her crease less skirt was beige and her skin like an espresso. Even her hair that wished to be wild restrained in bands atop her head. He could see these things now, for a brief moment as neither spoke. Contrast to him, nicotine stains on his fingers, wrinkles on his button down and slacks. He wore black without apology. He heard once that you dressed to show your insides. So he did.
Then she opened ruby lips.
Before Yolanda could reply, the metal box swung and swayed. It heaved, pushing the both into the far wall. And then it dove, flying down the sixty floors they had traveled. Yolanda screamed till her heart met her lips with the beats it pounded. Lance gripped her to his chest and covered her body with his flat on the ground, remembering some program that talked about this situation before. Mindless her had thought then.
He shouts over the cries of metal and sparks of fire. “I smoke to forget! Secrets I’ve told no on! Shame that cuts deep! I was touched! Don’t tell me you have no vices! I plan to die honest if I must die now!”
Yolanda looked back at him, her eyes engulfed with a pain she hid before. “I drink to forget! I’ve been craving Jim Beam since I got to work!” That was when he noticed under the scents of conjoined sweat and her rosemary perfume, the smell of whiskey on her breath, seeping through her pores.
Tears fell, the both of them ready for the end. They held hands, desperate to be human. Then the elevator grinds to a halt and everything that moved went still. In the minutes that passed, they wear pulled up and examined. A few bandaids for them and the elevator they evacuated, and they were to go their separate ways again.
“I’m taking the stairs up, you?” Yolanda asks. Her eyes now opened would always look open to him. But adrenaline has faded and they were still alone. This wasn’t a fairytale, painted black like his insides, he knew then her place and his place would always be different.
I just— I just need a smoke…
“My vice wont allow it. Take my chances with the elevator.” He turns then and goes in alone. Watching Yolanda watch him as the metal doors close. Neither reaches for the other. Yolanda swallows words and turns to head up the stairs. Everything was different but nothing had changed.
Jordan Bradley is a freelance writer from Staffordshire, United Kingdom, currently studying at Lancaster University. While writing website content professionally, his fiction inspirations include Richard Matheson, Robert A. Heinlein, and Stephen King. He appreciates any opportunity for his work to be read by others, and sincerely hopes the story entertains. |
Talking to the Wall
The Voice
TALKING TO THE WALL
THE VOICE
Harrison Little was not the first child to discover the Wall, and by no means was he the last. His discovery of its power came on a Tuesday, just like any other, around three-forty-seven in the afternoon. He was on his way home from school.
It was raining on this Tuesday, heavier than Harrison had ever seen before. Not in real life, anyway. It reminded him of the gangster movies he sometimes caught glimpses of when his parents were watching one after his bedtime. The rain would be falling in relentless waves on a pair of grubby gangsters, battling it out with their bare knuckles in an alley way. Their suits and fedoras would be soaked through, and the way the concrete became riddled with a million bursting droplets in those scenes was exactly what Harrison could see through his classroom window now. He never intended to go down and sneak a look at those scenes from the dark hallway, but when he heard the brooding violins and the animalistic throwing of punches from his bedroom, he could never resist. That was the curious cat in Harrison. When he saw something that he didn’t quite recognise or understand – whether it was a couple of American-Italian mobsters beating each other half to death, or simply a magnificent demonstration of how much rain can possibly fall in just one afternoon – he wanted to investigate. Not from a sense of mischief, but honest, innocent wonder. He was a boy, after all.
Harrison rarely cowered from the worst of the weather, but on this day in early April, he deemed his usual route home an impossible option, lest he let the inexorable showers soak him through and ruin his uniform. It fell like bullets from the murky heavens outside, accumulating in every depression in the ground and running along the grooves of every curb in rivers. It was the kind of storm he would have loved to run through when he was a bit younger, had his father let him, that was. Even then, the only rule had been to not let his clothes get muddy and force another spin of the washing machine, but that didn’t stop Harrison from dreaming. What it did do, however, was instil a sense of restraint in the boy which, despite clashing with his innate desire to discover, made him reconsider how he was going to get home when rain like this came along. It wouldn’t take long for the lashing downpour to pierce every stitch of his trousers, so the less time Harrison spent in it the better.
When the school bell rang and released him from his less-than-captivating lesson, Harrison chose to walk through Peter’s Wood. Its canopy of dense foliage offered a haven of dryness compared to the openness of his usual route through the centre of town, and Harrison knew the ten minutes it added to his journey would be worth it to avoid the devastating power of the storm. This was the worst rain he had ever seen, remember, and he was very grateful that his mum had packed his big coat for him. The last thing he wanted was to upset his dad, so the choice – if you wish to be so cruel – was clear.
Harrison was both relieved and disappointed as he slipped under the roof of the woodland. The time he spent hurrying from the school to Peter’s Wood was like being forced under a cold shower, but the relief of finally arriving was not as great as he anticipated. The brusque weight of the storm was lessened, but heavy blades of water still snuck through the vegetative defences, giving the impression that this was just a normal bout of rain and Harrison was underneath no such roof at all. It was strange, but he didn’t mind. He could deal with normal levels of rain. In fact, the temperate shower reminded him of walking with his mum, so it was actually quite a pleasant detour. If it had been a Sunday, rather than a monotonous, run of the mill Tuesday, Harrison thought it would be a perfect route for them to take, holding hands and chatting about what they could see.
When he closed his eyes and did his best to picture the scene, he saw it in beautiful clarity. The forest would be the same, but his mother would be there with her large square glasses poking out from her ruby red raincoat. Whenever he tried to imagine his mother being somewhere, Harrison always painted her glasses first. For some reason, it was always the foundation that got his brain working and allowed him to sculpt her and place her into the moment. Her ‘specs’, as they called them, were what anchored her in his brain, and Harrison loved them. He loved her. He skipped a little as he dreamed of telling his mum about where he thought they should walk next weekend.
Although it wasn’t as ideal as the one that danced before his playful imagination, Harrison still made the most of his walk home. And why not? For the most part, it was a nice path, and nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Harrison was a boy walking in the rain, and the wandering he practiced was nothing more than innocent play. He splashed in puddles, kicked the settled droplets from sprouting leaves, and naturally became intrigued when he heard the sound of gushing water. It was similar to the pattering rain above, yet separate, and it touched an inquisitive note. Harrison pursued the noise down a thin trail that divided the untouched bush and down a gentle slope. It looked like no one had ever come this way before, but that was not the case. Harrison knew this because of the slight trail that existed; someone must have made it. I can confirm he is correct. I have witnessed every contributing step to that trail.
The trail seemed to go on forever, and the beaten pathway home felt like a distant land before long. Harrison was a spaceship, jumping lightyears at a time through galaxies of oak and nettle. Items of shrubbery passed one after the other in a never-ending block of autumnal colours until, finally, a clearing appeared. The gallery of trees blew away and a pocket of space expanded out before Harrison. But it didn’t look natural, even to such a young pair of eyes. To portray Harrison’s reaction to this area of Peter’s Wood in a single word would be impossible, as never had he felt such an intoxicating concoction of wonder and confusion. It wasn’t so much a mystical scene, like the fairy-tales he remembered being told when he was a little bit younger, but a simply new one. It just looked peculiar.
He broke out from the bush and hopped down onto a small patch of oddly short grass. It was like a lawn, trimmed evenly and perfectly square, and the threshold between its border and the surrounding forest was as sharp as a cliff edge, with the erratic, voluminous foliage beginning the millimetre the fine, ordered grass ceased.
At the centre of the lawn was a pool of bumbling murky water, perfectly circular. Despite the artificiality of its neighbouring land, it did not look like a man-made pool. Moss, sticks, and rocks cluttered the dirty water, and the waterfall above it looked equally natural. It flooded from the top of a tall, blunt rockface and thumped into the water below, giving it a convincing energy. The thunderous noise of the water smashing into the pool electrified the air, making the relatively delicate raindrops seem like a forgotten joke. The tumbling water was wide, stretching across the rock like a tie.
As he stared, Harrison noticed that the water did not overflow from the pool at his feet. It fell and fell and fell, but the collection of liquid never seemed to rise. I know it seems absurd, and that was not the only baffling thing that Harrison noticed.
The waterfall did not make sense, it was that simple. Where did the water flow from? Harrison had never seen a river in Peter’s wood before, let alone one large enough to have this much water. Not only that, but how had he or any of his friends never noticed this huge waterfall before? He could not count the number of times he had come here to escape the hot summer sun or make snowmen amongst the wintery oaks. How had he never heard this obtuse crashing of water before? How had no one else ever mentioned it?
As time wore on, and Harrison began to digest more and more of his surroundings, the questions began to compile into a heaving mound. Why in the world was the grass cut here? Who would do that? How would they get a lawnmower down here? He took another look at the pool itself, as natural as it appeared, and inspected its bed and border. There was no outlet stream or pipe, and the water entering it was by no means a small amount. Where did it all go? How did it make sense?
Of course, the only certainty lies with me. Every question Harrison fathomed had been asked more than once before, and not one had ever been answered. The Wall was not a place where questions were answered.
Rather, it was one where they were asked.
“Hello, little boy,” a voice whispered. Harrison screamed. He didn’t mean to do it, but it rang like a shrill squawk into the forest. His body froze from the moment it left his lips as if it was trying to blend into the forest and pretend to be just another tree. Harrison’s eyes watered as they scanned the surrounding bushes for the speaker, but to his disbelief, no one was there. He figured his best odds lay with remaining as still as he possibly could, but he soon learned that there was no hiding. He could have stood frozen for the next twenty-four hours if he wanted to, but the Wall would still find him. It would always find him.
Again, the voice spoke. “I’m here.”
With all of his muscles contracted in the clutch of fear, Harrison scanned the scene around him. No one was there, but this time the voice did not pause for so long. As his eyes locked onto the gushing wall and tall rockface, it came again.
“That’s it. You’ve found me.” Harrison felt sick.
Nothing moved, and yet the voice seemed so sure. It sounded friendly, belonging to what he thought was an older gentleman, but its high pitch and slow pace was unsettling. Harrison had had teachers that spoke in a similar way to seem more nurturing, but most failed to do it properly, sounding more menacing and predatory. They often reminded him of his father, but Harrison always worked to quickly shake off such associations. This voice, however, was weirdly succeeding at both impressions, and Harrison didn’t know whether to run or sit down. It was very, very strange, but one thing was clear. It didn’t sound anything like his father.
“H-hello?” Harrison said. No one appeared from behind the water, nor did anyone shout out from the bush, signalling him over with a wave of their hand. Instead, the voice gently spoke again.
“What is your name, friend?”
Harrison swallowed and tried his best to shake off the paralyzing sense of shock. He stared at the constant stream of falling water like it was a single slit eye. “H-H-Harrison Little.” He let out a trembling breath.
Harrison stood completely still, his body static in anticipation as the dulled rain continued to poke the outside of his coat. He felt like he was being watched, as though a set of eyes were staring right at him through the plummeting stream, waiting for him to move. It didn’t feel real, any of it, and yet he didn’t dare run away. A spell had been cast to lock him into place.
“Hello, Harrison,” the voice said, politely. It had a distant quality about it that both bewildered and lulled the boy, yet a vivid proximity that deepened the shroud of fantasy that dominated the scene. The voice, as unrooted in sense and logic as it was, oddly relaxed him, making Harrison feel like he was talking to a friendly receptionist or parent of a friend. An adult who had been expecting him. It was like when he went to the barbers. The nice lady was always there with a welcoming smile, and every time he walked in, she welcomed him over like they were about to play a fun little game. It was always a warm occasion – the friendly chat and the relaxing buzz in his ears, his mother’s reassuring reflection in the corner of his eye – and this voice had the same peculiar effect. It sounded like it just wanted to chat.
“What’s yours?” The flash of confidence came from nowhere, and Harrison immediately regretted asking it. But the voice answered pleasantly.
“Well, Harrison, I’ve been called many things. I would probably say I am best known as the Wall, but, as a friend, you can call me whatever you like. We are friends, aren’t we?”
Again, Harrison could not help but allow his guard to slip a little more. He thought of the lady barber and his mother smiling at him in the mirror. “Yes, I suppose so. Can I…can I call you Wally? You know, instead of the Wall?”
“Why, of course, Harrison. That would be fine.”
Several minutes of silence passed. It felt more and more like a dream with every passing second. To his continued surprise, Harrison felt the tension in his muscles and the panic in his mind gradually slip away. His heartrate calmed and his breathing slowed.
“Wally?” he asked.
“Yes,” the voice replied.
“Are you a person?”
A moment passed, then the Wall replied in as neutral a tone as any innocent being would. “Why don’t you look and find out?”
The tranquillity cracked. The impossibility of what was happening rose and crested, and Harrison could not help but seize up again in anticipation of the wave’s bellowing crash. He was speaking to a waterfall. It wasn’t natural or normal or possible. But the Wall knew what was happening. It had been in this situation before. “Don’t be frightened, Harrison. You are safe here.”
Wally’s reassurance chinked the boy’s nerve just enough for him to move. Harrison approached the waterfall, minding his footing around the pool, and inspected it. It felt like he was in school again, examining the bacteria of a petri dish and trying to make sense of the odd little shapes and colours, without entirely being sure of what he was looking for. The rock was just as thick as it was tall, and there was no way that someone could be standing behind it. Its back face was somewhere off in the bush, and there was no way a voice could sound so close from way back there. Upon getting closer to the water itself, Harrison decided to also take a look at the space behind it and saw that there was none. The flowing liquid appeared to slide as close to the rock as skin is to bone. There was no gap behind its gushing, and so no one could possibly be speaking from behind the watery vale. At last, he stepped away from the wall and returned to where he had been standing, puzzled.
“So…are you magic?” Harrison asked. The anxiety of the scene had crystallised into a solid confusion.
“I am many things, Harrison. How could I be magic?” The voice was playful, almost seductive, but Harrison did not notice.
“I don’t know. If you’re actually a talking waterfall then you must be magic.” The boy paused, thought about what he was going to say next, then spoke again. His nerve had dissolved completely now. He felt like he was playing a game. “If you’re magic, you must have powers.”
“Well, I have been known to do…some things.”
“Really? What? What can you do?”
“Well, I have been known to grant people things. Wishes, you may refer to them as.”
“Wishes? Like a genie?” Harrison’s eyes glistened as though he were speaking with the real Father Christmas. Oh, how all of them think of that man.
“Well, not exactly,” the Wall said. “A genie is one who gifts wishes. I am one who…rewards with them.” The emphasised word hung in the air like a foul stench. The push-and-pull of the encounter was so stressful yet alluring for Harrison that he could not help but be intrigued in spite of what he was hearing. The voice swayed so freely between being terrifying and entertaining that he could do nothing but give in to its motion. It was like being on a rollercoaster. He just had to hold on.
“Reward? Reward for doing what?” Harrison asked.
“That depends, Harrison, on what it is that you want.” Silence followed. Suddenly, Harrison’s mind was ablaze with ideas that he had never considered before. Fame, money, talent: everything passed through his whizzing mind. It was like high-speed traffic was blurring past. Everything went by and yet nothing was properly seen. There was too much potential. But then, after thinking about the craziest things possible, Harrison considered the simplest. He thought about home, about his family, about his father.
“Could you make my dad less mean to me?” Harrison asked at last, sounding embarrassed.
Nothing came from the waterfall but the natural splashing of the water hitting the pool at the boy’s feet. After a few seconds, Harrison thought he had imagined the whole thing, as if the voice had never existed at all. He considered running home right there and then and forgetting the whole thing, but then the voice came back. It had been considering the request.
“How does your father treat you, my friend?”. Harrison immediately felt defensive, as though he had never said anything. His father wasn’t that bad. He would ask for something else, something better. But then the voice spoke again. “Does he hurt you?”
A tear crept from the boy’s eye. “No! No, he just—”
“Harrison,” the voice was firm, “do not lie to me.”
The boy hastily wiped his cheek clean. “Well…he…he is a bit rough sometimes.” He sounded scared. His voice was weak and timid, but the Wall pressed on.
“How rough?”
“Erm…well…” No specific instant or memory came to mind for Harrison. Instead, it was an influx of blended images and feelings, fuzzy and unclear, yet innumerable. He saw his father getting home from work, and himself approaching to pester him about helping with homework or wanting to play a game. The cold response in his father’s face was like a wicked carving in a dark cave wall, and it flickered menacingly in his flickering memory. The Wall’s silence bore on Harrison like a dark cloud, and he felt the increasing pressure to answer. Despite the chilly weather and continuous dripping of the rain from above, he felt hot and sticky.
“He has beat me up before. Cut me and given me bruises, but it’s because I don’t give him space. I need to leave him be after working all day.”
It was strange how the voice never seemed to breathe nor sigh nor cough. When Harrison was speaking, he heard nothing at all to suggest something alive and organic was out there listening. But when he finished, the voice came back. It had heard every word. “Would you like your father to stop hurting you, Harrison? Because I can help you with that.”
“No, no, it’s okay, Wally. I don’t want to get into any trouble. My mum says that if we call the police about it then—”
“Police, Harrison? Who spoke of the police? Do you think I grant rewards through calling the police?”
Harrison felt silly. “No.”
“No, for that would be the way of a man. I am more than a man, Harrison. I can help you with your situation and stop your father from hurting you without calling the police or getting you into trouble. All you have to do is collect some items for me. Can you do that?”
“What items?”
“Well, I would consider them to be pieces more than items. If you can collect three pieces for me, bringing them each in turn, then I can assemble a machine. A machine which, with my guidance, you can use to free yourself from your current predicament. Without, I assure you, getting into trouble.”
“How would the device work?”
“It is hard to describe the ways in which I work, my friend. How would you describe the wind to someone if they had never felt its gust? I’m afraid you are going to have to trust me. All will be shown to you in time. Do you trust me, Harrison?”
“Yes, of course. What do I need to find?” How malleable and warm the heart of a child is. Fear is nothing in the wake of a promise, and the Wall is second to nothing when it comes to making pledges to those who find it. Harrison had wandered into its path, told it his secret, and was now willing to do anything to receive its reward. It seemed impossible to attain, but then again, it was all impossible. He was talking to a waterfall. And it had made him a promise.
“First, I need you to collect some string.”
“String?” Harrison almost giggled. “Why string?”
“If it so funny, Harrison, then I imagine that you are capable of performing your wish by yourself?” The tone shift was menacing in its speed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How much string?” the boy asked.
“Enough to wrap around your wrist twice, my friend. But it mustn’t be damaged or dirty. Ensure that it is in good quality and whole, and it will work for the purpose I intend.”
Harrison didn’t say anything for a moment. He was thinking. Where did he know that sold string? More importantly, how was he going to pay for it? They were important questions for a boy to consider, as he did not control his own pocket money and he had never had to purchase string before. He decided to ask Wally, given his seemingly divine knowledge, but he didn’t receive a clear answer.
“Harrison, anything is attainable for one who is willing to reach out. If you cannot attain it by conventional means, then I suggest you think differently. I need that string. You must get it for me.”
And then the voice was gone. Harrison called out, asking a few more clarifying questions, but nothing came back. He was alone, standing in the rain, with nothing answering him but the sounds of tumbling water and the subdued wind. He had no idea where he was going to get string, but that worry quickly faded. With Wally gone, he immediately felt the nip of the cold and the workings of time returning to his considerations. How long had he been standing there? His mother might be home by now, and what would she think if she came home and he wasn’t back yet? Would she call his father?
That thought was enough to get him moving. With a quick final glance of the waterfall, Harrison bolted back up the thin trail, re-joined the path home, and began running out of Peter’s Wood. Somehow, someway he was going to get some string and give it to Wally.
Wally, his new friend.
The String
The journey home was a wet and hurried one for Harrison. His body advanced towards home at break-neck speed, largely on autopilot while his mind revised what had just happened to him.
Wally – he already thought of the voice by its nickname – was an impossibility, and yet it had all actually happened. The voice had risen from the tranquil, unassuming nature and exchanged words with the boy, as easily as Harrison would share a funny anecdote with a fellow boy on the school yard. But Wally had done much more than share a joke. He had given Harrison a mission.
That’s what it felt like to him, anyway; a mystical quest to gather valuable and useful resources. But as Harrison blundered through the rain, keeping his head down and moving as fast as he possibly could, the darker underbelly of what he had been asked to do rumbled and made itself heard.
It was a serious promise that the voice had made, and with every step closer to home, Harrison felt the gravity of what he had agreed to drag him down with more and more force. Would his father be in a bad mood tonight? The very chance of it enraged Harrison’s engine and made his thoughtless sprinting turn reckless and erratic. He had to get home. Puddles were not avoided, pedestrians were bluntly overtaken, and roads were hastily checked and crossed. If a truck driver had decided to run a late yellow light, he may have been hit. Harrison developed a stitch in his side he ran so quickly, but it was all in vain. As he blundered through his front door and slammed it shut behind him, the first thing he saw was the tall, skinny figure of his mother and her wide specs. She had been worried.
“Where the bloody hell have you been, Harri?” she cried, her eyes bulging from behind her thick, square spectacles. She stood in the middle of the hallway, having jumped from the kitchen in anticipation of her son’s delayed return. It must have been a rapid movement as her shoulder-length curls were still swaying across her cheeks. From her attire – work shoes, a light green shirt, and blazer – Harrison guessed she had only just got home herself.
“Is dad home?” Harrison responded, kicking off his shoes and unzipping his coat.
Sylvia Little paused, cleared her throat, and ignored the question. “Harrison. Tell me where you have been. It’s almost teatime and you should have been home ages ago. Now tell me the truth.”
That, the boy knew, was impossible. It crosses the mind of each new friend of the Wall to speak the truth and let an adult pair of ears hear the mystical voice for themselves, but all refrain. It could threaten the deliverance of the promise, and that was not worth jeopardising. Harrison reluctantly had to lie.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he started. “It was raining so I… stayed in the library for a little bit to see if it would stop. I thought it would pass but it didn’t, so I ran home. I’m sorry.”
It felt strange for Harrison to be dishonest, but it was a solid excuse despite his hesitation which seemed to slip by undetected. It held the perfect blend of believability and innocence that Sylvia couldn’t help but drop her guard. Her boy was a good kid, and he didn’t have a history of lying. None of them ever do.
“Well, alright,” Sylvia said, her tone hesitant yet nurturing. “Get upstairs and get those wet clothes off. Your father will be home soon, and we wouldn’t want him thinking you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t have.” There was no malice in her voice, but Harrison couldn’t help but think of his reward at the mention of his father. The aroma of punishment was faint, but to pretend as though he had not been late home from school showed that it was certainly in the air. Harrison didn’t like it. He needed some string.
Just before he ran upstairs and got changed into something more comfortable, Harrison stopped at the foot of the staircase and spun back towards his mum. She was shaking the raindrops from his coat and hadn’t noticed him stop. “Mum, do we have any string?”
Sylvia looked up at her son with a curious glare. A few specks of water had rested on her glasses. “String?”
Harrison’s heart skipped, and he tried to sound casually confident. “Yes, string. Do we have any?” A bead of sweat formed at his temple, but he hoped his mum would just think it another drop of rain. On the outside he seemed calm, but Harrison’s nerve was sizzling like a firecracker.
“I think we should have some somewhere. It’s not like you to ask for something like that, Harri. What do you want it for?”
This question was always the first test. While he was to have no awareness of it, Harrison Little was now in the same situation as all of the Wall’s companions that came before him. All – both tall and small, wide and thin, smart and slow – found themselves needing something that they could not honestly justify. And each time, as Harrison was milliseconds from realising for himself, the only choice was to avert the truth, to bend the reasoning for their newfound desire of that particular object, and lie. It was the only way.
“Erm…well…” he began, but his brain staggered and stopped. His mind was working overtime – one half trying to think of another masterful fib, the other debating whether he should even try at all – and it burned out almost immediately. What would she believe? What would she say if she found out he was lying? Cognitive cylinders spun and clicked, but nothing concrete came out. Harrison felt like he was clasping for something to stop him from drowning, but nothing was within his young, short reach. He scrambled and scrambled for something to say, terrified at the very thought of being dishonest to his mother as he did so.
She had always been his moral anchor, showing him how to be a good person and displaying the fundamentals for being a helpful and loyal friend. It wasn’t a deliberate choice. There was no point where Sylvia looked at her boy and decided to raise him by any particular code or set of commandments. It just happened, and honesty naturally sprouted and bloomed as one of the top priorities in the Little household. Being his mum’s biggest fan (as any son is), Harrison rarely strayed from this model of behaviour, but whenever he was tempted with dishonest intentions, a particular memory flashed and quelled the impulse. It was of when he was seven, not much taller than the kitchen table, and had accompanied his mother to shop. It was a Saturday, and the trip was just a small one in order to stock up on some tea bags and milk. While Sylvia was collecting the milk and trying to choose which brand of tea she wanted to drink for the next few months, Harrison had wandered over to the sweet aisle, looking to browse the sugary treats and, in doing so, force his mum to come over to that side of the shop. When she came looking for him, he would then ask if she would buy some for him, but on that occasion, the plan failed.
“No, Harrison, we’ve got plenty of sweets at home,” she had said bluntly. To say the tiny Harrison was disappointed would have been an understatement – I have rarely seen such unwarranted upset, even from someone so young – and the blend of anger and surprise caused him to do something he had never considered before. Without thought, Harrison snatched a lollipop from the small, transparent tray and quickly whisked it into his pocket, but not fast enough. He hadn’t taken a single step before he noticed the piercing glare of his mother. Her eyes shone like suns in the small store, emitting a dangerous radiation that Harrison knew would kill him if he was exposed to too much of it. Those wide frames magnified their power, and there nothing else he could do but chuck the lollipop back into its place and apologise.
Nothing but a river of relentless regret flowed from his mouth for the rest of the day, and although his mother had forgiven him and laughed it off, the power of the stare had remained like an unbreakable relic in Harrison’s mind. Those quadrilateral frames were like portals, offering a small glimpse into an alternate dimension where rules were abandoned and trust was broken, and he hadn’t liked it. Part of that response was fear – every child knows the dread of disobedience – but there was also shame, bubbling away as the secret ingredient of the concoction of guilt. Behind those lenses, he saw that his mother was hurt by his actions, and that was more than enough to keep him on the straight and narrow path from that point onwards. Until he met the Wall, that was.
Years later, wet from the rain and amazed by what had just happened to him, Harrison was faced once again with those lenses, and he knew he was on the brink of spitting in the face of everything his mother had worked to instil in him. But what else could he do? Tell the truth and reveal himself to be a crazy little boy? His mother would never let him out again if he spoke of strange voices in the woods and wish-granting waterfalls. It would sound ludicrous. It was ludicrous!
Debating the issue all day would only provide the same hazy sense of necessity and pain, and it quickly dawned on Harrison – standing on the bottom step, looking at his mother’s waiting face – that there was no other choice. He came out with the simplest lie he could tell, and he did it quickly. It was one that he thought wouldn’t be all that bad, but it hurt all the same. Pulling out a splinter was always rough, no matter how small.
“Me and a few friends are building catapults after school tomorrow, and I need some string for it.”
Sylvia said nothing. Instead of replying, she just took off her glasses to clean them. Now unobscured by the cluttered lenses, Harrison saw that her eyes were looking up at the ceiling as she thought about where there might be some leftover string. It was a relieving sight, but his heart did not rise much. Rather than simply telling him that his lie had passed by the detectors without setting off the alarm, her expression actually triggered one in him. The glasses truly were instruments of magnification, because without them his mother’s eyes were but a fraction of the size – round and innocent. Unlike the blazing suns that he remembered, they were like twinkling stars, minuscule in the distance of space, but just as bright and beautiful. Their light and colour were a gorgeous spectacle of the human form, and what were they doing? Looking around for inspiration to aid their son in his fictional motivation to acquire string.
Harrison felt sick, and he could feel his heart beating to an uncomfortable rhythm in his chest as his mum considered his complete and utter lie. Those eyes were the night sky, an abyss into which Harrison could so easily fall, but something else rose in him then, shining out in that darkness. It was Wally. Like the Moon - gentle, guiding, present, the thought of the soothing voice of the waterfall stayed his wild desire to spit out the truth and end his mother’s thinking, and Harrison felt his shaking innards relax under the influence of Wally’s words. This was all for a greater purpose. All he had to do was shut up and bear it. And that he did.
“I think I might have some in my bedroom, darling,” Sylvia said, eventually. “I will look later on this evening and cut off a piece ready for the morning. How long does it need to be?”
The Wall’s echoed in Harrison’s mind. “Enough to wrap around your wrist twice,” he said.
With her glasses now back on her face, Sylvia smiled up at her son. “Okay. Leave it with me and I’ll sort it. Now go get ready for tea!”
And with that, Harrison sprinted up the stairs and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He ripped off his school uniform, pulled out some fresh clothes, and got dressed. It was hurried and panicked, but he needed to get the toxic energy out of his system. He was hyper, not with joy, but with the dirty exhilaration of getting away with his crime. The shame clung to him like a dark, viscous sap, and he wanted to get it off as soon as possible.
When he was dressed, he picked up his uniform and threw it violently into his washbag. The wet clump of fabric thundered into the cloth sack like a cannonball, but still he felt restless. Lying was so unnatural to him that he felt like something alien was still attached to him, something foul and cunning that spoke for him. It was too much to bear.
He had to tell the truth. No matter how insignificant, it was wrong to lie to his mum, and Harrison couldn’t let some magical waterfall turn him against her. She needed to know why he really needed it, no matter how bonkers it made him sound. It was like she always said, honesty was always the best policy, and he knew there were no exceptions.
The boy closed his eyes, and within an instant he was back in that shop, seven years old and dying for some sweets. His hormones analysed that day and replicated every feeling his younger self had experienced, and it was hardly any different to how he was feeling now. The lollipop was in his hand – the lie was out there in the world, ringing around his Mother’s mind as she considered whether to cut the string before or after tea – and a pair of omniscient eyes were waiting. They knew what he had done, both then and now, and all they had had to do was wait. Suns, stars, it didn’t matter what they looked like. They were his mother’s, and those beautifully round and magnified beacons deserved the truth. He had to oblige.
Harrison relaxed a little bit at the idea of coming clean. The world wasn’t ending, and by no means was he breaking the foundation of trust between him and his mum. All he had to do was go downstairs and say what the string was really for. It would sound crazy, but so be it. Lying would only make it worse, Harrison knew that.
Just as Harrison was about to return downstairs and tell his mum the truth, he heard the front door slam shut. Dad was home. The bass of his voice diffused through the walls and floors, and a bolt of wariness flew up Harrison’s spine. No conscious thought turned his body to the clump of wet clothes he had casually tossed into the washbag, but he had done it all the same.
The only rule was to not force another spin of the washing machine. Dad had always been very clear on that.
As quickly as he had thrust it to the ground, Harrison picked up the garments of his uniform and hung them on the radiator. He then dressed – not hearing the sudden quickness of his breathe - and creaked open his bedroom door as quietly as he could. His father’s words boomed up the staircase in startling clarity.
“What? So where has he been?” Harrison’s body froze and he could no longer imagine going downstairs. His mother’s voice, muffled and quieter than her husband’s, explained why, and thankfully Rodney Little’s tone simmered. “Alright, well it had best not happen again. Who knows what could happen to him out there.”
The irony of the statement was lost on young Harrison, but he was smart enough to know what fate his mother had saved him from. Puzzlingly, it birthed two sensations in him, each contradicting the other. Gratitude and caution fused together like different soft drinks and sat heavily in his stomach just the same, making him feel like he was seconds away from spewing all over his bedroom floor. His mother’s words had settled his father’s temper and altered what would have been a very frightening, violent course, and this made him want to tell her the truth even more. In her honour. But his father had been so angry, and over what? His son being a bit late from school? The confrontation also reassured Harrison that, as bad as it hurt him, he was justified in his actions. The reason for lying, the value of the string, the promise of the Wall – it all came flooding back in pristine simplicity.
He closed the door.
Thanks to Sylvia, the rest of the evening took a rather tame and underwhelming course. Food was served and consumed, television was watched, comics were read in the haven of Harrison’s room. On the surface, it was like any other, but of course, that wasn’t the case. Flashes of guilt rose and knocked at the boy’s mind as he tried to focus on the adventures of Spider-Man, and they continued long into the night. The Wall, the string, the lie: it was like a swarm of bees in his brain, and Harrison had just kicked the hive.
The harassing thoughts did subside eventually, and Harrison woke up the next morning to find a thin piece of string sitting on his bedside table. It was fairly long, and it looked good. There was no notable wear at all. The Wall would be impressed.
That day was a long and nervous one for Harrison. He could not focus on his work throughout his lessons nor enjoy the company of his friends. Ball games were about as interesting as passing motorway signs on a road trip, and Harrison’s lack of attention in his classes reached a frightening level. At one point, a teacher asked him who was the son of God – religious studies was boring enough on a normal day for him – and Harrison had answered without even having heard the question.
“Henry the Eighth!” he blurted out. The class erupted in laughter, as any assemblance of bored tweens would, but Harrison hadn’t meant to be funny. His distracted mind had genuinely forgotten that he had left history class half an hour before, but he didn’t care enough to listen to the correct answer. He thought only of his naughty deed and what was to come after school, and when the teaching continued, he mentally exited once again. He hoped that the Wall would accept the string and not ask him to attain anything so difficult again. There was no way he could lie to get something from his mum a second time, so hopefully it would request some paper or pens or cello tape; things he could easily get without being dishonest or cruel.
After what seemed like a millennium, the final bell rang out throughout the school and Harrison packed up his stuff. He sprinted from the educatory halls and into the beaming light of the early afternoon, his steps rapid. It was sunnier than the previous day and unmistakably drier, so he knew he would not be able to pull off the façade of being late due to the rain again. This encounter with the Wall would need to be quick, and he prayed to God that it would be.
As the sun pierced through the slight cracks in the dense forest roof, Harrison ran under its cover and hastily made his way to the sound of the running water. Peter’s Wood was alive with the orchestra of chirping birds and the soft grazing of wind on the leaves above the boy’s head, but it was all just background music that day. Vibrant green plumage and dazzling beams of falling light surrounded, but Harrison cared only for the frail piece of string in his pocket. He ran clasping it, refusing to risk it falling onto the dirt path and getting lost. The beauty around him was merely a passing blur, nothing to stop and waste time with.
When Harrison approached the place where he had first heard the divine aquatic whispers of the waterfall its cool song was just as loud as it had been the day before. He carefully descended the thin trail between the bushes and, with a thud, blundered out of the shrubbery and landed on the finely trimmed lawn. It too was just as luscious and kept as Harrison recalled. Everything was the same – the grass, the sounds, the water gushing over the rock edge and falling into the little pool. Now he hoped the voice would still be here too.
“Wally,” he called, feeling slightly silly. He had wondered the day before if it had all been a mirage, but now that concern had more gravity. What if he had been delusional throughout the entire previous afternoon? Had the canteen served anything to make him go loopy? They were valid concerns, and they grew exponentially as the silent seconds ticked by. Harrison recalled once that a girl had been off for two weeks after picking the wrong slice of pizza from the heated shelf in the school canteen. They said it was just a bad batch, but what if it wasn’t? Had she had odd hallucinations or heard strange voices?
She hadn’t, I can tell you, but Harrison had nothing else to work with. From the woods, all that came back in response was the splashing of the falling water and the occasional croak of a bird in the distance, and everything soon began falling to pieces in Harrison’s mind. He had lied for no reason. It was all for nothing. Anger filled him.
But then, just as the boy was about to toss the piece of string into the vegetation, the voice came with untainted ambivalence, as though it didn’t recognise Harrison at all.
“Who goes there?”
The Wall sounded exactly the same; Harrison knew he wasn’t crazy! ‘Hello, Wally. It’s me, Harrison!”
There was no reply for a few seconds, but then the Wall came back with perfect calmness. “Ah, Harrison, my friend. Have you done as I instructed?”
The boy pulled out the string from his pocket and held it up. “Yes. I have the string.”
“Good. Very good.”
“What should I do with it?” Harrison asked.
“All you need do is place it into my pool. There, I shall do with it what I must.”
Harrison hesitated. “But won’t it get wet?”
“Yes, but I am beyond such simple states as wet and dry.” The voice’s expression soured, but then returned to its softer pitch. “Have faith in me, my friend. You need not worry.”
A sensation of euphoria lay across Harrison’s shoulders. He imagined that this was what religion felt like to some people. The voice had that effect: it was quite the motivator. As gently as he could, he lowered the string into water. It sank slowly and manoeuvred through the layered liquid like a slithering eel, graceful but slow. He hastened its descent and pushed it to the bottom, the cold touch of the water igniting the pores of his hand. Eventually it lightly came to rest on the stone bed.
Wafting the freezing droplets from his hand, Harrison stood back and looked down at the water. The string seemed so alien, so unwanted in such a little body of water, but what did he know? He was not the Wall.
“I’ve done it,” he said. Relief poured from Harrison’s nostrils as he exhaled, and he looked upon the seemingly worthless string at the bottom of the pool like it was a bag full of cash. It certainly didn’t look like that impressive of a haul, but it certainly felt like it. It had cost him a great deal to acquire.
“Excellent, Harrison. You have done very well. Now you must collect a second item. A small bar of wood.”
Harrison’s head shot up, his face perplexed. He had only just retrieved the string, and now he was being sent for something else? It was very fast, too fast, and he didn’t know how he was going to get something so particular and peculiar. As he thought on it, Harrison realised that he didn’t even know what it was. A small bar of wood? His mother wouldn’t have one of those lying around the house, and where in the world was he supposed to start looking? He was confused but he didn’t want to question the Wall’s wisdom. Wally knew what was needed for the machine better than some boy. But then again, he didn’t have time to stand around bamboozled. He had to get home. His father wouldn’t want him late home again.
“Wally, how am I supposed to get a bar of wood? I don’t mean to question you, but…I struggled to get the string and…and I had to do something I didn’t like to get it. Is there…erm…is there anything easier I could get? Would anything else work?” Harrison cringed all over.
“No, Harrison. Nothing else will work.” It was suddenly like he was being told off by a teacher. A big, terrifying teacher. “In order to create the machine, I need a small bar of wood, large enough to hold in your palm but no bigger. It much be two inches thick, and no more. Any type of wood is fine, but it must be sturdy. Am I understood?”
Harrison gulped. “Y-yes. Yes, I understand.” He felt like crying – the panic of not knowing where to even begin his search – but then the voice came again. The powerful quality was gone, and it now rang with prudence and care. Like a father.
“What did you have to do that was so difficult, my friend?”
“I…I…erm.” It was so hard to admit. Harrison’s mother’s glasses returned again, daring him to admit to what he had done. “I l-lied to my mum. I told her the string was for a catapult. I couldn’t tell her the truth but…I shouldn’t have done it. I lied to her.”
The Wall was silent, as though it were preparing to offer the boy a hug. Of course, it couldn’t do that, so it used its greatest tool of both calming the boat and cooking up a storm. A tool which it had mastered with so much practice.
“Harrison, my friend, in order for things to be accomplished, people often have to make sacrifices. They are compelled to change, alter, and sometimes abandon the structures to which they have grown accustom. For you, lying to your mother was a difficult task, but it was necessary. For the sake of the creation of the machine that will stop your father from hurting you, it was necessary. Now, I could tell you that you will not have to do something like that again, but I cannot. The road ahead is equally, if not more trying. The work you and I are attempting is not easy, but we must both persevere and make sure it is done. You must collect, and I must build. It is what is needed for the salvation I promise. Do you understand?”
Despite not knowing what some of the words he had just heard even meant, Harrison did. “I’m sorry, Wally. I know.”
But the Wall was not done. It heard something, as it always does, in its visitor’s voice that it could not leave unaddressed. It was doubt, the ever so slight ember of scepticism in the powers at play. Harrison still clung to the notion that what he had done was wrong. That was a barrier that could spark and set fire to everything. It needed to change.
“Harrison, do you not realise that your mother will also benefit from my machine?”
The boy’s attention sparked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I am crafting an instrument which shall prevent your father from hurting you anymore. Do you believe such protection will not also be bestowed upon her?”
It is often the way of the cunning to work with the covert arts. The assassin, the blade; the saboteur, the whisper; the Wall, the riddle.
“Oh…erm. I hadn’t…why would it protect her?” Harrison was completely lost.
“Harrison, my boy. If he hurts you, what makes you think he doesn’t hurt her as well?”
So finely directed, the question hit its mark like a bullet. Harrison had never considered the idea of his father doing what he did to him to his mum, nor had he ever seen any evidence of it. His mum never seemed bruised nor pained, but then again, neither had he. He always did his utmost to conceal the marks from his father’s tight grips and quick backhands, so could his mum also do the same? He felt sick at the thought, but it was possible. How had he never thought of it? Not only was there a putrid uneasiness in his stomach, but now a tsunamic shame bombarded his mind. Wally was right.
And the Wall knew it too.
“Go, my friend,” it said. “Collect what I need and bring it back to me. Then, once we have the final piece, we can stop your father and protect your mother from ever being hurt again.”
Upon the Wall’s last word, Harrison turned and sprinted back up the thin trail. He jumped out of the bush, planted both of his school shoes onto the dusty path, and looked up to the green ceiling. The sunlight was breaking through the battalion of vegetation, and patches of brightness blotched the foliage like a hundred searching spotlights. In this weather, Harrison should have been home ages, possibly sat in the garden or playing videogames in his bedroom with the window open. If he was lucky, he could make it back just before his mum did, open all the windows, and pretend that he had been home for a while. It was doable, but he had to be quick.
Energised by the afternoon’s warmth, Harrison bolted out of the wood and headed straight for home. The sky was a dazzling, clear blue, but the gorgeous purity of the world’s spring colour failed to soothe him. Harrison’s brain was closed for business. Images of his father beating his mum filled his head and fuelled his body to run as fast as it could. Far from blue and green, the world around him took on a noir palette, just like that gangster movies he remembered.
Harrison was a man on the run, and the passing cackles of bike-riding kids were the stuttered firings of machines guns. Home was the safe house which he had to reach before the cops showed up, and time was running out. It was almost fun to think of it like that, but Harrison knew too well that, in those types of movies, there was always one character who ruined things for everyone and made life a living hell. That character was the Don, and the one in Harrison’s life had tasked him doing a job he wasn’t sure he could carry out.
He didn’t know where he was going to find a small bar of wood, but it didn’t matter. Like a lot of hustler guys, he knew he needed to get it, and that was exactly what he was going to do. For Wally, for him, and for his mother.
The Wood
Wednesday night was pasta night in the Little household, and that meant Harrison and his parents would be sat around the table together. On other nights, each could eat wherever they chose – in front of the television, in their bedrooms, or even out in the garden during the summer – but there were rules when it came to the midweek spaghetti or tortellini. It was family time, a small portion of the week for conversation, laughter, and sharing. That’s always what Sylvia hoped for, anyway. In reality, it was a tame little meal where each member of the family checked in and let the others know what was happening in their lives. But, while it was never a completely relaxed occasion for Harrison to sit opposite his father and answer questions about school, friends, and sports, this particularly Wednesday was going to be significantly cruel. This week he had a secret.
The clock struck six and plates of hot food were placed onto the dining room table. Steam rose from the garlic bread and meatballs, dancing before the ravenous nostrils of Rodney Little who was already sat and waiting. He was still dressed in his work clothes – a neat baby blue shirt and green tie – and was happily perched at the head of the table, his hands clasped within one another, his eyes staring into space. The next person to sit down was Sylvia. She came in holding a drink in each hand, placing each at the designated seats of her son and husband, and then popped herself down beside her spouse. She smiled at him, and he sniggered back playfully, pointing out her steamy glasses.
About five minutes after the table was set, Harrison joined his family. He entered the room quietly and took his place opposite his mother without speaking a word. Luckily for him, both of his parents were too hungry to address the impoliteness of their son’s arrival, and as soon as he sat down, they began feasting. The garlic bread was divided, the silverware was taken up and plunged into each dish of food, and all was quite well until the initial commencement of eating began. Rodney had eaten away his ignorance and was now curious to learn what his family had been up to that day.
It was what usually happened on Wednesdays, but Harrison did not dread it as much as he often did. His capacity for fear was already at peak performance, scrounging his brain for an idea as to where he could get a small bar of wood. It was a blurry and chaotic thought process, and it blocked out much of the outside world with its activity, similar to the sensation of being underwater. Everything was continuing as normal above the surface, but beneath, it was all muted. But such things were not so obvious from the other side of the table.
“So, Harrison, what have you been up to today?” Rodney asked. He did not lift his eyes from his plate as he spoke, and so his son did not notice he was being spoken to. After a few seconds, he asked again, his tone ever so slightly less keen. “Harrison,” he looked at his son directly, “what have you done today?”
This time, the boy took notice. “I…well not much. School, mostly.”
“And what did you do in school?”
Harrison looked as though he was thinking, but that was not the case. He was disinterested in what his father had asked, but still he answered. “Science, P.E, Maths.”
“Ah, yes. Maths. You had that test today, didn’t you? How did it go?”
“Fine.” A wrong move.
Undenounced to his mentally idle son, Rodney was now losing his patience and staring with a look of composed frustration. His fists gripped his utensils with a stern rage, and it would only take a few more accounts of rudeness for Rodney to put his foot down. Thankfully, Sylvia stepped in.
“Harrison,” she said, pulling him from his daze with a slight tilt of her head. “Your father is speaking to you. He asked how your maths test went.” This worked well enough to simmer Rodney, but his temper remained active beneath the surface. It bubbled and swirled over his son’s lack of respect.
“Oh, sorry! I’m sorry, Dad, I...” Harrison began. He shook his head faintly in an attempt to sever himself from his foggy mindset. Maths, maths…what maths test? His brain couldn’t shift gears quickly enough and his entire cognitive function stalled. He couldn’t think of when he had had his maths test or how he felt about it. ‘Ums’ and ‘Ahs’ fell from his mouth, but no answer to his father’s question. The intolerable seconds ticked on, and eventually Sylvia’s gentle prods could do nothing more to stop Rodney from speaking.
“Harrison, must you be so rude?” he barked. It was common for a volatile response like this to come from such a mild inconvenience. Rodney’s own father would strike a stick against the calves of his children if they returned late from school or were anything less than respectful to their elders. Of course, Rodney himself was not beyond the use of such overtly violent means of discipline, but he always built to it, for he was not his father. The day that the bridge of outright violence was crossed for Rodney and his son was a dark and pungent in both their memories, but we will get to that, I assure you. But Rodney was not as quick as his father to clench his fists. He always shouted first. “All I want to know is how your day has been, and you are ignoring me!”
Harrison could stutter no longer. The whites of his father’s eyes were visible, and Harrison also noted the veins on his father’s hands, pulsing from the ever-tightening grip around his knife and fork. The thunderous voice was daunting, but it was only the warning of the storm. Harrison saw nothing of his father’s memory, of the torment and violence he had experienced as a child. He only saw the martinet before him, always ready to administer whichever measures reaped the right response. He had to say something.
“I’m sorry, Dad. The maths test went fine, I think I nailed the second half at least.” He still couldn’t remember having taken the test at all, but that didn’t matter. He had done enough.
“Okay, thank you,” Rodney said. “That’s all I wanted to know.” Rodney Little returned his attention to his meal, and Harrison pretended to do the same, his heart racing. As he always did, he fought every impulse to cry. He raged against the thumping of his blood to stay calm, to sit still, to seem unfazed. But then, on a random spur of impulse, he looked up at his mother.
It was the way of the Wall to change its visitors in small ways. Whether it be the way they think about their friends, the way they walk around their town, or the way they interact with their families. It always changed people. For Harrison, the Wall injected into him a flicker of suspicion. Just a flicker. And that, as was always the case, was enough to spark a reaction.
Harrisons eyes shot up from his meal and latched onto the first thing he noticed about his mother’s face. The shape of her glasses was the same; her hair sprouted, curved, and ended at the same points as the day before; and her eyes were just as observant and quaint as he always remembered them. The only aspect of her image that struck him as alien was nothing to do with her features at all, but something that had decided to join them.
A droplet of sweat glistened just below the left arm of Sylvia’s glasses, its tiny bubble body illuminated by the light of the lamp behind her. Harrison’s eyes then fell to hers, and they too had changed, as if the detection of the droplet had been a switch that turned the world upside down. They were fixed on her husband, unblinking and strained, with none of their prior calm.
Finally, his pupils ticked down to her hands, which were no longer holding her knife and fork. Had he looked at them before noticing the droplet? One was holding her glass – the warm fingers planting round prints on the screen of condensation – the other was flat on the table surface, tapping. Her index finger moved relentlessly as though she was testing a faulty piano key, touching the table every other second. It filled Harrison’s ears like a clock counting down to something, but somehow his father didn’t hear it. Had she been doing it this whole time? Had she always done it? The Wall’s words came like the inevitable tide: What makes you think he doesn’t hurt her as well?
Suddenly, Harrison’s entire demeanour changed. His heart slowed and his mind refocussed – he had something to find.
“I also had Design today, Dad,” he said, “and I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
Both of Harrison’s parents looked at him with unsheltered surprise. Rodney was intrigued, Sylvia’s feelings were clouded. Harrison didn’t notice, but there was a glint of fear in her eyes. I recognised it immediately. She knew that this could go extremely badly. But still, she remained silent.
“With what, son?” Rodney replied.
Harrison felt a cool excitement flowing through his veins. The thrill of treading on new ground was exhilarating, and it tickled his entire body, making him feel light and nimble. He felt invincible. “Well, we’re building something next week and I was wondering if you could help me find somewhere that sells one of the parts. I really don’t know where to get one.”
“Well, what’s the part?” his father asked. This was tremendous. Crossing the threshold of lying had been arduous with his mum, but now he was let loose from his pen and able to roam the land at liberty. The untruths fell from his lips as easily as fruit from a summer tree, and it felt fantastic to be doing it right in his father’s face. Harrison’s mind gathered the pieces of his story as playfully as a child selects sweets.
“Well, it’s like a…wooden bar, kind of. We need it to work as a handle for a machine. It’s got to be thick enough for a tiny bit of metal to go into it, you know. And it’s got to fit nicely in my hand. Because it’s a handle, you see.”
Rodney ate this up like warm custard. “Hm, interesting. And you don’t know where to find one?”
Harrison quickly glanced at his mum – who was still visibly nervous – and continued his lie. “Yeah, do you have any ideas, Dad?”
Rodney scratched at his chin and twiddled his fork idly around his remaining food. “Well, you could try Mr Potter’s Workshop in town. It has loads of bits and bobs, and I’m sure he’d have something in the back that you could use. I can’t count how many times he’s got me something I didn’t even know existed.”
“Okay, thanks, Dad.” He didn’t show it, but Harrison was utterly bewildered at what he had just pulled off. He felt like he had successfully robbed a bank.
“Hey,” Rodney said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Both Harrison and Sylvia watched in awe as he opened it, pulled out a five-pound note from one of its pockets, and handed it across the table. “Take this. I hope you find it.”
Dumbstruck, Harrison thanked his father and placed the note into his front pocket. The rest of the meal then passed in complete silence as Rodney devoured the remainder of his food and his family nibbled away quietly. Nobody spoke, nobody shouted. All that could be heard was the slurping and gulping of pasta. Harrison gleamed inside.
For the mind that is focused, days tend to blend and mix together. It’s as if the Moon and the Sun are figments of one’s imagination, present only when the individual has time to think of them, to notice them. I know that the world moves independently of the individual, of course, but isn’t it interesting to see things like that? To think that this is all just a dream we choose to believe in?
What am I saying? This is not important.
After discovering where to find the bar of wood, and pocketing his father’s cash, Harrison slept, awoke, went to school, and waited. It was a dull eight hours, characterised by the same disengagement with the world around him as the day before, and the boy only thought of one thing throughout it all. Science mattered not, nor did the literature of the Romantic period. It all passed him by like a fickle breeze. All he thought of was the bar of wood and the five-pound note in his pocket. He placed his hand on over its outline in his trousers every ten minutes or so to check it was still there, and he was grateful every time he could still feel it. That note was his ticket to being one step closer to his reward. It was everything that day.
In fear of boring you, I must just say once more that this is how it goes for every child who discovers the Wall. The cycle numbs each and every one of their lives, strangling and eroding every other motivation they possess until they are as passive as litter in the wind. It rains upwards, gravity releases them, and the sun turns cold as the world loses all sense of sentiment and order. The reward – that glorious and aloof machine - becomes Heaven and Earth, and everything remaining in the physical realm is not worth caring about. It is like clockwork. I shall not remind you again.
The final bell rang. Harrison burst from the school, bumping shoulders with his peers as the school’s population tumbled into the grey Thursday afternoon, and began his journey to town. Knowing that he didn’t need to rush home that day was like a numbing drug. His parents knew he was going to Mr Potter’s, and so the pressure was off.
The Thursday afternoon shopping crowd was a sparse one. A few pensioners roamed the wide single high street, walking slowly from one fruit and vegetable store to the next, but the town centre was largely empty.
Harrison imagined the open street like a runway. A pair of withered signs offering 2 for 1 on flowers and half price on coffee marked his take off point, and the heart of the town up ahead was his wide-open sky. He was a jet plane, speeding up and preparing to fly across to his destination. He ran with tremendous speed, pelting the cobbled street with his feet so quickly that his legs felt electrified. He imagined that he had taken off, passing derelict video rental places, empty greeting cards stalls, and busy little charity shops like they were stagnant clouds. As older shoppers rinsed the charity shop of all of its cheap goodies, Harrison approached and surpassed the sound barrier, zooming faster and faster towards his target. He glided for a few minutes then noticed a familiar sight coming up on his left. It was time to buckle up and tell the passengers that the descent would soon begin. They had arrived at their destination.
As he approached Mr Potter’s Workshop., Harrison remembered joining his father on many trips there when he was younger, always in search of some component or tool needed for the family car. It would usually be on a weekend, the perfect time for his dad to have a tinker with the engine, and the high street would be a bit livelier than it was now. Harrison and his father would walk, hand in hand, past all of the other shops and stores in an excited rush to return to whatever they were doing to the car. Harrison used to like watching his dad at work. It gave him an odd sense of grounding, like the car’s servicing was simultaneously tweaking and correcting his own sense of being alive. Heading to Mr Potter’s was an exciting extension of this sensation, carrying with it an odd blend of joy and anxiety. Going inside to get an essential tool or piece was like heading into the jungle to find treasure, but they were also against the clock. Would it be open? Would they make it back before dark? They worked outside on the drive on those Saturday afternoons, and so natural sunlight made the whole thing possible. Oddly – I think so, anyway – there was no sense of fear surrounding his father in those memories for Harrison. There was admiration and joy, but no fear. Very odd indeed.
The shop itself was located inside an old bank which had a battered but colourful banner spread across its brick face. In large orange block capitals, it read ‘Mr Potter’s! Find anything here in my workshop!” and had a small cartoon of the young Mr Potter himself beneath it, smiling with his thumb up. It made Harrison smile as he passed under it. He was ready to see the real guy.
An all too familiar aroma greeted Harrison as the door closed behind him. It was a peculiar but warming blend of oil and general uncleanliness. Not the kind that attaches itself to a public toilet, but a sort of deliberate dirty, like it’s all part of the plan. The smell filled Harrison’s nostrils and he felt like a toddler again, half expecting to feel his father’s hand in his own as though it were a Saturday of old and they were here for some scrap piece of engine or wing mirror. Of course, he was alone, but the inside of the store still felt like a preserved chunk of the past, shoved inside and frozen to avoid it spoiling in the heat of the everchanging outside world. As Harrison stepped forward and into the large room, he recognised everything. It was like he had only just been there, having stepped outside for a quick break.
Mr Potter’s workshop was not the most aesthetically pleasing store, but it more than made up for that in stock and variety. Upon entering, the desperate mechanic or car enthusiast was greeted by the dull sight of rickety shelving stretching from the near side of the room all the way to the back in seven tall, grey rows. The metal structures housed boxes and trays of varying products, from nails and wrenches to window stickers and car batteries, with nothing but a scruffily written label on each of them to market their cargo. They would barely be intelligible in broad daylight, and in the low, limited lighting of the workshop, it was impossible to tell what lay inside each container without physically squitning. It was unappealing to look at, but Harrison remembered his father saying that nobody goes into Mr Potter’s just to browse. If you needed something, you went and asked the man himself, and then he would find it for you. It was the way it was, the way it had always been, and Harrison had no intent on straying from that custom now.
Having had his fill of the nostalgia, Harrison walked down the aisle closest to the entrance – which ended with a half-hearted arrangement of car jacks, lawnmowers and wheel arches – turned right, and looked straight ahead to where Mr Potter’s desk sat, exactly where it had always been. It was a dingey corner of the room, only slightly brighter than the rest of the room thanks to a small lamp, but it was what all who entered the workshop were looking for. Mr Potter wasn’t in sight, but he never was as far as Harrison could recall. He always tended to show up upon the ringing of a small bell that sat on the desk.
With a light tap, Harrison sounded that ringing, and the entire room ignited with its piercing echo. The boy half expected bats to start flying down from the ceiling in panic, but none did. All that came was the sound of a man hobbling out of the backroom, his feet scraping against the wooden floorboards as he did so.
Mr Potter was older than Harrison remembered. Neatly combed silver hair clung to his small, wrinkled head, and his hunched body creaked and cracked as it wiggled across the floor. A full, yellow smile beamed out through the darkness beneath a set bright, baby blue eyes. Harrison smiled up at Mr Potter, who no longer looked anything like the cartoon version of himself on the banner outside, but the old man didn’t notice. He just continued to make his way towards the service desk.
When he eventually arrived, Mr Potter looked own on the boy with a hearty grin. He was like a wizard from a fantasy story, eager to assist the weary traveller with a spell or potion to aid them on their quest. In the stories he had read at school, none of these reliable sorcerers had ever failed to help their hero, so Harrison was confident.
“Hello there, young man,” Mr Potter said. “What can I help you with today?” His warm voice was so wonderful that Harrison did not feel nervous at all.
“Hi, Mr Potter. I’m looking for something for school and was wondering if you could help me?” Now, this was what being an adult felt like. Harrison explained what it was that he needed, how big it needed to be and what it ought to look like, and Mr Potter took it all in. With a quick nod, he contemplated what the boy was looking for and took his time with an answer. Harrison watched as the old storekeeper itched his neck and looked to the dark ceiling, as though reviewing the store’s inventory written in the blackness, and then he suddenly came back with an answer.
“Bear with me, lad! I’ll be right back.” Mr Potter waddled out of his corner with the swiftness of a walrus and disappeared into the maze of shelves. Harrison waited patiently for his return, his mind not really worrying too much, his hands reaching into his pocket for the five pound note his father gave him. He was thankful it was still there, despite having made sure of that fact so frequently throughout the day. He pulled it out and examined it in the dim light of the store. The Queen looked back at him in plain splendour, and the edges around her were free of rips or tears that might threaten her eligibility. Harrison examined the note so intently that he didn’t even notice Mr Potter’s return.
“Here,” the old man said, plonking a piece of wood onto the desk and making Harrison jump. It was exactly as the boy imagined: small, smooth all over, and just the right size for his hand. “Is this what you were after?”
“Yes, yes! Thank you, Mr Potter!” Harrison gleamed.
The elderly man laughed. “I’m glad, son, I’m glad. So, it’s for school you say?”
“Yes, for a project.” Harrison appreciated the interest, and Mr Potter truly was a lovely man, but he didn’t want to wander into specifics. “What do I owe you?”
Mr Potter hesitated a moment – the gentle wheezing of his chest the loudest thing in earshot – then looked down. From underneath the desk he pulled out a notebook and began idly flicking through its contents. After a few moments, he stopped on a particular page, analysed the wooden block once more, checked the page again, then closed the notebook. “That’ll be eight pounds please, my lad.”
The geyser of panic erupted immediately. Wicked fright zoomed around Harrison’s body and obliterated the sense of comfort and ease that Mr Potter’s soothing voice had done so well to create. With the five-pound note crumpled in his now trembling hand, Harrison felt stupid.
“Oh, erm. Mr Potter, I only have five.” It sounded utterly pathetic, and Harrison could feel the sweat on his back touching his shirt.
“Oh,” the old man muttered. “Well, I’m afraid it’s eight.”
“Would,” Harrison felt desperate, “would you take five?”
“No, I…I’m afraid I can’t, son.” Mr Potter frowned. “I don’t get too many people coming in here nowadays so I can’t afford to be giving out discounts. This place needs the cash.”
It was a fair enough reason, but logic was not currently legal tender in Harrison’s mind. It was a locked box, and nothing in the world could possibly loosen it open except that bar of wood.
“Do you have a mum or dad that we could call to bring you the extra few quid?” Mr Potter kindly offered. Sweet gestures of help were contraband to such a complicated situation. If one of his parents came to the workshop, Harrison knew that he couldn’t then run over to Wally and give him the bar. They would expect him to go straight home and then to school the next day, and come back with some kind of progress report on his project. That wouldn’t work, that wouldn’t work at all. The only thing that would help was getting it to Wally that evening and getting one step closer to finishing the machine. That way, everything would work itself out. The machine would sort everything. But it was not built yet.
“M-Mr…P…” He couldn’t think of anything. Begging wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and Harrison definitely couldn’t afford anybody else getting involved. Sweat began pouring from his face and arms, and he felt increasingly uncomfortable in the dark store. The heat melted the pleasant memories until they were an unrecognisable gunk. The walls began to close in as if they were suspicious of why this intruder was behaving so strangely. The dark ceiling where Mr Potter had looked for inspiration was now a sea, full of invisible sharks.
The old man watched him patiently, and Harrison wondered whether he noticed the anxiety of his young customer at all. Could he see very well? He seemed to easily read his notebook and navigate his way around the store, but how was he not reacting to the drenched bundle of worry before him? The train of thought seemed utterly pointless at first, but then Harrison considered something.
He looked at the wood, he looked at Mr Potter. He looked at the wood, he looked at Mr Potter. He needed to act. He needed to think of something. He needed the wooden bar. There was no time for a moral assessment.
Harrison snatched the bar of wood from the table and ran towards the door. Everything around him melted into a black goo, and all Harrison could hear was the thumping percussion of his heartbeat in his ears. His body was screaming at him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He pelted his way back down the aisle, past all of the different boxes and trays, and towards the exit. A distant call came from somewhere, most likely Mr Potter, but it was coming from a thousand miles away.
Within a matter of seconds, Harrison was back out in the blistering sunlight and on the other side of the world from that cry. As if by instinct, instead of retreating back into the centre of the town, he found the quickest route out where he was less likely to be stopped. After a few minutes of manic sprinting, he came onto a main road that would eventually bring him back round to the right sight of town where he could then get to Peter’s Wood.
Harrison took a breath then began running again along this way, slipping the bar of wood into his pocket beneath the five-pound note, like a child slipping under bed covers. By the time he neared the path to Peter’s Wood, he was crippled by a ripping stitch in the side of his stomach. It cut deep, ripping him from his hysteria and bringing him rapidly back into the light of logic. The reality of what he had just done shined through and burned.
He replayed what he had done over and over again in order to put it to rest, but it wouldn’t settle in his mind. One second, Harrison was stood in Mr Potter’s Workshop, sweating and on the brink of tears, and the next he was out of the door, fleeing the scene like a true criminal. He had run so fast that he hadn’t even heard what was being shouted at him. Had Mr Potter screamed? Or was it a witness outside? The idea of having done something illegal made him feel sick to the stomach, but all he could think to do was start running again to beat back the lapping thoughts.
He imagined the police knocking on his door. What would his parents say when they knew he had stolen something from an innocent old shop owner? What would his father do when he found out that he had wronged such a reliable friend? Maybe it was the growing exhaustion messing with his vision, but Harrison thought he could see the black and blue bruises already. He forced himself to run faster.
The weather had altered by the time Harrison finally arrived at Peter’s Wood. As he forced himself to jog against the crying pain in his side, he could hear the light tapping of a brewing rain above him. It was not a good week for weather.
The rapid bouncing of droplets on the leaves blended seamlessly with the thudding of Harrison’s feet on the muddy track. For a moment his body felt so numb that it was like he were not moving at all. He and the world were motions of the same brush, and all that stirred was the falling heavens and the brittle greenery trying to catch it all. As Harrison slid down the thin trail and landed before the Wall and its pool, a great big droplet landed right in his eye. It was one irritation too many, and the boy was violently pulled to reality. He squealed like a captured pig.
“Wally! Wally! I have the wooden bar, but you need to help me!”
A brief crinkling noise came from somewhere beyond the waterfall, as if Wally were about to emerge from the shrubbery like a drowsy bear, but then the voice came as normal. “Harrison? What has happened?” The Wall sounded suspicious.
“I have it! I have the wooden bar, but I stole it! I took it and ran because I couldn’t afford it!”
“Were you followed?”
“I don’t…I don’t think so, I—”
“Harrison did you see anyone following you? Did anyone see where you were going?”
“I don’t know! I don’t remember seeing anyone!”
“Go!” the voice commanded with startling power. “Go and make sure that no one is approaching!” Harrison went to speak, flustered by the sudden strictness, but he was not granted permission. “Now!”
The boy ran back up the thin trail and peaked out of the cluttered bush to see if anyone was around. The patter on the green roof was now a consistent block of sound, and Harrison strained to try and hear if anyone was walking up the path from either direction. He saw no one and heard nothing but the rain. That had to be enough.
He dropped back down to Wally. “There’s no one. No one followed me.” But Harrison felt bad. Wally would probably be experimented on and tortured if he was ever discovered, as that was what happened to all of the mysterious creatures and monsters in the films Harrison watched. They were tranquilised, caged, and forced into laboratories against their will. How they would capture Wally was a hard thing to imagine, but Harrison couldn’t run the risk. Plus, it would cost the creation of the machine if Wally was discovered, and that was too high a price. He had risked it all to get the necessary piece, he shouldn’t be so reckless.
“I’m sorry, Wally.”
The voice regained some of its composure. “It is alright, my friend. Did you obtain the piece successfully?”
Harrison held it up. “Yes, but—”
“Place it in the pool, and then tell me your story.”
He stepped forward and lowered himself to his knees but was amazed to find that the pool was empty. The string from the previous day had disappeared, and there was no sign of it ever having been there. Wally really was magic. This was really going to work! The bar fell from the boy’s hand like lead to the bottom, and no assistance from Harrison’s hand was required this time around. It clunked onto the stony bed, and it reminded him of a sunken battleship.
“It’s in,” Harrison said, and he took the ensuing silence as a platform to tell his tale. He spoke quickly. “I got it from Mr Potter’s Workshop in town, I don’t know if you know of it. My dad told me to try there, and he gave me some money but when I got there, Mr Potter told me it cost more than I had. I asked him if I could have it for less and he said no, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do. He’s a lovely old man but he wouldn’t listen, and I could hardly explain. So, I just grabbed it. I grabbed it and ran, and he shouted after me but I didn’t stop. I ran and ran, and I left town and came straight here. I don’t if anyone saw me but…what if they did? What if I get arrested? They won’t believe me if I tell them about you, and they’ll send me to prison! What if they send me to prison?! What am I going to do?!”
As the breath heaved in and out of the boy’s body like a needle sewing together his dread, the Wall remained silent. It was faceless and absent, all while his trusted friend descended into a pit. As a boy, Harrison’s understanding of prison was limited and stereotypical, but it was enough to send him. Spending years in a lonely cell and eating mushy food seemed worse than death, and the idea of taking that option did spring to mind. It’s awful when a child considers taking their own life, but I often scoff at everyone’s dramatic surprise to such a thing occurring. If a child is able to develop a relationship with an inanimate water feature, shouldn’t that tell you something about what their imagination can conceive?
I would laugh, but then I suppose you’d think me twisted. The reality is, Harrison considered everything in those quiet moments, and the scene remained stagnant for a few minutes. The Wall’s connection was always of emotional promise rather than emotional presence, and when it finally spoke, it was as though there had been no pause at all.
“Harrison, my friend, we must act with haste. I don’t know what is going to happen, but if you fear for your freedom, only my machine can guarantee its security. We must complete it tonight, do you understand?”
Hooked like a defenceless fish, the boy had no route but forward. “Will it stop the police from getting me? The machine?”
“Of course, my friend. If you have stolen something from the town centre, it is likely that someone would have seen you, and so only my completed machine can protect you from the dangers that may soon befall you. You spoke before of your father helping you with the acquisition of the wooden bar. Are you and him allies now? If so, I don’t know if I can—”
“No! No, I still want the machine! He only helped me because I lied. I still need it. Please, Wally, what do I need to get?” Harrison could no longer feel the erratic motion of his heart. It was like he was on fire.
“The final piece of the machine, Harrison, is a piece of glass. A long and sharp piece of glass, thin enough at one end to slip into a keyhole.”
“Why?” Harrison asked, abruptly. It wasn’t the latest stage that a child had first asked the Wall why a particular item needed retrieving, but it was a contender. Most of them query the first piece from a sense of natural curiosity and suspicion, but Harrison’s intrigue was delayed, and it grew. The first two things were mystical and beyond comprehension regarding their usefulness together, but glass was different. Glass was dangerous, and it somehow stuck out as strange to him. Strange enough, it seemed, to make him forget who he was talking to.
“Harrison, why must you question me again? We have no time to be wondering about why the piece must be collected. What use is telling you when you have no way of ever comprehending my craftsmanship or the essence of what it is that I am making? You are a boy, Harrison. A boy that I am trying to help, but you must cooperate. You must collect the glass or this isn’t going to work, and you will be left to the mercy of the police and your father. Do you think he will respond calmly when he discovers that you have stolen? Do you think your mother will be able to take the wrath that will soon unfold as a result of your actions? You need my machine before that happens, and that is only possible if you listen to me and do as I say. Do you—”
“Yes! Yes! I will get the glass,” Harrison blurted. “Where, though? Where do I get glass?!”
“Anywhere, Harrison! Anywhere you can! But I must have it by tonight. Find it as quick as you can and return to me before the sun sets.”
Harrison had no idea what time it was, but the sun would only be up for another few hours at the very most. He needed to act fast.
“Okay!” he shouted, but before he charged into the shrubbery and into the upside-down world, something else fell out from his mouth. As he spoke, he stared straight into what he imagined to be the soul of the waterfall, imagining there to be an all-seeing eye just beyond its aquatic veil. “Will it save me? Wally, will your machine actually save me?”
The splashing of the waterfall’s constant collision with the pool below seemed to be all that would answer at first, but then Wally spoke to his friend with sincerity and poise. It was as honest as he had ever been to Harrison. He told him the truth.
“Tomorrow, my friend, this will all be over.”
The Glass
To his terror, Harrison had been right about the impending speed of sundown. As he tumbled from the cover of Peter’s Wood and desperately tried to think of where he was going to get a piece of long, thin glass, the sky had already turned a luscious violet. Darkness was on its way.
Without much expertise to fall back on, being so young, Harrison scrambled for a place to begin his search. I forget sometimes how young these people are, the children that stumble across the Wall and engage with it. They are barely capable of walking into a shop and counting out the right amount of change to buy something, and yet it is as though the Wall’s words age them, making them its equal. It is fascinating, even for me after all this time. And yet, they are not its equal. To be equal, the Wall and its visitors would need to share a sense of compromise, to alternate between victor and loser, but this is never the case.
Harrison’s first thought was to return to the town centre, but the obvious negatives of that quickly kicked in. The shopfronts were all likely closed (not that any of them sold glass, anyway), and all of their owners would be on the lookout for the notorious workshop thief prowling the night streets. Harrison imagined how fast the truth might have spread over the past hour or so. Would his parents know yet? Not likely, but they soon would, and then only the Wall would be able to save him. He needed to clasp every second available in order to get the machine completed and ready for use – whatever that meant, anyway – but where could he go?
He thought hard, harder than he had ever considered anything before. It felt impossible with so little time and so few options. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack when you don’t even know if there is definitely one in there. He could look but he wouldn’t necessarily find. He felt doomed.
But as he wandered the suburban streets surrounding Peter’s Wood, edging ever closer to the outskirts of the town under the blind pilot of his occupied brain, a memory came. It was faint and unfamiliar, but it was a memory all the same, and something about it stuck out from the rest with a helping arm extended. Like a book left slightly out of line on a bookshelf, it was noticeable and enticing. It told Harrison that it could help, and he tried to focus on it.
He was only two years younger in the memory, yet it felt like an eternity ago. The reason why it stuck out in his mind was clear as soon as Harrison let the events replay, but he chose not to dwell.
In the memory, he was beside his father, holding his hand pleasantly enough, and standing in a queue for something. Looking back, he knew it was for a grilled sandwich from Dingbat Baguettes – a small, lone-standing store on the very edge of a suburban field – but at the time Harrison was oblivious, caring only for the delightful view of the surrounding scenery. There weren’t many families around on that summer eve, many of them having already gone home after a warm afternoon of sunbathing and games, and so the wide stretches of green were open for the young boy’s eyes to enjoy. Harrison looked back and away from the small little outhouse where the food was served, moving only when he felt the anchoring tug of his father’s hand pulling him closer to it. Those larger hands had not yet administered physical punishment, but on the backend of that one summer afternoon, waiting for a cold can and pepperoni pizza roll, all of that would change. And it was all because of that luxurious field.
“Come on, Harrison. Stop pulling me,” Rodney said as they neared the front of the queue. Only one other customer stood between him and the window. Sitting around in the sun was one thing all by itself, but having to entertain his son in the blistering heat had taken it out of him. Sylvia was at home, overcome by the humidity of the day, so Rodney had been a solo act that afternoon. All he wanted now was a beer for himself and some food to occupy his son when they got home. That was all, but it was dragging on.
“But Daddy, the grass is so nice,” Harrison replied, pulling his father’s hand gently. “I want to run around in it.” The heat had done nothing to diminish the boy’s energy, and even as the sun began to make its way to the other side of the world, he still felt like a fully-fuelled jet ski, ready to rip around the gentle waves and go as far out into the green sea as possible.
But Rodney was stern. “I think you’ve ran around quite enough today, don’t you think? Come on, the faster we get this grub, the sooner we can go home.” The temperature had waned a little bit from its mid-afternoon peak, but there was still no escaping the incessant clinginess of the air. Britain might be miserable all year round, but when it got hot, it found all new ways to get under your skin. God save the Queen, Rodney thought.
The thought of going home was not as appealing as what lay before the young boy. “But Daddy, I want to run around!”
“No,” Rodney said again. He tightened his grip and pulled his son forward once more, this time with enough force to turn his small body. The motion parted the rancid film of sweat that had developed under Rodney’s armpit, and the new coolness of his skin made him feel disgusting and in desperate need of a shower. Didn’t he used to spend afternoon like this working on the car? The sun’s hesitation to leave had been a blessing those days, and the irritating body pulling him back towards the field had been a pleasant extra pair of hands. Upgrading to an electric car had seemed like such a good idea when Sylvia had suggested it, but now Rodney was starting to think it was the worst thing he had ever agreed to. He was getting more annoyed now at the relentless tugging of his hand, but the thought of the cool sofa and the sweet metallic kiss of a beer can went a long way in keeping a lid on his pot. It also made him forget about the car. He wouldn’t need to be here much longer. All he needed to do was--
Harrison jolted towards the field and pulled again, catching his father off guard. It almost knocked Rodney off balance, yanking him a few inches further away from the small sandwich shop, and it proved too much for his temper to tolerate. In a jerk reaction, he squeezed the boy’s hand harder than he had done before and hauled him back into position, but this time he did not have complete control over his son’s weight. His small frame flew forward and barged into the man ahead of them in the queue, slamming him into the wall of Dingbat Baguettes. The man dropped to the floor in a loud crash, and Rodney heard the faint whispered jingle of glass under the man’s groan. The sliding window beside the startled employee’s face was smashed.
The man’s head – who Rodney now saw belonged to a large, frightening bearded fellow – had crunched against it. Glass shards fell like snowflakes from the pane, and blood dripped from the man’s forehead, as if they were both falling from the same cloud. Rodney did not notice the symmetry. All he saw was an angry man regaining his awareness and rising to an immense height before him. Bulging muscles covered his long arms and there were cuts on his knuckles. The Terminator doppelganger stood up straight, inhaled deeply through his nostril, and bore his gaze down onto the unlucky son of a bitch that had pushed him. The breath of the towering colossus stunk like the Friday night pub.
“I am so sorry, mate. Really, I am. My son was pulling me, and I just tried to get him to stop and I—”
The man’s right fist felt like a bullet train as flung across Rodney’s face. He fell to the floor and collapsed onto the grass, unable to hold his composure under such a heavy hit. The world spun but he had no time to find his feet as his stumbling attacker instantly came forth with more fury.
“I’ll fucking have you if you want, mate!” He hadn’t seemed so drunk from behind. “Fucking…twat…”
The man grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and hoisted him up as though he weighed nothing at all. Then, with mindless effort but incredible strength, he shoved his feeble victim to the wall and sent a barrage of kicks and punches to his gut. Rodney could do nothing but shimmy and tense his stomach, helplessly suspended by his attacker’s iron arms. After a few minutes of relentless pummelling, the drunken man ceased his onslaught and threw Rodney into the window, except this time it caused more than just a trickle of glass. His head flew through the pane as though it were not even there, and its entire glass body came flying out of the frame. Harrison jumped back; the employee inside of the shop screamed.
With Rodney on the ground, the man walked away, ignoring Harrison. He stumbled straight into the wide-open field and towards the suburban homes where he presumably resided. He seemed to have forgotten that he was hungry. Meanwhile, Rodney did his best to pick himself back up. The ripping pain in his face and body was insurmountable, and all he could do for a few minutes was lie still and breathe in his bed of glass. Lines of red ran like streams across his face, but they didn’t seem to flow in vast amounts. The glass cuts were numerous but shallow, and Rodney eventually got to his feet without paying them any mind. He was only concerned about one thing.
Throughout the fight, Harrison had done nothing but watch. Entranced by the confusing conflict, he had stood still and tried to comprehend what was happening to his father. What he did not understand was that it was his fault that it had happened. That fact was quickly addressed.
Rodney smacked Harrison in the face and grabbed him by the neck like he was an infant pup. He didn’t care if anyone was watching or if the employee was still peering nosily out of the serving window. His brain was no longer a complex, multi-faceted machine considering multiple things at once. It was now a red block, utterly rigid and cemented in rage. His son squealed and asked to be let go, but Rodney refused to pay even a shred of notice. He stared straight ahead towards the housing estate and dragged his son’s body by whatever piece of skin his fingers could keep a hold of. His neck, his ear, his hair. The boy’s screams were muffled and benign. All that Harrison could understand as he was being pulled away from the sandwich shop was what he could see. He no longer looked out to the field of green. All his father’s careless hold would allow his head to see was the shop window and the ocean of glass below it. The sun caught the shards and crystals, and the blood flooding to the boy’s head made it all seem like water; the longer pieces jutting up like rising waves amid a raging tempest. That was all he could see as he struggled to get free, and it lingered so prominently in his mind because that was the last thing he saw before his father stopped walking.
About halfway through the field, Rodney spun around, leaned forward, and screamed into the watered-down colour of his son’s eyes. The world changed in that moment.
“You will never misbehave like that again! You will listen to me in future and do things as and when you are told! Do you understand me, Harrison?!” He slapped his son again. “Do you?! I could have died, you idiotic boy! I could have been killed because of your fucking silliness!”
A few more quick hits landed on Harrison’s cheeks, and he could do nothing but cry. To get his boy up, Rodney kicked at his legs. Light and snappy, they were like electric shocks. The dragging then resumed and the illusion of the glass ocean was replaced by the smudge of real water. There they remained, the shards, behind the veil of tears.
Rodney Little had never hurt his son in the same way as he did on that diminishing summer day, but it did not matter. Each metre of grass covered as he hauled his son by the earlobe was imprinted into Harrison’s mind. Every slap to the face was another comma in a long list of shame. Merely remembering that day pulled him from the streets around him and forced him into a dark and dingey crevice of his mind. Every time he thought about it, he wanted to crawl into the darkest cave in the world and wait to die.
But Harrison fought against that urge this time. He hadn’t gone back to wallow or cry or bathe in the remnants of the worst day of his life. He had done it for a purpose, an all-important reason.
He pictured the glass. The glass that had always been nothing but a reminder of suffering, dancing playfully upon the stage of his dreams. But it represented something else now. It marked the finish line.
It took a while for Harrison to get to the particular field he remembered. The streets were dark and indiscernible from one another with only the light of the sparse lampposts to work with. Eventually, however, he managed to sift through the cul-de-sacs and alleys, aided largely by the very memories that he always considered a scar, and arrived at the shore of the field.
The green he remembered was drearily tinged by the lowering sun, and now looked a measly grey. The temperate green sea was now a boggy swamp, dull and dangerous. This was saddening but ultimately terrifying – changing shades meant that time was running out. Out in that darkening space was the outline of Dingbat Baguettes, lying in the centre of the field like a beached whale waiting to die. The sun looked like it was fleeing rather than setting, desperate to get away from this place.
An apocalyptic dye was spilt, and it set almost immediately over the world. Colours became cruel, and the whale in the distance was seconds from crumbling into a haggard, useless skeleton of black. Harrison sprinted towards that block of darker space like it was an oasis in the Sahara. He had to get there before he couldn’t see anything.
The ground below him was hard and flickers of fatigue were creeping into his legs, but Harrison ran anyway. There was nothing on this planet worth stopping for. Above him – Harrison looked up to distract his mind from the heavying sensation of tiredness – the sky was dulling evermore. There was only so much juice left in the day, but by the end of it everything would be okay. Harrison almost felt happy, thinking about where he was and where he would soon be. This field, this area of grass, this minute expanse of the Earth, it was where his life had tectonically shifted. But by the time the sun had retreated beyond the horizon and the moon had clocked in for its watch, the world would be anew. Harrison’s entire life would click back into place, and everything would be fine. Wally and his machine would fix everything.
I sometimes wonder whether I should have intervened at this point. Events are still unravelling I know, but may I take a moment? I’m just considering how many times I have to watch the same thing happen before I think I ought to step in and do something about it. Don’t misunderstand me, I am no moral being, nor do I aspire to live within such frameworks of dirt and mud. I merely ask myself from time to time whether I should step in at this part of the tale and show my hand. Play the game, so to say, rather than being the observant dealer. Every child reaches this peak of wonder and power, and they all fall, each in their way, so I suppose that is worth watching.
But could I prod the situation, divert just a single child’s path, and send them to a different fate? It is a conundrum for me. You may think me deranged in a way, unwilling to derail the course of things when I know the exacts of their conclusion, but that isn’t true. Patterns are not laws. Cycles can stop; but then, am I the thing required to stop them? I am unsure.
Harrison is a child, like Michael, Courtney, Alicia, James, Ronald, and Jessica were all children. To this point, he has followed an almost identical path to his predecessors, excusing the details, of course, but they are merely colours filling in the same lines and borders. When it is not the abusive father, it is the antagonising sister, the untrusting mother, the thieving friend. They all have their motivations, and each follow them like donkey chasing carrots; but I assure you, it is not I that wields the stick. They meet the Wall, as it insists on being called, and it promises things to them all. They follow its guidance, ‘collecting’ or ‘performing’ whatever it is that it ‘requires’. Then again, maybe that is my fault. Each child goes forth doing the Wall’s bidding, and they all climb the very same summit, staring up into the sky or thinking beyond the present, certain of victory. They look me in the eye as I remain quiet, and I ponder whether to play the game or simply keep watching. You may plead to my conscience, but what am I to do? The chips are always stacked against me, and to interfere is to risk toppling the stack and making a mess.
Anyway, we are going off track, and I have told you this too many times before. Does that make me a pattern? I keep telling the same story to the same people, reminding them of the same facts and having the same debates. I suppose that does put in good stead to be considered a cycle myself, but alas. It’s certainly one to ponder.
Anyway, I shall continue.
Harrison approached the beginning of his decline almost seconds after he had graced his peak. It’s horribly funny that way. The heavenly ceiling was met and passed, and then the features of the sandwich outhouse’s opaque silhouette began to manifest before him. Its shape was the same as he recalled, as well as its overall structure. It was a block in the middle of the field with a serving window on its front. A large wooden board sat at the top where the Dingbat Baguettes sign had hung wide and proud.
But as Harrison drew closer, the mirage of the past fell away as though nothing but a thin cloth, and the present that lay beneath was disturbingly different. Where the face of the beloved shop had been, bearing its bright font and recognisable name, there was nothing but a bare skeleton. A plain wooden board sat exposed, selling nothing and attracting no one. The menu that Harrison recalled beside the serving desk was gone too, revealing the crude and tasteless brick that sat behind it. Holes where the nails had pinned it up were still visible, remnants of the treasure that had once been here. The most horrifying sight was the serving window which, despite the seemingly decrepit state of the rest of the small building, had been repaired. A fresh set of panes were fitted within the static and sliding frames, and the glass pile that had been there for so long was gone. The ocean had dried up at long last.
How was this possible? Harrison was a young boy, barely familiar with John Steinbeck and covalent bonding, but even he could see the inconsistency here. The building was abandoned, lacking any form of character or future enterprise, yet the window was fixed. Why? Granted, he hadn’t been there for a few months – having only passed it in the case of visiting a friend from this area or using the neighbouring grassland for football – but how had it been addressed and fixed so recently? It seemed uncanny. Unbelievable, even. But as much as he despised the curve ball, it had happened, and Harrison had to do something. The sky was blackening, and the wind was getting colder and colder with every breathe of the approaching night. The hunting moon would find him soon, so he had to think.
Then the worst happened.
“Harrison? Harrison, are you here?”
The boy froze. A woman was shouting from the streets behind him but, as he turned in the near darkness, there was no one in sight. The island of light beneath the distant lamppost was empty, revealing nothing but the pavement and curb beneath it.
Harrison thought he recognised the voice, but he was too alarmed to consider who it could be. It was so distant, and he had to hurry. His head shot to the glass. The batting waves of panic harassed him, but he put all of his conscious effort into repelling their pull and thinking rationally. What could he do? What could he try? Then he was interrupted again by the woman’s calling, this time joined by a deeper and louder set of vocals.
“Harrison!” his mother and father called together. It was an unmistakeable harmony. Before long, he could see their small bodies rising out of the sea of black and stepping into the lamppost light. There was no stopping the panic now.
How did they know he was here? There was no way this could be happening. Harrison squinted his eyes as they drew closer under the dome of yellow light, and it became ever clearer that the tiny figures were his parents. The taller figure trudged mercilessly closer from the street, unfazed by the world of black before it. Behind, a pair of huge, square glasses glistened beneath the streetlight.
Mum.
Harrison rapidly assessed what lay around him. A stick, scattered litter, a rock. He grabbed the rock and did the only thing he could think of that would help him in getting some glass. Without any further consideration, he threw the rock as hard as he possibly could at the window, causing it to shatter and split into a thousand pieces. Between the calls of his name, like small marks of punctuation, he could hear the twinkling sound of falling glass.
Although he couldn’t see very well in the swelling darkness, Harrison thought about where the pool of glass had gathered before and approached. He closed his eyes (although there was little point in such blackness) and he saw the blazing brightness of that summer day, the tall drunk ahead of him in the queue, the window.
Startled muttering slithered through the night, and Harrison quickly knelt down to where he thought the pile would be and began assessing the individual fragments he had created. Most of it was useless grains of the former pane, but his blind hands knew something more significant sat amongst the rubble. It was like he was feeling a variety of rocks from another planet, each a different size and composition, trying to figure out what alien characteristics they possessed.
The sound of feet hitting the hard grass rose behind him and the incessant repetition of Harrison’s name began to feel like it was coming from the world’s most annoying alarm clock. He wanted to smash it to pieces, but instead his hands moved faster to feel out his prize.
Ouch! Damn! Ow!
The material fought back like a miniature army, scratching and pricking Harrison’s smooth fingertips, but he couldn’t stop. He might have been bleeding, he had no way of telling, but he needed that glass. The approaching footsteps and retreating sun demanded he quicken his pace.
At long last he found a piece. He held it carefully in his stinging hands, trying to judge what it looked like without cutting one of his fingers off. It was long enough, as best as he could tell, and there was no denying it was sharp. There was no way of knowing whether there were any compromising cracks or whether the shape was adequate for its unknown purpose. That would have been impossible to deduce even if it wasn’t dark, so Harrison quit trying.
Gently trying to avoid snapping it in his grasp, he stood up, but couldn’t run away. Before he could even entertain an escape, his father was grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around to face him. The glass tumbled to the ground and clattered a few yards into the dull evening light, lost.
“No!” Harrison screamed.
“Harrison! Harrison, stop! What is going on?!”
Sylvia caught up to her husband and cried out in heavy, gasping breathes. “Harri! Oh my god, thank the Lord you are okay! Why are you out here? We’ve been worried sick!”
But Harrison didn’t hear a word. He shook off his father’s grip and plunged into the dark. He scanned the ground with his feeling hands, praying that a sharp point or edge met him, but nothing did. Instead, he felt the arm of his father wrap around his stomach and rip him from the ground.
“Be careful, Rod,” Sylvia whimpered. “Oh, Harrison, thank God you’re okay!” She was delirious with relief, but I can assure you, God was not listening.
“Easy, Harrison. Easy!” Rodney tried his best to walk back towards the light of the street but his son’s manic kicking was proving too much to handle. It was like trying to control a lit firework in a bottle, and it quickly got out of hand. “Harrison! Please will you—”
The heel of the boy’s right foot met Rodney’s teeth with immense power, and he let out a blunt cry of pain. The strike caught him off guard, largely thanks to the low light, and he stumbled to a stop.
Not even realising (or caring about) what he had done, Harrison quickly looked to take advantage. He began rapidly kicking again and shaking his entire body like a terrified fish. Rodney dropped him, and Harrison sprinted back to where he thought the glass was as soon as his feet hit the grass. As he searched, his father regained his balance and began drawing nearer again.
“For God sake, Harrison! What the hell was that?!”
“Rodney, please!”
“He’s just kicked me in the face, Sylvia! What am I supposed to do? This has gone on long enough!” The hurt bled from his words and complicated his rage. His steps were now multipurposed, no longer taken with mere irritation at his son’s careless galivanting, but with a blend of that and fiery revenge. Harrison’s belligerence would go on no longer.
Rodney stomped towards his son’s silhouette but soon lost him in the confusing shadows. The whispers of the grass gave him a loose indication as to where to look, but his aging eyes were struggling to determine the boy’s body from the rest of the colourless world. He thought he found him again but stepped into empty space. He was the bull, the taunting darkness his infuriating matador.
“Harrison! Come here now!”
He got no reply.
A few metres away from his growling father, Harrison felt like he was getting close. Rather than a harrowing pedal on the pressure, he used the shouting and screaming as a twisted incentive which electrified his body and quickened his hands. The old man could keep hollering and crying like a little girl all he wanted. Once Harrison found this piece of glass, he was going to be free of his aggressive and hurtful brute of a dad and the pain would finally be over. This glass would be the key to a tranquil life, free from the bruises, cuts and grazes of that animal.
Under the powerful percussion of his father’s booming voice was the gentle weeping of his mother, but that also added to Harrison’s thrill. Fear not, mum. This glass was going to save everyone, and these tears will be your last. Wait and you’ll see! Once this glass is found, then you’ll see!
Harrison’s hand hit a spiked blade and instantly knew what he had found. He picked up the glass and tucked it gently between his body and arm as to not cut himself. There was no time to delicately assess its body this time, and Harrison knew there was nothing to do but run. As he set off, he heard his father speak from a few feet in front of him. By now, the field was almost pitch black.
“Harrison, are you there? Harrison, please stop this. Your mother, she’s…this isn’t right, son.”
The boy paused before his father’s words. He had been lectured by his father more times than he could remember in his short but troubled life. They were angry, demeaning speeches, often accompanied by a firm hand on his small shoulder or a set of blazing eyes positioned directly in front of his own tearful pair. The display was also often followed by an encore of quick hurt, depending on the scale of his father’s displease. It could range from a sharp smack on the bottom to a push into a wall or chair if he was truly furious, just like on that horrible day on the field.
But the words Harrison heard now were different. They did not fire from the cannon of his father’s mouth and fly at dangerous speed, nor was their content vulgar and cripplingly patronising. It was like someone had swapped the pistol for the crop hose, and now Rodney’s speech was gliding over and setting into his son’s head, planting seeds. It held a confusing tone, but Harrison resisted as best he could.
“Listen, son,” Rodney said. “I don’t know what this is about, but me and your mother just want you to come home. We…we can talk about whatever it is that’s the matter. I promise.”
Harrison’s nerve swayed. Never (and I can confirm this one) had his father offered to talk like this. It was a trick, a vicious enticement to get him back into his clutches, but then Harrison felt his grip of the glass shard loosen. The words were slipping into his ears and manoeuvring their way south, unlocking his body’s aches and tensions like a warm, paternal key. His dad was finally offering the hand he had always been denied, and somewhere in the darkness it was being extended physically. Muscles relaxed, and the flower of Harrison’s palm threatened to blossom.
If the world was frozen at this point in time, the relationship between Harrison and his father may have found the material to rebuild, to grow. The seed could have taken to the soil of the boy’s mind, and upon the next rise of the sun it could have been nurtured to health. A bond might have sprung, reaching higher and rooting deeper with every passing day of conversation and quality time. They may have discovered that they both missed the car and the spiritual gravity of those weekend afternoons. Maybe they would have bought a new car – not electric, of course – and got to work, sharing the labour this time around. A new master and apprentice; teaching and learning long into Harrison’s teen years, rolling so far from their troubled past that it was no longer visible in the rear-view mirror. Working on his own car – an adult by then, his father grey but as enthusiastic as ever – Harrison might have even told him all about the Wall and its promise, and they might have laughed together, embraced, and shared a tear over their regrets. Whether it was right or just a fantasy, the runway to salvation was ready and waiting for them.
But alas, as you and I both know, time waits for no one.
The next second changed everything.
Sylvia shouted from somewhere in the near distance, “Harrison, we love you, come back! Please, Harri, come on. Come back, please, come back!”
“Shut the fuck up, Sylvia!” Rodney screamed. “I am handling this!”
“Don’t shout at her!” Harrison screamed in return. He charged at his father and punched him in the only place he knew would generate enough pain to cripple his movement. His fist flew straight into his father’s groin, and he heard the violent exhalation of air as the large body keeled over. But Harrison didn’t stop running after that. Tumbling faster and faster into the black, he ignored his mother’s screaming and thought of nothing but the feeling of the glass in his hand and the lamppost in the distance.
Harrison ran as fast as he could, and he didn’t look back when he eventually came to the lamppost and its island. The Wall was a vast and trying voyage away, and Harrison was already late. Very, very late.
The Machine
The green of the shrubbery drained into ubiquitous black as evening slipped into night. It had not been a dry week by any means when Harrison had discovered the Wall, but that did not stop the evening of their final encounter from unleashing a downpour that even the roof of Peter’s Wood could not fight against. None of the mortals below could see the clustering clouds as they formed into shadowy blocks in the sky, but it did not take long for them to hear their snarls. The thunder began to crack as Harrison navigated the main roads, and by the time he arrived at Peter’s Wood, the artillery had begun its viscous barrage.
The floor beneath the usually solid canopy of the forest was damp and muddy as the boy trudged along the path, and the dark leaves around him danced under the machine gun fire of rain droplets. Puddles were wide and countless, and the whipping wind slithered through the trees in an unrelenting surge. Still, Harrison fought on to run and jump over the obstacles before him. Water was everywhere, delaying from below and battering from above, but he eventually arrived at the right area of shrubbery and wasted no time in diving between its bushes. The sound of the waterfall was muted by the falling heavens, but Harrison was now confident in its whereabouts. At this stage, all of them were.
The hop down onto the neatly trimmed lawn was calculated and slow. The glass still hugged Harrison’s side and, despite how late he was, he didn’t want to end up puncturing an organ with its sharp edge. He got one foot steadily placed before he leapt down, and when he had both securely set, he pulled the glass out.
Unlike the previous times he had visited Wally, Harrison could barely see anything. The only source of light was a single sword of moonlight that cut through the green ceiling and illuminated the very base of the waterfall. Harrison hadn’t noticed the hole above him until now but, then again, why would he? He had never been here at night. It was like someone had cut it just for this occasion, and it worked a treat.
The dull line twinkled on the still pool at the foot of the tumbling water and brightened the edges of its cascading flow. It was enough for Harrison to get his bearings, and it somehow made it all feel even more surreal than usual. The world outside was pitch black and consumed with the storm, but here, even though the rain still forced its way through, at least he could see it. He existed in a protected pocket of the world, constituting its own universe of time and space. #
Harrison was grateful, for this was probably exactly what the Wall could do. With its power, it could change the world around it and create whatever it deemed necessary. He felt excited as he looked down at the glass in his hand, which now shone under the low light. He could not quite see his reflection, but that was ultimately a good thing. Children at this point should never see themselves. It would destroy them. Harrison’s eyes were bloodshot and raw around the edges, and the rest of his body was a murky affair. Dirt covered his school trousers, and muddy handprints decorated the points where his father had tried to seize him. On his hands, dry brown had fused with the hellish red of his own blood, sourced from the cuts he endured as he had searched for the glass. They were dead man hands, and like I say, if he had seen them himself, Harrison would have thought they belonged to a corpse.
“Wally!” he shouted. His voice croaked and fell flat in the busy air. The rain riddled the ground and leaves, and it was like the entire forest was chanting. The choir rose and rose in volume, but the boy fought to make himself heard. “Wally! Wally!”
A pair of birds snapped from a nearby branch. The distant thud of thunder broke from above the canopy like a giant knocking on the forest roof, demanding to be let in. Harrison thought of his father. Would his parents have tried to follow him, or would they now be at home, reporting their missing son to the police? Either way, someone must be coming.
The excitement in Harrison’s bones became contaminated with the familiar zing of fear. He screamed again, forcing all of his breathe into a long, stretching bellow, but still nothing responded. He recalled the difficulty of getting the Wall to respond on the other visits, but he was now in no mood for theatrics. Every wasted second was a cluster of steps taken towards him by those out looking for him. His mum, his dad, the police maybe.
But what if it wasn’t a game? He had been expected by sundown, so what if Wally had left, transported himself to another part of the world and given up on him? This really got him worried, and Harrison quickly started making his way towards the waterfall, begging for some recognition. His free palm slapped the stone face as his voice punched its way through the relentless downpour. He pleaded with the Wall, with anything that was out there, to help him. He needed the Wall. He was running out of time.
“It’s me, Harrison!” the boy screamed. That was his final throw of the dice. A sharp rustling of leaves came from behind him, but he shrugged it off as the pushing and shoving of the storm. The previously still ceiling was now beginning to sway, and the shrubbery to his sides was cracking and crunching with the heavy raindrops. Thunder boomed far away once more, and a small animal of some kind scurried along the ground.
When the voice finally came, Harrison thought he might cry.
“Harrison?” the Wall said. The boy placed his hand on the rock.
“Yes! Yes, Wally! It’s me!” He spat the rain from his lips, and drops began rolling down his forehead. It was really breaking through the treeline now. “I have the glass! It’s what you asked for, but I’m really going to need the machine now! I hit my dad, and I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I go home! Wally! Wally, what do I do? Do you need it in the water? Wally! Wally!”
The voice spoke as calmly as it could whilst still managing to break through the competing noise. “Yes! Yes! Place it in my pool, Harrison!”
The boy quickly turned and bent down, slipping the glass into the water. Tiny geysers of water cluttered the pool’s surface as the rain droplets plonked into it, but the glass sliced amongst them as if it were not even solid. Once underneath, it sat and blended into invisibility, and Harrison quickly lost sight of it in the dark liquid.
“It’s in! It’s in!”
The voice boomed, and Wally sounded different. More alive. “Can you feel it, Harrison? My friend, can you sense what is happening?” Lightning flashed beyond the small hole in the leaves, and Harrison felt his spirit rise. This was magic. Actual, real-life magic. He cheered and the voice spoke again. “Harrison, my friend. I must ask you to leave me for a moment. I must now craft the machine!”
“Leave?” The uplift ceased. “Why do I need to leave?”
“Do you not see, my friend? I must craft the machine! I cannot do it before you, for I do not wish for any harm to come to you. Trust me on this, Harrison. It will take just a few moments. That’s all.”
The boy acquiesced. “Alright, well…where am I supposed to go?”
“Just step away a moment. To the path, perhaps. I will call you when it is finished, and then the world shall be yours!”
Harrison did as he was told and trudged up the slippery trail, cautiously popping out onto the path. No one was in sight, although he couldn’t see much at all now in the darkness. He leant up against a nearby tree and waited, as though at a bus stop waiting for the morning commute. He trained his eyes to look forward and away from the Wall’s construction, busying his mind with keeping watch. If someone were to come strolling up the path, either searching for him or completely unaware, he would need to hide. It was pitch black and the air was getting colder, so if someone found a young boy just lingering in the woods out in the rain, they might have some questions.
With his eyes switching between all the possible sight lines, Harrison felt proud of himself. It was a clever consideration in such an immense moment, and as he scanned the black for any anomalous outlines, he felt like a grown up. The world was gloomy and wet, and yet here he was, standing alone, looking after himself. No silent angel or watchful guardian looked over him. All that surrounded was the pantheon of oaks, stoically minding their own business. Their branched hands waved in the brisk waves of the wind as though batting away evil spirits, but that was all in the boy’s head. When the storm passed and the winds simmered into uninteresting breezes, the gentle motion would stop, yet the evil would remain.
“Harrison!”
He sprung to his feet and darted down the trail. As he dropped onto the lawn for the final time, Harrison looked around and assessed what had changed in his absence, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. There was no majestic chariot waiting to take him away or glowing sword sticking out of the ground. His analysis deemed the neat lawn and the falling water to be perfectly identical to its former state.
“Wally, wh-where is the machine?” The tumbling water roared as the rain above eased. It was still thumping all around him, but its wild strength had diminished, and it had a strange effect on the scene at play. The tamed downpour lured Harrison’s attention to the cold which had snook its way into the world. He could now see the clouds breathe gliding into the night from his agape mouth, and the hairs on his arms now resembled the army of trees around him.
“The machine,” the Wall said, “is right in front of you. Look into my pool and you shall see it.” The voice was serene in its composure, casting that familiar bubble of protection around its young visitor, though its film was a little thinner this time. It was as though the Wall were unaware of the rain, the wind, the cold, the pressure of the moment, the significance of Harrison’s situation. Either it did not care, or it was nestled comfortably within its own confidence in the machine’s efficiency, and so felt no need to consider such irrelevant variables. I know which one it was, but I shall leave that for you to discover. It will not be long now.
Harrison approached the pool, squinting to decipher what the object was that lay beneath the surface. The pale moonlight strip met the twinkling ripples but dove no deeper, and the boy quickly realised that he would have to put his hand in to grab it. Invisible frost clutched his quivering fingers as he lowered them towards the pool. It felt like an electric shock as the tips graced the surface. It instantly became clear to him that speed was the best option, so he quickly thrust his hand downwards.
He felt the handle of the machine immediately. It was oddly familiar, like Harrison had somehow held it before. Without focussing on its texture and shape for too long, he ripped the machine out from the water and held it out before him as the freezing water dripping from his shaking hand. Sharp, drastic breathes rushed in and out of Harrison’s mouth, but he soon found it impossible to stand still. The machine was relegated to an afterthought as he frantically wafted the water from his arm and tucked it into his body in an attempt to dry it. But once he had finished, a feeling of disdain clogged his mind. What he held made no sense to his erratic, shaking body.
The reason for the handle’s recognisable texture was obvious from the second the thin strip of moonlight struck its wet surface. It was the wooden bar. Harrison couldn’t believe his eyes at first, but it was definitely the same piece of wood that he had supplied to the Wall. It was the same shape and felt just as heavy, but there was one thing different. Around the top half of its body, a thin piece of string was wrapped and tied tight. Was this the same string that he had asked his mum for? He wasn’t one hundred percent sure, as he couldn’t deduce its length in the poor light, but it would make sense. Same wood, same string, same…
“Wally, I don’t…” Harrison’s voice fell away. He didn’t understand. The string was wound so tightly around the top of the wooden bar that it secured within it a long, sharp material. Some of this mysterious component lay beneath the string as to secure it, but the rest stuck out, fixed in place.
The boy wanted to punch and scream at his inability to see what he held in his hand. He focused and stared, but to no avail. In a frustrated and thoughtless bid to find out, Harrison placed his hand onto the material and slid it gently down its spine, and that proved to be enough. A flash of pain sizzled his skin and he instantly pulled away. It was the glass!
“Wally, it’s—”
“Yes, Harrison!” the voice bellowed. “I have used your bravely collected pieces to assemble a device that will answer all of your sorrowful woes and desires! Your quest has been arduous and strained, and yet here we stand. You have your reward, and you shall soon have your prize. Can you feel its power? Do you sense what you are to do with it?”
“No, I…” The segments of the device were like old friends, strangely alien despite their identifiable appearance. Harrison felt stupid. “Wally, I don’t understand!”
The voice’s words surged with emphatic volume, and all competition with the storm was obliterated. Now the voice and Mother Nature joined forces and unleashed a coalition of bombarding noise and vibration that rose to the forest roof and thundered back down again. The wind flew and the voice’s words rode it like a berserk warrior into battle, unstoppable and engulfed in red mist.
“Harrison, you fool! Do you not wish for your father to cease his demonic reign of violence and selfishness!”
The wind picked up and Harrison felt like he was going to be whisked up and suddenly flung into the waterfall.
“Do you not want to save your mother from the inevitable, reoccurring bruise of your father’s hand!”
A thud of thunder smacked the black sky above.
“You say you don’t understand, but Harrison…I think you do!”
The boy looked down at what lay in his hands, the offensive wind advancing in long, aggressive strides against his face. The rain flooded down as if dropped from a divine bucket.
“Harrison, you need to take this machine and plunge it into your father’s heart! Kill him! Kill him, Harrison, and rid your life of vile, vile ways! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
The plug was pulled, and the world began to swirl. Harrison stepped back, disorientated and lost. It was collapsing, all of it, and the lightless depth of the sky was suddenly around him, hugging his shoulders and legs, smothering him. A cloud passed over the moon, and the beam of light was snapped.
“Wally, I…I can’t do that!” The muscles in Harrison’s face contracted and his eyes threatened tears.
“But you must!” the Wall bellowed. “It is the only way; it is what we have been working towards!”
The flimsy assemblance of scrap material felt pathetic in Harrison’s small hand, yet unforgivingly heavy at the same time.
“But I can’t kill him! I…Wally, I thought this was magic! Real magic! I…”
The tears came now, and the boy’s lips began to shudder in the wailing storm. The rolling droplets left lines of ice down his cheeks. “You said this was magic!”
“Oh, but it is, Harrison! Can’t you see? Puncturing the heart of that rancid devil of a man and watching the blood trickle from the wound will do things that no wand or genie ever could. Plunge it and twist it, right above the solar plexus, and see the life drain from his body with passing second. Push it further, sending him to the floor. Yank it out and thrust it into his body again, counting how many times you can make him scream before his final breathe secretes from his pathetic lungs! Lacerate the skin until its nothing but a suit of torn muscle and out-sticking bone. Do it, Harrison! It is my machine, it is our machine, and you must now use it! Use it! Kill him! Kill him!”
“No!”
Harrison thrust the blade onto the ground. Blood soared around his body, thumping now more in rage than upset. Rather than plunging into a belly of dirt, the fickle machine thumped against the solid surface and fell apart. The glass popped from its hold; the string snapped under the pressure of the blade and unwound from its host; the wooden block bounced and gave out a deep knock as it met the ground. In the pitch black, Harrison could make out the various pieces of the pathetic contraption, and hysteric anger erupted from within him. The fact that he was not standing on real grass, and instead cheap AstroTurf, meant nothing. He didn’t even notice. If he had, maybe he would have had a chance to run away and alert someone as to what had happened to him. Maybe he could have stopped the cycle – doing what I really ought to, I suppose – and saved countless others. But he didn’t. It was dark, wet, and he was a child. Just like the rest.
“So, all this time I’ve just been making a knife?!” the boy roared. Never in his short life had he experienced such untainted fury. Hatred bubbled, sizzled, and popped within his every limb, and he had no idea how to process or manage any of it. But it wasn’t just the wrath of being deceived that fuelled his words. He had hit his father, lied to his mother, stolen from Mr Potter. The boy he was had been abandoned, and the mask of a servant had been obscuring his face for nothing. When his parents eventually came to search Peter’s Wood, likely accompanied by a search party, and found their boy, what would they see? A dirty criminal who had completely lost their respect and love, hiding away in the wild like the animal he was, and they certainly wouldn’t hear the voice coming to his defence. He would leave, sit silently like a startled rat, and leave Harrison all alone. He hated Wally in that moment, more than he had ever experienced towards his father.
“Wally, why?! Why have you let me do this?! This isn’t magic! What in the world am I going to do?!”
The Wall did not answer.
“Answer me, Wally!” Harrison screamed.
The storm stood no chance of muffling him.
“Wally, I need you to fix this! Make a better machine, please! Make me something that can get me out of this! I need you to! Wally! Wally! Wally!”
Harrison did not accept the silence. He dropped and ripped the pieces up from the machine from the ground, launching them at the rock face. The glass shattered under the force; the wooden bar clanged and flew into the vegetation, disturbing the dense leaves. The string did nothing, as you would expect, and this lack of satisfaction compelled Harrison to step forward and approach the waterfall. He let out a barbaric shriek and punched the flat wall of stone. The bones of his knuckles clicked, sending his entire hand numb from the blunt impact, but he didn’t care. He opted for a change in tactic and began kicking at the base of the waterfall over and over again like a shot horse, ignoring the freezing touch of the tumbling water. He demanded at the top of his voice for a response.
“Answer me!
“Answer me!
“Answer me!”
Blood spilt from the cuts on his knuckles. He slapped and smacked the rock, he banged and boomed, he tried to beat the words out of the inanimate formation. There is a popular phrase about trying to get blood out of a stone, and I had never understood it until that night. Frustration built with horrific speed, and it took only seconds for the tears and the screams to merge into an ear-blistering whine of panic and hysteria. The boy was collapsing, his sense of awareness diving deeper and deeper below the surface. If he were watching himself from, say, the position I am, he would not even recognise himself. Red covered his hands and dried into the pores of his skin, and his feet were numb from the relentless kicking. Raindrops and tears camouflaged one another, and his face was a rageful rouge.
“Wally!
“Wally”
“Please!”
Harrison thrust a blind fist into the waterfall itself, and then the mirage began to shatter. As his knuckles smashed through the curtain of water, he was struck by the fact that his hand had not met the blunt denial of the rock face on the other side. Instead, it had slipped into a gap behind the water, a small crevice of some kind hiding behind the screen of liquid.
Was this where Wally’s heart was? Where his brain was? The neurons in Harrison’s brain fired out every imaginable explanation as his freezing hands felt around with revitalised energy. He had no idea what he was looking for, but that didn’t matter. Something soon found him.
At first, Harrison thought he had touched some kind of animal, and he pulled his hand from the hole and shook it wildly. After realising that there was nothing there, he reached in again, and this time felt what he had initially thought to be a body with a bit more care. The adrenaline racing around his body was still lightning fast, but his mind was channelling it into focus. The peculiar item behind the waterfall had a smooth, flat surface like the bonnet of a car. It was a box, he could tell that much, but there were no features to decipher what exactly it was supposed to do or why it was placed there.
Was this Wally? Harrison didn’t think so, but as his fingers slipped down to its face, his conviction dried. Cylinders and switches littered the front of the item, sticking out in varying directions like the features of a robotic face. Unwilling to imagine any longer, he gripped and tore the item from the hole.
The mysterious item came easily from its perch, but it did not come alone. Harrison ducked as something came flying down from above, and the forest came alive in a symphony of chaos as heavy objects fell and smashed onto the grass behind him. It was like an aeroplane was breaking through the canopy above, but the boy was not crushed or killed. When Harrison opened his eyes, all he saw were two large, rectangular speakers, lying cracked and chipped on the tidy lawn. Glancing up above the waterfall, he saw from the flattened grass that they had fallen from above him when he pulled the strange item from the hole.
Long, thin wires poked out from the backs of the speakers, extending from their bodies like black, rubber snakes. The wire of each speaker was long and gangly, but they came together in what seemed to be a small device lying on the ground between them. From what he knew from his design classes at school, Harrison could tell that it was a receiver of some kind, designed for sending radio signals and messages. But why would there be radio equipment in Peter’s Wood? Who would want to send a message out here?
“Wally?”
The night was not listening. Harrison stepped forward in the empty world. Nothing existed except himself, the objects, and the rain. Descending to one knee, he attempted to twist one of the large speakers, but it was incredibly heavy for his small, tired body to haul. He settled for moving around it instead, and when he did, he saw its large, gaping face staring back at him. His father had enormous speakers just like this in his study room, mostly used for blasting the radio on Sunday mornings when he was working on the computer. His father’s had varnished wooden sides, but these speakers were jet black.
The circular diaphragm looked back at the boy like an enormous eye, unblinking behind its netting cover. The raindrops made the inanimate object look as though it was crying. Harrison felt like joining it. This couldn’t be Wally. It wasn’t possible. He had promised so much.
He shuffled along the damp grass to the small box he had dropped amidst the panic. It was upside down, surrounded by its bigger brethren, and Harrison feared he had broken it. He had yanked it through the waterfall, soaking it in the process, and the rain was now relentlessly pelting its metal body. There was no one around to tell him off or express any anger at its potentially damaged state, but he was anxious all the same. It’s a thing with children. Fear is just in their nature.
The boy’s frozen hands lifted it from the ground and just about managed to turn it the right way around. His fingers were sending so little information to his brain that Harrison could no longer feel the rain thumping onto his bare skin. He examined what he could about the receiver, hoping it still worked. For what purpose, he didn’t know. The buttons meant nothing to him, nor did the small white letters accompanying them. AM. FM. Had he seen those letters in the car before? He searched his mind, wishing something from that stupid design class would come back to him now, but nothing arrived except for the banging cry to go home and go to sleep in his warm, dry bed. Droplets exploded upon the receiver’s roof, thumping the metal like a rapid, ominous drumroll.
A small black dial stuck out from the centre of the box and Harrison directed his stiff fingers towards it, hoping he could learn more about the device that way. They were like chopsticks in how senseless and rigid they were, and he could neither experience the texture of the dial nor move it in the exact way he intended. The best he could manage was connecting the tip of his index finger to the coarse outer layer of the dial and poking it until it spun around. On his first attempt the dial spun, and as it moved, a sound erupted from the speakers like a car tail-spinning on a dry summer road. The screech was intense, but then came a voice.
“…and that’s what I’m saying, Jessica. If the government refuse to address the question that the Labour Party – and let’s be honest the rest of the country are asking – then the public have every right to wonder why the Transport Minister was allowed to…”
Harrison threw his head to the thin trail; certain a group of adults had found him. The voice was so close and so clear that the speaker could be no more than a few metres from him. The man continued, explaining something the boy couldn’t understand, but nobody approached. The forest was as still as it had been before, and then Harrison realised that the voice was not even coming from the real world at all, but from the large speakers beside him. Embarrassment rose but was swiftly beaten down by an overpowering force of curiosity.
He moved the dial again.
“…that was a good one, wasn’t it? Always been one of my favourites, anyway. Stay right here, folks, because we’ll be playing more tunes like that all night long, only on—”
And then again.
“…and he has to start scoring! He cost the club sixty-four million, Terry, am I the only one that expects more from him?”
And once more.
“…I…get what you’re saying, Anna, I do, but the figures! Your team couldn’t sell as much as the other team and their profits were almost triple of what your team generated. I’m sorry but, for that reason, you’re—"
Harrison moved the dial a final time but only static came through. Empty noise filled the space, but the voices still rang in his head. Clear, loud, realistic. They had sounded like they were right next to him, speaking to him as though just from the other side of the pool. They sounded just as clear as Wally had.
“Wally? Are you actually here?”
The forest answered.
A bush, somewhat off in the distance behind where Harrison was kneeling, parted down the middle. The boy turned at the noise and trembled at what he saw. What had he hoped for? Wally, shining in the moonlight, gliding through the air with a halo and wings? Possibly. His school did fill his head with such images, but no angel had come for him. Instead, it was something more down to earth. Gut-wrenchingly real.
A man stood in the hazy distance. Alone. His tall, grey silhouette broke out like a blooming tree from the general foliage beneath and just stood there, completely still in the falling rain and rising mist. Harrison stood up. The body was nude, male in anatomy, and shrouded in the dark of the night. A wide chest floated in fog, a stem of rigid abdominals beneath. It looked like a statue, and yet perfectly human except for the fact there was no face atop its shoulders. Where Harrison expected to see a nose, chin, and skull indents to signify the presence of eyes behind the veil of darkness, a set of semi-circle beacons glowed out into the darkness. Yellow in colour, modest in brightness. They neither succumbed to the blackness nor brought the world into visible colour. They just hovered there. Shining enough to see, shining enough to be seen.
It was like a pair of hands were over Harrison’s ears, the static from the speaker numbing the world around him. Lightning cracked across the sky, flashing down to the world below, but no thunder followed. The universe hung in suspension. Timeless, motionless. All movement belonged to the lightning as it flashed the scene into the theatre of existence. The wind held its breath. The man did not move, and neither did Harrison.
The spell lifted, and an eruption of thunder threatened to crack the pane of the world. Harrison winced and went to cover his ears, but his eyes stopped him. Just as the first had, and with startling similarity in its movement, another figure sprouted from a bush. It assumed the exact same posture and stillness as its predecessor. It was naked, just the same, and shared a similarly impressive physique. Again, there was no face, and its stillness was harrowing. Two more amber eyes glistened.
Harrison didn’t know whether it was just a trick of the light, but both of the figures seemed incredibly pale. He suddenly questioned whether he was in a dream. Dread cemented his body to the spot, and he didn’t think he could scream even if he wanted to. His throat was dry and stale, and if he screamed, he knew nothing would come out but a dusty croak. The bone-coloured bodies continued to linger, unmoving and seemingly unmotivated to. They were part of the forest, another set of trunks like all the rest. But those eyes; they were not from this forest, and Harrison knew that they did not belong. They were opaque, pupil-less eyes: they did not belong to a living being. Character, instinct, reaction – they looked devoid of them all. They were hollow.
Whether there was a difference between the first body and the second, Harrison could not tell. It was as though the same muscular form had been copied and pasted, and there was nothing of the face within view to examine. They were both just out of reach for a decent visual analysis, and even if they were, Harrison’s eyes may not have been capable of conducting one. He was tired, betrayed, confused. All he could focus on was the four yellow eyes now staring at him, and his own pair were beginning to dry in their stationary glare. His brain was slipping from its chair too. Fear, as sharp an emotion as it is, was losing its venom. Fatigue was beginning to grease the sides and help it slip from its perch. But then terror found its footing once again.
Another body appeared. Then another. And then another. Harrison gasped and almost choked on his own breath. A galaxy of amber now levitated before him, resting upon a series of organic scaffolding, nude in the chilly night air. But there was no sun in this universe. No sun, no planets, no God. There was nothing but the cold, the rain, and the eyes. Harrison thought he couldn’t scream, but that idea was quickly dispelled. I can tell you for a fact, that boy could scream. I heard it myself.
The bodies ran towards him.
The Story
Hello, and welcome to the regional news at 10. I’m Tom Davidson.
Our top story tonight: local police have pledged to double their efforts tonight after yet another child has been discovered dead in Peter’s Wood. Harrison Little is the thirteenth child to go missing and the sixth to be found dead by police in the last twelve months. He was found in the early hours of this morning, naked and with several stab wounds.
Police Chief Michael Jacobson, also father of Courtney Jacobson who disappeared earlier this year, says he will not rest until the killer is found.
“I have said it before, and I will keep saying it until the individual or individuals responsible are brought to justice: these are the most disgusting and perverted acts of evil I have ever encountered, and my colleagues and I will not stop our investigation until the families affected are given the answers that they deserve. My wife and I have never healed from Courtney’s disappearance and…and we can’t…I’m sorry. And we can’t imagine how the parents of Harrison Little must feel. I send them my thoughts and prayers, as well as my complete and unwavering determination to apprehend and punish those responsible.”
Harrison’s father, Rodney Little, says that he and his wife, Sylvia, are devastated. Some viewers may find the following clip distressing.
“Sylvia and I are…crushed, obviously. I…I…I can’t believe it. Harrison was our b-boy. He was such a good kid, and he was only just finding himself in this world. We just can’t take it in yet. It doesn’t feel real. I just wish I could tell him that I love him.”
“Harrison was my little baby! Rod and I wanted the best for him and…and we just want him to know that we will always love him. We struggled as parents but…but we’re going to keep praying for him and telling him that we love him. We…oh it’s just so much to take on. We just love and miss him so much.”
Very moving words there from Sylvia Little. Of course, we will keep you updated with how the story develops, and everyone here at Local News will certainly be praying for little Harrison.
Now, are you struggling to get the most out of your supermarket loyalty card? Well, it seems that many people in our area are finding it hard to know what their loyalty cards even do, so local grocer Kathy Jenkins has started an online help service to lend support when it comes to getting more bang for your buck.
Our reporter Phil Gilmore has the story.
The End
THE VOICE
Harrison Little was not the first child to discover the Wall, and by no means was he the last. His discovery of its power came on a Tuesday, just like any other, around three-forty-seven in the afternoon. He was on his way home from school.
It was raining on this Tuesday, heavier than Harrison had ever seen before. Not in real life, anyway. It reminded him of the gangster movies he sometimes caught glimpses of when his parents were watching one after his bedtime. The rain would be falling in relentless waves on a pair of grubby gangsters, battling it out with their bare knuckles in an alley way. Their suits and fedoras would be soaked through, and the way the concrete became riddled with a million bursting droplets in those scenes was exactly what Harrison could see through his classroom window now. He never intended to go down and sneak a look at those scenes from the dark hallway, but when he heard the brooding violins and the animalistic throwing of punches from his bedroom, he could never resist. That was the curious cat in Harrison. When he saw something that he didn’t quite recognise or understand – whether it was a couple of American-Italian mobsters beating each other half to death, or simply a magnificent demonstration of how much rain can possibly fall in just one afternoon – he wanted to investigate. Not from a sense of mischief, but honest, innocent wonder. He was a boy, after all.
Harrison rarely cowered from the worst of the weather, but on this day in early April, he deemed his usual route home an impossible option, lest he let the inexorable showers soak him through and ruin his uniform. It fell like bullets from the murky heavens outside, accumulating in every depression in the ground and running along the grooves of every curb in rivers. It was the kind of storm he would have loved to run through when he was a bit younger, had his father let him, that was. Even then, the only rule had been to not let his clothes get muddy and force another spin of the washing machine, but that didn’t stop Harrison from dreaming. What it did do, however, was instil a sense of restraint in the boy which, despite clashing with his innate desire to discover, made him reconsider how he was going to get home when rain like this came along. It wouldn’t take long for the lashing downpour to pierce every stitch of his trousers, so the less time Harrison spent in it the better.
When the school bell rang and released him from his less-than-captivating lesson, Harrison chose to walk through Peter’s Wood. Its canopy of dense foliage offered a haven of dryness compared to the openness of his usual route through the centre of town, and Harrison knew the ten minutes it added to his journey would be worth it to avoid the devastating power of the storm. This was the worst rain he had ever seen, remember, and he was very grateful that his mum had packed his big coat for him. The last thing he wanted was to upset his dad, so the choice – if you wish to be so cruel – was clear.
Harrison was both relieved and disappointed as he slipped under the roof of the woodland. The time he spent hurrying from the school to Peter’s Wood was like being forced under a cold shower, but the relief of finally arriving was not as great as he anticipated. The brusque weight of the storm was lessened, but heavy blades of water still snuck through the vegetative defences, giving the impression that this was just a normal bout of rain and Harrison was underneath no such roof at all. It was strange, but he didn’t mind. He could deal with normal levels of rain. In fact, the temperate shower reminded him of walking with his mum, so it was actually quite a pleasant detour. If it had been a Sunday, rather than a monotonous, run of the mill Tuesday, Harrison thought it would be a perfect route for them to take, holding hands and chatting about what they could see.
When he closed his eyes and did his best to picture the scene, he saw it in beautiful clarity. The forest would be the same, but his mother would be there with her large square glasses poking out from her ruby red raincoat. Whenever he tried to imagine his mother being somewhere, Harrison always painted her glasses first. For some reason, it was always the foundation that got his brain working and allowed him to sculpt her and place her into the moment. Her ‘specs’, as they called them, were what anchored her in his brain, and Harrison loved them. He loved her. He skipped a little as he dreamed of telling his mum about where he thought they should walk next weekend.
Although it wasn’t as ideal as the one that danced before his playful imagination, Harrison still made the most of his walk home. And why not? For the most part, it was a nice path, and nothing out of the ordinary occurred. Harrison was a boy walking in the rain, and the wandering he practiced was nothing more than innocent play. He splashed in puddles, kicked the settled droplets from sprouting leaves, and naturally became intrigued when he heard the sound of gushing water. It was similar to the pattering rain above, yet separate, and it touched an inquisitive note. Harrison pursued the noise down a thin trail that divided the untouched bush and down a gentle slope. It looked like no one had ever come this way before, but that was not the case. Harrison knew this because of the slight trail that existed; someone must have made it. I can confirm he is correct. I have witnessed every contributing step to that trail.
The trail seemed to go on forever, and the beaten pathway home felt like a distant land before long. Harrison was a spaceship, jumping lightyears at a time through galaxies of oak and nettle. Items of shrubbery passed one after the other in a never-ending block of autumnal colours until, finally, a clearing appeared. The gallery of trees blew away and a pocket of space expanded out before Harrison. But it didn’t look natural, even to such a young pair of eyes. To portray Harrison’s reaction to this area of Peter’s Wood in a single word would be impossible, as never had he felt such an intoxicating concoction of wonder and confusion. It wasn’t so much a mystical scene, like the fairy-tales he remembered being told when he was a little bit younger, but a simply new one. It just looked peculiar.
He broke out from the bush and hopped down onto a small patch of oddly short grass. It was like a lawn, trimmed evenly and perfectly square, and the threshold between its border and the surrounding forest was as sharp as a cliff edge, with the erratic, voluminous foliage beginning the millimetre the fine, ordered grass ceased.
At the centre of the lawn was a pool of bumbling murky water, perfectly circular. Despite the artificiality of its neighbouring land, it did not look like a man-made pool. Moss, sticks, and rocks cluttered the dirty water, and the waterfall above it looked equally natural. It flooded from the top of a tall, blunt rockface and thumped into the water below, giving it a convincing energy. The thunderous noise of the water smashing into the pool electrified the air, making the relatively delicate raindrops seem like a forgotten joke. The tumbling water was wide, stretching across the rock like a tie.
As he stared, Harrison noticed that the water did not overflow from the pool at his feet. It fell and fell and fell, but the collection of liquid never seemed to rise. I know it seems absurd, and that was not the only baffling thing that Harrison noticed.
The waterfall did not make sense, it was that simple. Where did the water flow from? Harrison had never seen a river in Peter’s wood before, let alone one large enough to have this much water. Not only that, but how had he or any of his friends never noticed this huge waterfall before? He could not count the number of times he had come here to escape the hot summer sun or make snowmen amongst the wintery oaks. How had he never heard this obtuse crashing of water before? How had no one else ever mentioned it?
As time wore on, and Harrison began to digest more and more of his surroundings, the questions began to compile into a heaving mound. Why in the world was the grass cut here? Who would do that? How would they get a lawnmower down here? He took another look at the pool itself, as natural as it appeared, and inspected its bed and border. There was no outlet stream or pipe, and the water entering it was by no means a small amount. Where did it all go? How did it make sense?
Of course, the only certainty lies with me. Every question Harrison fathomed had been asked more than once before, and not one had ever been answered. The Wall was not a place where questions were answered.
Rather, it was one where they were asked.
“Hello, little boy,” a voice whispered. Harrison screamed. He didn’t mean to do it, but it rang like a shrill squawk into the forest. His body froze from the moment it left his lips as if it was trying to blend into the forest and pretend to be just another tree. Harrison’s eyes watered as they scanned the surrounding bushes for the speaker, but to his disbelief, no one was there. He figured his best odds lay with remaining as still as he possibly could, but he soon learned that there was no hiding. He could have stood frozen for the next twenty-four hours if he wanted to, but the Wall would still find him. It would always find him.
Again, the voice spoke. “I’m here.”
With all of his muscles contracted in the clutch of fear, Harrison scanned the scene around him. No one was there, but this time the voice did not pause for so long. As his eyes locked onto the gushing wall and tall rockface, it came again.
“That’s it. You’ve found me.” Harrison felt sick.
Nothing moved, and yet the voice seemed so sure. It sounded friendly, belonging to what he thought was an older gentleman, but its high pitch and slow pace was unsettling. Harrison had had teachers that spoke in a similar way to seem more nurturing, but most failed to do it properly, sounding more menacing and predatory. They often reminded him of his father, but Harrison always worked to quickly shake off such associations. This voice, however, was weirdly succeeding at both impressions, and Harrison didn’t know whether to run or sit down. It was very, very strange, but one thing was clear. It didn’t sound anything like his father.
“H-hello?” Harrison said. No one appeared from behind the water, nor did anyone shout out from the bush, signalling him over with a wave of their hand. Instead, the voice gently spoke again.
“What is your name, friend?”
Harrison swallowed and tried his best to shake off the paralyzing sense of shock. He stared at the constant stream of falling water like it was a single slit eye. “H-H-Harrison Little.” He let out a trembling breath.
Harrison stood completely still, his body static in anticipation as the dulled rain continued to poke the outside of his coat. He felt like he was being watched, as though a set of eyes were staring right at him through the plummeting stream, waiting for him to move. It didn’t feel real, any of it, and yet he didn’t dare run away. A spell had been cast to lock him into place.
“Hello, Harrison,” the voice said, politely. It had a distant quality about it that both bewildered and lulled the boy, yet a vivid proximity that deepened the shroud of fantasy that dominated the scene. The voice, as unrooted in sense and logic as it was, oddly relaxed him, making Harrison feel like he was talking to a friendly receptionist or parent of a friend. An adult who had been expecting him. It was like when he went to the barbers. The nice lady was always there with a welcoming smile, and every time he walked in, she welcomed him over like they were about to play a fun little game. It was always a warm occasion – the friendly chat and the relaxing buzz in his ears, his mother’s reassuring reflection in the corner of his eye – and this voice had the same peculiar effect. It sounded like it just wanted to chat.
“What’s yours?” The flash of confidence came from nowhere, and Harrison immediately regretted asking it. But the voice answered pleasantly.
“Well, Harrison, I’ve been called many things. I would probably say I am best known as the Wall, but, as a friend, you can call me whatever you like. We are friends, aren’t we?”
Again, Harrison could not help but allow his guard to slip a little more. He thought of the lady barber and his mother smiling at him in the mirror. “Yes, I suppose so. Can I…can I call you Wally? You know, instead of the Wall?”
“Why, of course, Harrison. That would be fine.”
Several minutes of silence passed. It felt more and more like a dream with every passing second. To his continued surprise, Harrison felt the tension in his muscles and the panic in his mind gradually slip away. His heartrate calmed and his breathing slowed.
“Wally?” he asked.
“Yes,” the voice replied.
“Are you a person?”
A moment passed, then the Wall replied in as neutral a tone as any innocent being would. “Why don’t you look and find out?”
The tranquillity cracked. The impossibility of what was happening rose and crested, and Harrison could not help but seize up again in anticipation of the wave’s bellowing crash. He was speaking to a waterfall. It wasn’t natural or normal or possible. But the Wall knew what was happening. It had been in this situation before. “Don’t be frightened, Harrison. You are safe here.”
Wally’s reassurance chinked the boy’s nerve just enough for him to move. Harrison approached the waterfall, minding his footing around the pool, and inspected it. It felt like he was in school again, examining the bacteria of a petri dish and trying to make sense of the odd little shapes and colours, without entirely being sure of what he was looking for. The rock was just as thick as it was tall, and there was no way that someone could be standing behind it. Its back face was somewhere off in the bush, and there was no way a voice could sound so close from way back there. Upon getting closer to the water itself, Harrison decided to also take a look at the space behind it and saw that there was none. The flowing liquid appeared to slide as close to the rock as skin is to bone. There was no gap behind its gushing, and so no one could possibly be speaking from behind the watery vale. At last, he stepped away from the wall and returned to where he had been standing, puzzled.
“So…are you magic?” Harrison asked. The anxiety of the scene had crystallised into a solid confusion.
“I am many things, Harrison. How could I be magic?” The voice was playful, almost seductive, but Harrison did not notice.
“I don’t know. If you’re actually a talking waterfall then you must be magic.” The boy paused, thought about what he was going to say next, then spoke again. His nerve had dissolved completely now. He felt like he was playing a game. “If you’re magic, you must have powers.”
“Well, I have been known to do…some things.”
“Really? What? What can you do?”
“Well, I have been known to grant people things. Wishes, you may refer to them as.”
“Wishes? Like a genie?” Harrison’s eyes glistened as though he were speaking with the real Father Christmas. Oh, how all of them think of that man.
“Well, not exactly,” the Wall said. “A genie is one who gifts wishes. I am one who…rewards with them.” The emphasised word hung in the air like a foul stench. The push-and-pull of the encounter was so stressful yet alluring for Harrison that he could not help but be intrigued in spite of what he was hearing. The voice swayed so freely between being terrifying and entertaining that he could do nothing but give in to its motion. It was like being on a rollercoaster. He just had to hold on.
“Reward? Reward for doing what?” Harrison asked.
“That depends, Harrison, on what it is that you want.” Silence followed. Suddenly, Harrison’s mind was ablaze with ideas that he had never considered before. Fame, money, talent: everything passed through his whizzing mind. It was like high-speed traffic was blurring past. Everything went by and yet nothing was properly seen. There was too much potential. But then, after thinking about the craziest things possible, Harrison considered the simplest. He thought about home, about his family, about his father.
“Could you make my dad less mean to me?” Harrison asked at last, sounding embarrassed.
Nothing came from the waterfall but the natural splashing of the water hitting the pool at the boy’s feet. After a few seconds, Harrison thought he had imagined the whole thing, as if the voice had never existed at all. He considered running home right there and then and forgetting the whole thing, but then the voice came back. It had been considering the request.
“How does your father treat you, my friend?”. Harrison immediately felt defensive, as though he had never said anything. His father wasn’t that bad. He would ask for something else, something better. But then the voice spoke again. “Does he hurt you?”
A tear crept from the boy’s eye. “No! No, he just—”
“Harrison,” the voice was firm, “do not lie to me.”
The boy hastily wiped his cheek clean. “Well…he…he is a bit rough sometimes.” He sounded scared. His voice was weak and timid, but the Wall pressed on.
“How rough?”
“Erm…well…” No specific instant or memory came to mind for Harrison. Instead, it was an influx of blended images and feelings, fuzzy and unclear, yet innumerable. He saw his father getting home from work, and himself approaching to pester him about helping with homework or wanting to play a game. The cold response in his father’s face was like a wicked carving in a dark cave wall, and it flickered menacingly in his flickering memory. The Wall’s silence bore on Harrison like a dark cloud, and he felt the increasing pressure to answer. Despite the chilly weather and continuous dripping of the rain from above, he felt hot and sticky.
“He has beat me up before. Cut me and given me bruises, but it’s because I don’t give him space. I need to leave him be after working all day.”
It was strange how the voice never seemed to breathe nor sigh nor cough. When Harrison was speaking, he heard nothing at all to suggest something alive and organic was out there listening. But when he finished, the voice came back. It had heard every word. “Would you like your father to stop hurting you, Harrison? Because I can help you with that.”
“No, no, it’s okay, Wally. I don’t want to get into any trouble. My mum says that if we call the police about it then—”
“Police, Harrison? Who spoke of the police? Do you think I grant rewards through calling the police?”
Harrison felt silly. “No.”
“No, for that would be the way of a man. I am more than a man, Harrison. I can help you with your situation and stop your father from hurting you without calling the police or getting you into trouble. All you have to do is collect some items for me. Can you do that?”
“What items?”
“Well, I would consider them to be pieces more than items. If you can collect three pieces for me, bringing them each in turn, then I can assemble a machine. A machine which, with my guidance, you can use to free yourself from your current predicament. Without, I assure you, getting into trouble.”
“How would the device work?”
“It is hard to describe the ways in which I work, my friend. How would you describe the wind to someone if they had never felt its gust? I’m afraid you are going to have to trust me. All will be shown to you in time. Do you trust me, Harrison?”
“Yes, of course. What do I need to find?” How malleable and warm the heart of a child is. Fear is nothing in the wake of a promise, and the Wall is second to nothing when it comes to making pledges to those who find it. Harrison had wandered into its path, told it his secret, and was now willing to do anything to receive its reward. It seemed impossible to attain, but then again, it was all impossible. He was talking to a waterfall. And it had made him a promise.
“First, I need you to collect some string.”
“String?” Harrison almost giggled. “Why string?”
“If it so funny, Harrison, then I imagine that you are capable of performing your wish by yourself?” The tone shift was menacing in its speed.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. How much string?” the boy asked.
“Enough to wrap around your wrist twice, my friend. But it mustn’t be damaged or dirty. Ensure that it is in good quality and whole, and it will work for the purpose I intend.”
Harrison didn’t say anything for a moment. He was thinking. Where did he know that sold string? More importantly, how was he going to pay for it? They were important questions for a boy to consider, as he did not control his own pocket money and he had never had to purchase string before. He decided to ask Wally, given his seemingly divine knowledge, but he didn’t receive a clear answer.
“Harrison, anything is attainable for one who is willing to reach out. If you cannot attain it by conventional means, then I suggest you think differently. I need that string. You must get it for me.”
And then the voice was gone. Harrison called out, asking a few more clarifying questions, but nothing came back. He was alone, standing in the rain, with nothing answering him but the sounds of tumbling water and the subdued wind. He had no idea where he was going to get string, but that worry quickly faded. With Wally gone, he immediately felt the nip of the cold and the workings of time returning to his considerations. How long had he been standing there? His mother might be home by now, and what would she think if she came home and he wasn’t back yet? Would she call his father?
That thought was enough to get him moving. With a quick final glance of the waterfall, Harrison bolted back up the thin trail, re-joined the path home, and began running out of Peter’s Wood. Somehow, someway he was going to get some string and give it to Wally.
Wally, his new friend.
The String
The journey home was a wet and hurried one for Harrison. His body advanced towards home at break-neck speed, largely on autopilot while his mind revised what had just happened to him.
Wally – he already thought of the voice by its nickname – was an impossibility, and yet it had all actually happened. The voice had risen from the tranquil, unassuming nature and exchanged words with the boy, as easily as Harrison would share a funny anecdote with a fellow boy on the school yard. But Wally had done much more than share a joke. He had given Harrison a mission.
That’s what it felt like to him, anyway; a mystical quest to gather valuable and useful resources. But as Harrison blundered through the rain, keeping his head down and moving as fast as he possibly could, the darker underbelly of what he had been asked to do rumbled and made itself heard.
It was a serious promise that the voice had made, and with every step closer to home, Harrison felt the gravity of what he had agreed to drag him down with more and more force. Would his father be in a bad mood tonight? The very chance of it enraged Harrison’s engine and made his thoughtless sprinting turn reckless and erratic. He had to get home. Puddles were not avoided, pedestrians were bluntly overtaken, and roads were hastily checked and crossed. If a truck driver had decided to run a late yellow light, he may have been hit. Harrison developed a stitch in his side he ran so quickly, but it was all in vain. As he blundered through his front door and slammed it shut behind him, the first thing he saw was the tall, skinny figure of his mother and her wide specs. She had been worried.
“Where the bloody hell have you been, Harri?” she cried, her eyes bulging from behind her thick, square spectacles. She stood in the middle of the hallway, having jumped from the kitchen in anticipation of her son’s delayed return. It must have been a rapid movement as her shoulder-length curls were still swaying across her cheeks. From her attire – work shoes, a light green shirt, and blazer – Harrison guessed she had only just got home herself.
“Is dad home?” Harrison responded, kicking off his shoes and unzipping his coat.
Sylvia Little paused, cleared her throat, and ignored the question. “Harrison. Tell me where you have been. It’s almost teatime and you should have been home ages ago. Now tell me the truth.”
That, the boy knew, was impossible. It crosses the mind of each new friend of the Wall to speak the truth and let an adult pair of ears hear the mystical voice for themselves, but all refrain. It could threaten the deliverance of the promise, and that was not worth jeopardising. Harrison reluctantly had to lie.
“I’m sorry, Mum,” he started. “It was raining so I… stayed in the library for a little bit to see if it would stop. I thought it would pass but it didn’t, so I ran home. I’m sorry.”
It felt strange for Harrison to be dishonest, but it was a solid excuse despite his hesitation which seemed to slip by undetected. It held the perfect blend of believability and innocence that Sylvia couldn’t help but drop her guard. Her boy was a good kid, and he didn’t have a history of lying. None of them ever do.
“Well, alright,” Sylvia said, her tone hesitant yet nurturing. “Get upstairs and get those wet clothes off. Your father will be home soon, and we wouldn’t want him thinking you’ve been doing something you shouldn’t have.” There was no malice in her voice, but Harrison couldn’t help but think of his reward at the mention of his father. The aroma of punishment was faint, but to pretend as though he had not been late home from school showed that it was certainly in the air. Harrison didn’t like it. He needed some string.
Just before he ran upstairs and got changed into something more comfortable, Harrison stopped at the foot of the staircase and spun back towards his mum. She was shaking the raindrops from his coat and hadn’t noticed him stop. “Mum, do we have any string?”
Sylvia looked up at her son with a curious glare. A few specks of water had rested on her glasses. “String?”
Harrison’s heart skipped, and he tried to sound casually confident. “Yes, string. Do we have any?” A bead of sweat formed at his temple, but he hoped his mum would just think it another drop of rain. On the outside he seemed calm, but Harrison’s nerve was sizzling like a firecracker.
“I think we should have some somewhere. It’s not like you to ask for something like that, Harri. What do you want it for?”
This question was always the first test. While he was to have no awareness of it, Harrison Little was now in the same situation as all of the Wall’s companions that came before him. All – both tall and small, wide and thin, smart and slow – found themselves needing something that they could not honestly justify. And each time, as Harrison was milliseconds from realising for himself, the only choice was to avert the truth, to bend the reasoning for their newfound desire of that particular object, and lie. It was the only way.
“Erm…well…” he began, but his brain staggered and stopped. His mind was working overtime – one half trying to think of another masterful fib, the other debating whether he should even try at all – and it burned out almost immediately. What would she believe? What would she say if she found out he was lying? Cognitive cylinders spun and clicked, but nothing concrete came out. Harrison felt like he was clasping for something to stop him from drowning, but nothing was within his young, short reach. He scrambled and scrambled for something to say, terrified at the very thought of being dishonest to his mother as he did so.
She had always been his moral anchor, showing him how to be a good person and displaying the fundamentals for being a helpful and loyal friend. It wasn’t a deliberate choice. There was no point where Sylvia looked at her boy and decided to raise him by any particular code or set of commandments. It just happened, and honesty naturally sprouted and bloomed as one of the top priorities in the Little household. Being his mum’s biggest fan (as any son is), Harrison rarely strayed from this model of behaviour, but whenever he was tempted with dishonest intentions, a particular memory flashed and quelled the impulse. It was of when he was seven, not much taller than the kitchen table, and had accompanied his mother to shop. It was a Saturday, and the trip was just a small one in order to stock up on some tea bags and milk. While Sylvia was collecting the milk and trying to choose which brand of tea she wanted to drink for the next few months, Harrison had wandered over to the sweet aisle, looking to browse the sugary treats and, in doing so, force his mum to come over to that side of the shop. When she came looking for him, he would then ask if she would buy some for him, but on that occasion, the plan failed.
“No, Harrison, we’ve got plenty of sweets at home,” she had said bluntly. To say the tiny Harrison was disappointed would have been an understatement – I have rarely seen such unwarranted upset, even from someone so young – and the blend of anger and surprise caused him to do something he had never considered before. Without thought, Harrison snatched a lollipop from the small, transparent tray and quickly whisked it into his pocket, but not fast enough. He hadn’t taken a single step before he noticed the piercing glare of his mother. Her eyes shone like suns in the small store, emitting a dangerous radiation that Harrison knew would kill him if he was exposed to too much of it. Those wide frames magnified their power, and there nothing else he could do but chuck the lollipop back into its place and apologise.
Nothing but a river of relentless regret flowed from his mouth for the rest of the day, and although his mother had forgiven him and laughed it off, the power of the stare had remained like an unbreakable relic in Harrison’s mind. Those quadrilateral frames were like portals, offering a small glimpse into an alternate dimension where rules were abandoned and trust was broken, and he hadn’t liked it. Part of that response was fear – every child knows the dread of disobedience – but there was also shame, bubbling away as the secret ingredient of the concoction of guilt. Behind those lenses, he saw that his mother was hurt by his actions, and that was more than enough to keep him on the straight and narrow path from that point onwards. Until he met the Wall, that was.
Years later, wet from the rain and amazed by what had just happened to him, Harrison was faced once again with those lenses, and he knew he was on the brink of spitting in the face of everything his mother had worked to instil in him. But what else could he do? Tell the truth and reveal himself to be a crazy little boy? His mother would never let him out again if he spoke of strange voices in the woods and wish-granting waterfalls. It would sound ludicrous. It was ludicrous!
Debating the issue all day would only provide the same hazy sense of necessity and pain, and it quickly dawned on Harrison – standing on the bottom step, looking at his mother’s waiting face – that there was no other choice. He came out with the simplest lie he could tell, and he did it quickly. It was one that he thought wouldn’t be all that bad, but it hurt all the same. Pulling out a splinter was always rough, no matter how small.
“Me and a few friends are building catapults after school tomorrow, and I need some string for it.”
Sylvia said nothing. Instead of replying, she just took off her glasses to clean them. Now unobscured by the cluttered lenses, Harrison saw that her eyes were looking up at the ceiling as she thought about where there might be some leftover string. It was a relieving sight, but his heart did not rise much. Rather than simply telling him that his lie had passed by the detectors without setting off the alarm, her expression actually triggered one in him. The glasses truly were instruments of magnification, because without them his mother’s eyes were but a fraction of the size – round and innocent. Unlike the blazing suns that he remembered, they were like twinkling stars, minuscule in the distance of space, but just as bright and beautiful. Their light and colour were a gorgeous spectacle of the human form, and what were they doing? Looking around for inspiration to aid their son in his fictional motivation to acquire string.
Harrison felt sick, and he could feel his heart beating to an uncomfortable rhythm in his chest as his mum considered his complete and utter lie. Those eyes were the night sky, an abyss into which Harrison could so easily fall, but something else rose in him then, shining out in that darkness. It was Wally. Like the Moon - gentle, guiding, present, the thought of the soothing voice of the waterfall stayed his wild desire to spit out the truth and end his mother’s thinking, and Harrison felt his shaking innards relax under the influence of Wally’s words. This was all for a greater purpose. All he had to do was shut up and bear it. And that he did.
“I think I might have some in my bedroom, darling,” Sylvia said, eventually. “I will look later on this evening and cut off a piece ready for the morning. How long does it need to be?”
The Wall’s echoed in Harrison’s mind. “Enough to wrap around your wrist twice,” he said.
With her glasses now back on her face, Sylvia smiled up at her son. “Okay. Leave it with me and I’ll sort it. Now go get ready for tea!”
And with that, Harrison sprinted up the stairs and into his bedroom, slamming the door shut behind him. He ripped off his school uniform, pulled out some fresh clothes, and got dressed. It was hurried and panicked, but he needed to get the toxic energy out of his system. He was hyper, not with joy, but with the dirty exhilaration of getting away with his crime. The shame clung to him like a dark, viscous sap, and he wanted to get it off as soon as possible.
When he was dressed, he picked up his uniform and threw it violently into his washbag. The wet clump of fabric thundered into the cloth sack like a cannonball, but still he felt restless. Lying was so unnatural to him that he felt like something alien was still attached to him, something foul and cunning that spoke for him. It was too much to bear.
He had to tell the truth. No matter how insignificant, it was wrong to lie to his mum, and Harrison couldn’t let some magical waterfall turn him against her. She needed to know why he really needed it, no matter how bonkers it made him sound. It was like she always said, honesty was always the best policy, and he knew there were no exceptions.
The boy closed his eyes, and within an instant he was back in that shop, seven years old and dying for some sweets. His hormones analysed that day and replicated every feeling his younger self had experienced, and it was hardly any different to how he was feeling now. The lollipop was in his hand – the lie was out there in the world, ringing around his Mother’s mind as she considered whether to cut the string before or after tea – and a pair of omniscient eyes were waiting. They knew what he had done, both then and now, and all they had had to do was wait. Suns, stars, it didn’t matter what they looked like. They were his mother’s, and those beautifully round and magnified beacons deserved the truth. He had to oblige.
Harrison relaxed a little bit at the idea of coming clean. The world wasn’t ending, and by no means was he breaking the foundation of trust between him and his mum. All he had to do was go downstairs and say what the string was really for. It would sound crazy, but so be it. Lying would only make it worse, Harrison knew that.
Just as Harrison was about to return downstairs and tell his mum the truth, he heard the front door slam shut. Dad was home. The bass of his voice diffused through the walls and floors, and a bolt of wariness flew up Harrison’s spine. No conscious thought turned his body to the clump of wet clothes he had casually tossed into the washbag, but he had done it all the same.
The only rule was to not force another spin of the washing machine. Dad had always been very clear on that.
As quickly as he had thrust it to the ground, Harrison picked up the garments of his uniform and hung them on the radiator. He then dressed – not hearing the sudden quickness of his breathe - and creaked open his bedroom door as quietly as he could. His father’s words boomed up the staircase in startling clarity.
“What? So where has he been?” Harrison’s body froze and he could no longer imagine going downstairs. His mother’s voice, muffled and quieter than her husband’s, explained why, and thankfully Rodney Little’s tone simmered. “Alright, well it had best not happen again. Who knows what could happen to him out there.”
The irony of the statement was lost on young Harrison, but he was smart enough to know what fate his mother had saved him from. Puzzlingly, it birthed two sensations in him, each contradicting the other. Gratitude and caution fused together like different soft drinks and sat heavily in his stomach just the same, making him feel like he was seconds away from spewing all over his bedroom floor. His mother’s words had settled his father’s temper and altered what would have been a very frightening, violent course, and this made him want to tell her the truth even more. In her honour. But his father had been so angry, and over what? His son being a bit late from school? The confrontation also reassured Harrison that, as bad as it hurt him, he was justified in his actions. The reason for lying, the value of the string, the promise of the Wall – it all came flooding back in pristine simplicity.
He closed the door.
Thanks to Sylvia, the rest of the evening took a rather tame and underwhelming course. Food was served and consumed, television was watched, comics were read in the haven of Harrison’s room. On the surface, it was like any other, but of course, that wasn’t the case. Flashes of guilt rose and knocked at the boy’s mind as he tried to focus on the adventures of Spider-Man, and they continued long into the night. The Wall, the string, the lie: it was like a swarm of bees in his brain, and Harrison had just kicked the hive.
The harassing thoughts did subside eventually, and Harrison woke up the next morning to find a thin piece of string sitting on his bedside table. It was fairly long, and it looked good. There was no notable wear at all. The Wall would be impressed.
That day was a long and nervous one for Harrison. He could not focus on his work throughout his lessons nor enjoy the company of his friends. Ball games were about as interesting as passing motorway signs on a road trip, and Harrison’s lack of attention in his classes reached a frightening level. At one point, a teacher asked him who was the son of God – religious studies was boring enough on a normal day for him – and Harrison had answered without even having heard the question.
“Henry the Eighth!” he blurted out. The class erupted in laughter, as any assemblance of bored tweens would, but Harrison hadn’t meant to be funny. His distracted mind had genuinely forgotten that he had left history class half an hour before, but he didn’t care enough to listen to the correct answer. He thought only of his naughty deed and what was to come after school, and when the teaching continued, he mentally exited once again. He hoped that the Wall would accept the string and not ask him to attain anything so difficult again. There was no way he could lie to get something from his mum a second time, so hopefully it would request some paper or pens or cello tape; things he could easily get without being dishonest or cruel.
After what seemed like a millennium, the final bell rang out throughout the school and Harrison packed up his stuff. He sprinted from the educatory halls and into the beaming light of the early afternoon, his steps rapid. It was sunnier than the previous day and unmistakably drier, so he knew he would not be able to pull off the façade of being late due to the rain again. This encounter with the Wall would need to be quick, and he prayed to God that it would be.
As the sun pierced through the slight cracks in the dense forest roof, Harrison ran under its cover and hastily made his way to the sound of the running water. Peter’s Wood was alive with the orchestra of chirping birds and the soft grazing of wind on the leaves above the boy’s head, but it was all just background music that day. Vibrant green plumage and dazzling beams of falling light surrounded, but Harrison cared only for the frail piece of string in his pocket. He ran clasping it, refusing to risk it falling onto the dirt path and getting lost. The beauty around him was merely a passing blur, nothing to stop and waste time with.
When Harrison approached the place where he had first heard the divine aquatic whispers of the waterfall its cool song was just as loud as it had been the day before. He carefully descended the thin trail between the bushes and, with a thud, blundered out of the shrubbery and landed on the finely trimmed lawn. It too was just as luscious and kept as Harrison recalled. Everything was the same – the grass, the sounds, the water gushing over the rock edge and falling into the little pool. Now he hoped the voice would still be here too.
“Wally,” he called, feeling slightly silly. He had wondered the day before if it had all been a mirage, but now that concern had more gravity. What if he had been delusional throughout the entire previous afternoon? Had the canteen served anything to make him go loopy? They were valid concerns, and they grew exponentially as the silent seconds ticked by. Harrison recalled once that a girl had been off for two weeks after picking the wrong slice of pizza from the heated shelf in the school canteen. They said it was just a bad batch, but what if it wasn’t? Had she had odd hallucinations or heard strange voices?
She hadn’t, I can tell you, but Harrison had nothing else to work with. From the woods, all that came back in response was the splashing of the falling water and the occasional croak of a bird in the distance, and everything soon began falling to pieces in Harrison’s mind. He had lied for no reason. It was all for nothing. Anger filled him.
But then, just as the boy was about to toss the piece of string into the vegetation, the voice came with untainted ambivalence, as though it didn’t recognise Harrison at all.
“Who goes there?”
The Wall sounded exactly the same; Harrison knew he wasn’t crazy! ‘Hello, Wally. It’s me, Harrison!”
There was no reply for a few seconds, but then the Wall came back with perfect calmness. “Ah, Harrison, my friend. Have you done as I instructed?”
The boy pulled out the string from his pocket and held it up. “Yes. I have the string.”
“Good. Very good.”
“What should I do with it?” Harrison asked.
“All you need do is place it into my pool. There, I shall do with it what I must.”
Harrison hesitated. “But won’t it get wet?”
“Yes, but I am beyond such simple states as wet and dry.” The voice’s expression soured, but then returned to its softer pitch. “Have faith in me, my friend. You need not worry.”
A sensation of euphoria lay across Harrison’s shoulders. He imagined that this was what religion felt like to some people. The voice had that effect: it was quite the motivator. As gently as he could, he lowered the string into water. It sank slowly and manoeuvred through the layered liquid like a slithering eel, graceful but slow. He hastened its descent and pushed it to the bottom, the cold touch of the water igniting the pores of his hand. Eventually it lightly came to rest on the stone bed.
Wafting the freezing droplets from his hand, Harrison stood back and looked down at the water. The string seemed so alien, so unwanted in such a little body of water, but what did he know? He was not the Wall.
“I’ve done it,” he said. Relief poured from Harrison’s nostrils as he exhaled, and he looked upon the seemingly worthless string at the bottom of the pool like it was a bag full of cash. It certainly didn’t look like that impressive of a haul, but it certainly felt like it. It had cost him a great deal to acquire.
“Excellent, Harrison. You have done very well. Now you must collect a second item. A small bar of wood.”
Harrison’s head shot up, his face perplexed. He had only just retrieved the string, and now he was being sent for something else? It was very fast, too fast, and he didn’t know how he was going to get something so particular and peculiar. As he thought on it, Harrison realised that he didn’t even know what it was. A small bar of wood? His mother wouldn’t have one of those lying around the house, and where in the world was he supposed to start looking? He was confused but he didn’t want to question the Wall’s wisdom. Wally knew what was needed for the machine better than some boy. But then again, he didn’t have time to stand around bamboozled. He had to get home. His father wouldn’t want him late home again.
“Wally, how am I supposed to get a bar of wood? I don’t mean to question you, but…I struggled to get the string and…and I had to do something I didn’t like to get it. Is there…erm…is there anything easier I could get? Would anything else work?” Harrison cringed all over.
“No, Harrison. Nothing else will work.” It was suddenly like he was being told off by a teacher. A big, terrifying teacher. “In order to create the machine, I need a small bar of wood, large enough to hold in your palm but no bigger. It much be two inches thick, and no more. Any type of wood is fine, but it must be sturdy. Am I understood?”
Harrison gulped. “Y-yes. Yes, I understand.” He felt like crying – the panic of not knowing where to even begin his search – but then the voice came again. The powerful quality was gone, and it now rang with prudence and care. Like a father.
“What did you have to do that was so difficult, my friend?”
“I…I…erm.” It was so hard to admit. Harrison’s mother’s glasses returned again, daring him to admit to what he had done. “I l-lied to my mum. I told her the string was for a catapult. I couldn’t tell her the truth but…I shouldn’t have done it. I lied to her.”
The Wall was silent, as though it were preparing to offer the boy a hug. Of course, it couldn’t do that, so it used its greatest tool of both calming the boat and cooking up a storm. A tool which it had mastered with so much practice.
“Harrison, my friend, in order for things to be accomplished, people often have to make sacrifices. They are compelled to change, alter, and sometimes abandon the structures to which they have grown accustom. For you, lying to your mother was a difficult task, but it was necessary. For the sake of the creation of the machine that will stop your father from hurting you, it was necessary. Now, I could tell you that you will not have to do something like that again, but I cannot. The road ahead is equally, if not more trying. The work you and I are attempting is not easy, but we must both persevere and make sure it is done. You must collect, and I must build. It is what is needed for the salvation I promise. Do you understand?”
Despite not knowing what some of the words he had just heard even meant, Harrison did. “I’m sorry, Wally. I know.”
But the Wall was not done. It heard something, as it always does, in its visitor’s voice that it could not leave unaddressed. It was doubt, the ever so slight ember of scepticism in the powers at play. Harrison still clung to the notion that what he had done was wrong. That was a barrier that could spark and set fire to everything. It needed to change.
“Harrison, do you not realise that your mother will also benefit from my machine?”
The boy’s attention sparked. “What do you mean?”
“Well, I am crafting an instrument which shall prevent your father from hurting you anymore. Do you believe such protection will not also be bestowed upon her?”
It is often the way of the cunning to work with the covert arts. The assassin, the blade; the saboteur, the whisper; the Wall, the riddle.
“Oh…erm. I hadn’t…why would it protect her?” Harrison was completely lost.
“Harrison, my boy. If he hurts you, what makes you think he doesn’t hurt her as well?”
So finely directed, the question hit its mark like a bullet. Harrison had never considered the idea of his father doing what he did to him to his mum, nor had he ever seen any evidence of it. His mum never seemed bruised nor pained, but then again, neither had he. He always did his utmost to conceal the marks from his father’s tight grips and quick backhands, so could his mum also do the same? He felt sick at the thought, but it was possible. How had he never thought of it? Not only was there a putrid uneasiness in his stomach, but now a tsunamic shame bombarded his mind. Wally was right.
And the Wall knew it too.
“Go, my friend,” it said. “Collect what I need and bring it back to me. Then, once we have the final piece, we can stop your father and protect your mother from ever being hurt again.”
Upon the Wall’s last word, Harrison turned and sprinted back up the thin trail. He jumped out of the bush, planted both of his school shoes onto the dusty path, and looked up to the green ceiling. The sunlight was breaking through the battalion of vegetation, and patches of brightness blotched the foliage like a hundred searching spotlights. In this weather, Harrison should have been home ages, possibly sat in the garden or playing videogames in his bedroom with the window open. If he was lucky, he could make it back just before his mum did, open all the windows, and pretend that he had been home for a while. It was doable, but he had to be quick.
Energised by the afternoon’s warmth, Harrison bolted out of the wood and headed straight for home. The sky was a dazzling, clear blue, but the gorgeous purity of the world’s spring colour failed to soothe him. Harrison’s brain was closed for business. Images of his father beating his mum filled his head and fuelled his body to run as fast as it could. Far from blue and green, the world around him took on a noir palette, just like that gangster movies he remembered.
Harrison was a man on the run, and the passing cackles of bike-riding kids were the stuttered firings of machines guns. Home was the safe house which he had to reach before the cops showed up, and time was running out. It was almost fun to think of it like that, but Harrison knew too well that, in those types of movies, there was always one character who ruined things for everyone and made life a living hell. That character was the Don, and the one in Harrison’s life had tasked him doing a job he wasn’t sure he could carry out.
He didn’t know where he was going to find a small bar of wood, but it didn’t matter. Like a lot of hustler guys, he knew he needed to get it, and that was exactly what he was going to do. For Wally, for him, and for his mother.
The Wood
Wednesday night was pasta night in the Little household, and that meant Harrison and his parents would be sat around the table together. On other nights, each could eat wherever they chose – in front of the television, in their bedrooms, or even out in the garden during the summer – but there were rules when it came to the midweek spaghetti or tortellini. It was family time, a small portion of the week for conversation, laughter, and sharing. That’s always what Sylvia hoped for, anyway. In reality, it was a tame little meal where each member of the family checked in and let the others know what was happening in their lives. But, while it was never a completely relaxed occasion for Harrison to sit opposite his father and answer questions about school, friends, and sports, this particularly Wednesday was going to be significantly cruel. This week he had a secret.
The clock struck six and plates of hot food were placed onto the dining room table. Steam rose from the garlic bread and meatballs, dancing before the ravenous nostrils of Rodney Little who was already sat and waiting. He was still dressed in his work clothes – a neat baby blue shirt and green tie – and was happily perched at the head of the table, his hands clasped within one another, his eyes staring into space. The next person to sit down was Sylvia. She came in holding a drink in each hand, placing each at the designated seats of her son and husband, and then popped herself down beside her spouse. She smiled at him, and he sniggered back playfully, pointing out her steamy glasses.
About five minutes after the table was set, Harrison joined his family. He entered the room quietly and took his place opposite his mother without speaking a word. Luckily for him, both of his parents were too hungry to address the impoliteness of their son’s arrival, and as soon as he sat down, they began feasting. The garlic bread was divided, the silverware was taken up and plunged into each dish of food, and all was quite well until the initial commencement of eating began. Rodney had eaten away his ignorance and was now curious to learn what his family had been up to that day.
It was what usually happened on Wednesdays, but Harrison did not dread it as much as he often did. His capacity for fear was already at peak performance, scrounging his brain for an idea as to where he could get a small bar of wood. It was a blurry and chaotic thought process, and it blocked out much of the outside world with its activity, similar to the sensation of being underwater. Everything was continuing as normal above the surface, but beneath, it was all muted. But such things were not so obvious from the other side of the table.
“So, Harrison, what have you been up to today?” Rodney asked. He did not lift his eyes from his plate as he spoke, and so his son did not notice he was being spoken to. After a few seconds, he asked again, his tone ever so slightly less keen. “Harrison,” he looked at his son directly, “what have you done today?”
This time, the boy took notice. “I…well not much. School, mostly.”
“And what did you do in school?”
Harrison looked as though he was thinking, but that was not the case. He was disinterested in what his father had asked, but still he answered. “Science, P.E, Maths.”
“Ah, yes. Maths. You had that test today, didn’t you? How did it go?”
“Fine.” A wrong move.
Undenounced to his mentally idle son, Rodney was now losing his patience and staring with a look of composed frustration. His fists gripped his utensils with a stern rage, and it would only take a few more accounts of rudeness for Rodney to put his foot down. Thankfully, Sylvia stepped in.
“Harrison,” she said, pulling him from his daze with a slight tilt of her head. “Your father is speaking to you. He asked how your maths test went.” This worked well enough to simmer Rodney, but his temper remained active beneath the surface. It bubbled and swirled over his son’s lack of respect.
“Oh, sorry! I’m sorry, Dad, I...” Harrison began. He shook his head faintly in an attempt to sever himself from his foggy mindset. Maths, maths…what maths test? His brain couldn’t shift gears quickly enough and his entire cognitive function stalled. He couldn’t think of when he had had his maths test or how he felt about it. ‘Ums’ and ‘Ahs’ fell from his mouth, but no answer to his father’s question. The intolerable seconds ticked on, and eventually Sylvia’s gentle prods could do nothing more to stop Rodney from speaking.
“Harrison, must you be so rude?” he barked. It was common for a volatile response like this to come from such a mild inconvenience. Rodney’s own father would strike a stick against the calves of his children if they returned late from school or were anything less than respectful to their elders. Of course, Rodney himself was not beyond the use of such overtly violent means of discipline, but he always built to it, for he was not his father. The day that the bridge of outright violence was crossed for Rodney and his son was a dark and pungent in both their memories, but we will get to that, I assure you. But Rodney was not as quick as his father to clench his fists. He always shouted first. “All I want to know is how your day has been, and you are ignoring me!”
Harrison could stutter no longer. The whites of his father’s eyes were visible, and Harrison also noted the veins on his father’s hands, pulsing from the ever-tightening grip around his knife and fork. The thunderous voice was daunting, but it was only the warning of the storm. Harrison saw nothing of his father’s memory, of the torment and violence he had experienced as a child. He only saw the martinet before him, always ready to administer whichever measures reaped the right response. He had to say something.
“I’m sorry, Dad. The maths test went fine, I think I nailed the second half at least.” He still couldn’t remember having taken the test at all, but that didn’t matter. He had done enough.
“Okay, thank you,” Rodney said. “That’s all I wanted to know.” Rodney Little returned his attention to his meal, and Harrison pretended to do the same, his heart racing. As he always did, he fought every impulse to cry. He raged against the thumping of his blood to stay calm, to sit still, to seem unfazed. But then, on a random spur of impulse, he looked up at his mother.
It was the way of the Wall to change its visitors in small ways. Whether it be the way they think about their friends, the way they walk around their town, or the way they interact with their families. It always changed people. For Harrison, the Wall injected into him a flicker of suspicion. Just a flicker. And that, as was always the case, was enough to spark a reaction.
Harrisons eyes shot up from his meal and latched onto the first thing he noticed about his mother’s face. The shape of her glasses was the same; her hair sprouted, curved, and ended at the same points as the day before; and her eyes were just as observant and quaint as he always remembered them. The only aspect of her image that struck him as alien was nothing to do with her features at all, but something that had decided to join them.
A droplet of sweat glistened just below the left arm of Sylvia’s glasses, its tiny bubble body illuminated by the light of the lamp behind her. Harrison’s eyes then fell to hers, and they too had changed, as if the detection of the droplet had been a switch that turned the world upside down. They were fixed on her husband, unblinking and strained, with none of their prior calm.
Finally, his pupils ticked down to her hands, which were no longer holding her knife and fork. Had he looked at them before noticing the droplet? One was holding her glass – the warm fingers planting round prints on the screen of condensation – the other was flat on the table surface, tapping. Her index finger moved relentlessly as though she was testing a faulty piano key, touching the table every other second. It filled Harrison’s ears like a clock counting down to something, but somehow his father didn’t hear it. Had she been doing it this whole time? Had she always done it? The Wall’s words came like the inevitable tide: What makes you think he doesn’t hurt her as well?
Suddenly, Harrison’s entire demeanour changed. His heart slowed and his mind refocussed – he had something to find.
“I also had Design today, Dad,” he said, “and I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
Both of Harrison’s parents looked at him with unsheltered surprise. Rodney was intrigued, Sylvia’s feelings were clouded. Harrison didn’t notice, but there was a glint of fear in her eyes. I recognised it immediately. She knew that this could go extremely badly. But still, she remained silent.
“With what, son?” Rodney replied.
Harrison felt a cool excitement flowing through his veins. The thrill of treading on new ground was exhilarating, and it tickled his entire body, making him feel light and nimble. He felt invincible. “Well, we’re building something next week and I was wondering if you could help me find somewhere that sells one of the parts. I really don’t know where to get one.”
“Well, what’s the part?” his father asked. This was tremendous. Crossing the threshold of lying had been arduous with his mum, but now he was let loose from his pen and able to roam the land at liberty. The untruths fell from his lips as easily as fruit from a summer tree, and it felt fantastic to be doing it right in his father’s face. Harrison’s mind gathered the pieces of his story as playfully as a child selects sweets.
“Well, it’s like a…wooden bar, kind of. We need it to work as a handle for a machine. It’s got to be thick enough for a tiny bit of metal to go into it, you know. And it’s got to fit nicely in my hand. Because it’s a handle, you see.”
Rodney ate this up like warm custard. “Hm, interesting. And you don’t know where to find one?”
Harrison quickly glanced at his mum – who was still visibly nervous – and continued his lie. “Yeah, do you have any ideas, Dad?”
Rodney scratched at his chin and twiddled his fork idly around his remaining food. “Well, you could try Mr Potter’s Workshop in town. It has loads of bits and bobs, and I’m sure he’d have something in the back that you could use. I can’t count how many times he’s got me something I didn’t even know existed.”
“Okay, thanks, Dad.” He didn’t show it, but Harrison was utterly bewildered at what he had just pulled off. He felt like he had successfully robbed a bank.
“Hey,” Rodney said, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out his wallet. Both Harrison and Sylvia watched in awe as he opened it, pulled out a five-pound note from one of its pockets, and handed it across the table. “Take this. I hope you find it.”
Dumbstruck, Harrison thanked his father and placed the note into his front pocket. The rest of the meal then passed in complete silence as Rodney devoured the remainder of his food and his family nibbled away quietly. Nobody spoke, nobody shouted. All that could be heard was the slurping and gulping of pasta. Harrison gleamed inside.
For the mind that is focused, days tend to blend and mix together. It’s as if the Moon and the Sun are figments of one’s imagination, present only when the individual has time to think of them, to notice them. I know that the world moves independently of the individual, of course, but isn’t it interesting to see things like that? To think that this is all just a dream we choose to believe in?
What am I saying? This is not important.
After discovering where to find the bar of wood, and pocketing his father’s cash, Harrison slept, awoke, went to school, and waited. It was a dull eight hours, characterised by the same disengagement with the world around him as the day before, and the boy only thought of one thing throughout it all. Science mattered not, nor did the literature of the Romantic period. It all passed him by like a fickle breeze. All he thought of was the bar of wood and the five-pound note in his pocket. He placed his hand on over its outline in his trousers every ten minutes or so to check it was still there, and he was grateful every time he could still feel it. That note was his ticket to being one step closer to his reward. It was everything that day.
In fear of boring you, I must just say once more that this is how it goes for every child who discovers the Wall. The cycle numbs each and every one of their lives, strangling and eroding every other motivation they possess until they are as passive as litter in the wind. It rains upwards, gravity releases them, and the sun turns cold as the world loses all sense of sentiment and order. The reward – that glorious and aloof machine - becomes Heaven and Earth, and everything remaining in the physical realm is not worth caring about. It is like clockwork. I shall not remind you again.
The final bell rang. Harrison burst from the school, bumping shoulders with his peers as the school’s population tumbled into the grey Thursday afternoon, and began his journey to town. Knowing that he didn’t need to rush home that day was like a numbing drug. His parents knew he was going to Mr Potter’s, and so the pressure was off.
The Thursday afternoon shopping crowd was a sparse one. A few pensioners roamed the wide single high street, walking slowly from one fruit and vegetable store to the next, but the town centre was largely empty.
Harrison imagined the open street like a runway. A pair of withered signs offering 2 for 1 on flowers and half price on coffee marked his take off point, and the heart of the town up ahead was his wide-open sky. He was a jet plane, speeding up and preparing to fly across to his destination. He ran with tremendous speed, pelting the cobbled street with his feet so quickly that his legs felt electrified. He imagined that he had taken off, passing derelict video rental places, empty greeting cards stalls, and busy little charity shops like they were stagnant clouds. As older shoppers rinsed the charity shop of all of its cheap goodies, Harrison approached and surpassed the sound barrier, zooming faster and faster towards his target. He glided for a few minutes then noticed a familiar sight coming up on his left. It was time to buckle up and tell the passengers that the descent would soon begin. They had arrived at their destination.
As he approached Mr Potter’s Workshop., Harrison remembered joining his father on many trips there when he was younger, always in search of some component or tool needed for the family car. It would usually be on a weekend, the perfect time for his dad to have a tinker with the engine, and the high street would be a bit livelier than it was now. Harrison and his father would walk, hand in hand, past all of the other shops and stores in an excited rush to return to whatever they were doing to the car. Harrison used to like watching his dad at work. It gave him an odd sense of grounding, like the car’s servicing was simultaneously tweaking and correcting his own sense of being alive. Heading to Mr Potter’s was an exciting extension of this sensation, carrying with it an odd blend of joy and anxiety. Going inside to get an essential tool or piece was like heading into the jungle to find treasure, but they were also against the clock. Would it be open? Would they make it back before dark? They worked outside on the drive on those Saturday afternoons, and so natural sunlight made the whole thing possible. Oddly – I think so, anyway – there was no sense of fear surrounding his father in those memories for Harrison. There was admiration and joy, but no fear. Very odd indeed.
The shop itself was located inside an old bank which had a battered but colourful banner spread across its brick face. In large orange block capitals, it read ‘Mr Potter’s! Find anything here in my workshop!” and had a small cartoon of the young Mr Potter himself beneath it, smiling with his thumb up. It made Harrison smile as he passed under it. He was ready to see the real guy.
An all too familiar aroma greeted Harrison as the door closed behind him. It was a peculiar but warming blend of oil and general uncleanliness. Not the kind that attaches itself to a public toilet, but a sort of deliberate dirty, like it’s all part of the plan. The smell filled Harrison’s nostrils and he felt like a toddler again, half expecting to feel his father’s hand in his own as though it were a Saturday of old and they were here for some scrap piece of engine or wing mirror. Of course, he was alone, but the inside of the store still felt like a preserved chunk of the past, shoved inside and frozen to avoid it spoiling in the heat of the everchanging outside world. As Harrison stepped forward and into the large room, he recognised everything. It was like he had only just been there, having stepped outside for a quick break.
Mr Potter’s workshop was not the most aesthetically pleasing store, but it more than made up for that in stock and variety. Upon entering, the desperate mechanic or car enthusiast was greeted by the dull sight of rickety shelving stretching from the near side of the room all the way to the back in seven tall, grey rows. The metal structures housed boxes and trays of varying products, from nails and wrenches to window stickers and car batteries, with nothing but a scruffily written label on each of them to market their cargo. They would barely be intelligible in broad daylight, and in the low, limited lighting of the workshop, it was impossible to tell what lay inside each container without physically squitning. It was unappealing to look at, but Harrison remembered his father saying that nobody goes into Mr Potter’s just to browse. If you needed something, you went and asked the man himself, and then he would find it for you. It was the way it was, the way it had always been, and Harrison had no intent on straying from that custom now.
Having had his fill of the nostalgia, Harrison walked down the aisle closest to the entrance – which ended with a half-hearted arrangement of car jacks, lawnmowers and wheel arches – turned right, and looked straight ahead to where Mr Potter’s desk sat, exactly where it had always been. It was a dingey corner of the room, only slightly brighter than the rest of the room thanks to a small lamp, but it was what all who entered the workshop were looking for. Mr Potter wasn’t in sight, but he never was as far as Harrison could recall. He always tended to show up upon the ringing of a small bell that sat on the desk.
With a light tap, Harrison sounded that ringing, and the entire room ignited with its piercing echo. The boy half expected bats to start flying down from the ceiling in panic, but none did. All that came was the sound of a man hobbling out of the backroom, his feet scraping against the wooden floorboards as he did so.
Mr Potter was older than Harrison remembered. Neatly combed silver hair clung to his small, wrinkled head, and his hunched body creaked and cracked as it wiggled across the floor. A full, yellow smile beamed out through the darkness beneath a set bright, baby blue eyes. Harrison smiled up at Mr Potter, who no longer looked anything like the cartoon version of himself on the banner outside, but the old man didn’t notice. He just continued to make his way towards the service desk.
When he eventually arrived, Mr Potter looked own on the boy with a hearty grin. He was like a wizard from a fantasy story, eager to assist the weary traveller with a spell or potion to aid them on their quest. In the stories he had read at school, none of these reliable sorcerers had ever failed to help their hero, so Harrison was confident.
“Hello there, young man,” Mr Potter said. “What can I help you with today?” His warm voice was so wonderful that Harrison did not feel nervous at all.
“Hi, Mr Potter. I’m looking for something for school and was wondering if you could help me?” Now, this was what being an adult felt like. Harrison explained what it was that he needed, how big it needed to be and what it ought to look like, and Mr Potter took it all in. With a quick nod, he contemplated what the boy was looking for and took his time with an answer. Harrison watched as the old storekeeper itched his neck and looked to the dark ceiling, as though reviewing the store’s inventory written in the blackness, and then he suddenly came back with an answer.
“Bear with me, lad! I’ll be right back.” Mr Potter waddled out of his corner with the swiftness of a walrus and disappeared into the maze of shelves. Harrison waited patiently for his return, his mind not really worrying too much, his hands reaching into his pocket for the five pound note his father gave him. He was thankful it was still there, despite having made sure of that fact so frequently throughout the day. He pulled it out and examined it in the dim light of the store. The Queen looked back at him in plain splendour, and the edges around her were free of rips or tears that might threaten her eligibility. Harrison examined the note so intently that he didn’t even notice Mr Potter’s return.
“Here,” the old man said, plonking a piece of wood onto the desk and making Harrison jump. It was exactly as the boy imagined: small, smooth all over, and just the right size for his hand. “Is this what you were after?”
“Yes, yes! Thank you, Mr Potter!” Harrison gleamed.
The elderly man laughed. “I’m glad, son, I’m glad. So, it’s for school you say?”
“Yes, for a project.” Harrison appreciated the interest, and Mr Potter truly was a lovely man, but he didn’t want to wander into specifics. “What do I owe you?”
Mr Potter hesitated a moment – the gentle wheezing of his chest the loudest thing in earshot – then looked down. From underneath the desk he pulled out a notebook and began idly flicking through its contents. After a few moments, he stopped on a particular page, analysed the wooden block once more, checked the page again, then closed the notebook. “That’ll be eight pounds please, my lad.”
The geyser of panic erupted immediately. Wicked fright zoomed around Harrison’s body and obliterated the sense of comfort and ease that Mr Potter’s soothing voice had done so well to create. With the five-pound note crumpled in his now trembling hand, Harrison felt stupid.
“Oh, erm. Mr Potter, I only have five.” It sounded utterly pathetic, and Harrison could feel the sweat on his back touching his shirt.
“Oh,” the old man muttered. “Well, I’m afraid it’s eight.”
“Would,” Harrison felt desperate, “would you take five?”
“No, I…I’m afraid I can’t, son.” Mr Potter frowned. “I don’t get too many people coming in here nowadays so I can’t afford to be giving out discounts. This place needs the cash.”
It was a fair enough reason, but logic was not currently legal tender in Harrison’s mind. It was a locked box, and nothing in the world could possibly loosen it open except that bar of wood.
“Do you have a mum or dad that we could call to bring you the extra few quid?” Mr Potter kindly offered. Sweet gestures of help were contraband to such a complicated situation. If one of his parents came to the workshop, Harrison knew that he couldn’t then run over to Wally and give him the bar. They would expect him to go straight home and then to school the next day, and come back with some kind of progress report on his project. That wouldn’t work, that wouldn’t work at all. The only thing that would help was getting it to Wally that evening and getting one step closer to finishing the machine. That way, everything would work itself out. The machine would sort everything. But it was not built yet.
“M-Mr…P…” He couldn’t think of anything. Begging wasn’t going to get him anywhere, and Harrison definitely couldn’t afford anybody else getting involved. Sweat began pouring from his face and arms, and he felt increasingly uncomfortable in the dark store. The heat melted the pleasant memories until they were an unrecognisable gunk. The walls began to close in as if they were suspicious of why this intruder was behaving so strangely. The dark ceiling where Mr Potter had looked for inspiration was now a sea, full of invisible sharks.
The old man watched him patiently, and Harrison wondered whether he noticed the anxiety of his young customer at all. Could he see very well? He seemed to easily read his notebook and navigate his way around the store, but how was he not reacting to the drenched bundle of worry before him? The train of thought seemed utterly pointless at first, but then Harrison considered something.
He looked at the wood, he looked at Mr Potter. He looked at the wood, he looked at Mr Potter. He needed to act. He needed to think of something. He needed the wooden bar. There was no time for a moral assessment.
Harrison snatched the bar of wood from the table and ran towards the door. Everything around him melted into a black goo, and all Harrison could hear was the thumping percussion of his heartbeat in his ears. His body was screaming at him to stop, but he didn’t listen. He pelted his way back down the aisle, past all of the different boxes and trays, and towards the exit. A distant call came from somewhere, most likely Mr Potter, but it was coming from a thousand miles away.
Within a matter of seconds, Harrison was back out in the blistering sunlight and on the other side of the world from that cry. As if by instinct, instead of retreating back into the centre of the town, he found the quickest route out where he was less likely to be stopped. After a few minutes of manic sprinting, he came onto a main road that would eventually bring him back round to the right sight of town where he could then get to Peter’s Wood.
Harrison took a breath then began running again along this way, slipping the bar of wood into his pocket beneath the five-pound note, like a child slipping under bed covers. By the time he neared the path to Peter’s Wood, he was crippled by a ripping stitch in the side of his stomach. It cut deep, ripping him from his hysteria and bringing him rapidly back into the light of logic. The reality of what he had just done shined through and burned.
He replayed what he had done over and over again in order to put it to rest, but it wouldn’t settle in his mind. One second, Harrison was stood in Mr Potter’s Workshop, sweating and on the brink of tears, and the next he was out of the door, fleeing the scene like a true criminal. He had run so fast that he hadn’t even heard what was being shouted at him. Had Mr Potter screamed? Or was it a witness outside? The idea of having done something illegal made him feel sick to the stomach, but all he could think to do was start running again to beat back the lapping thoughts.
He imagined the police knocking on his door. What would his parents say when they knew he had stolen something from an innocent old shop owner? What would his father do when he found out that he had wronged such a reliable friend? Maybe it was the growing exhaustion messing with his vision, but Harrison thought he could see the black and blue bruises already. He forced himself to run faster.
The weather had altered by the time Harrison finally arrived at Peter’s Wood. As he forced himself to jog against the crying pain in his side, he could hear the light tapping of a brewing rain above him. It was not a good week for weather.
The rapid bouncing of droplets on the leaves blended seamlessly with the thudding of Harrison’s feet on the muddy track. For a moment his body felt so numb that it was like he were not moving at all. He and the world were motions of the same brush, and all that stirred was the falling heavens and the brittle greenery trying to catch it all. As Harrison slid down the thin trail and landed before the Wall and its pool, a great big droplet landed right in his eye. It was one irritation too many, and the boy was violently pulled to reality. He squealed like a captured pig.
“Wally! Wally! I have the wooden bar, but you need to help me!”
A brief crinkling noise came from somewhere beyond the waterfall, as if Wally were about to emerge from the shrubbery like a drowsy bear, but then the voice came as normal. “Harrison? What has happened?” The Wall sounded suspicious.
“I have it! I have the wooden bar, but I stole it! I took it and ran because I couldn’t afford it!”
“Were you followed?”
“I don’t…I don’t think so, I—”
“Harrison did you see anyone following you? Did anyone see where you were going?”
“I don’t know! I don’t remember seeing anyone!”
“Go!” the voice commanded with startling power. “Go and make sure that no one is approaching!” Harrison went to speak, flustered by the sudden strictness, but he was not granted permission. “Now!”
The boy ran back up the thin trail and peaked out of the cluttered bush to see if anyone was around. The patter on the green roof was now a consistent block of sound, and Harrison strained to try and hear if anyone was walking up the path from either direction. He saw no one and heard nothing but the rain. That had to be enough.
He dropped back down to Wally. “There’s no one. No one followed me.” But Harrison felt bad. Wally would probably be experimented on and tortured if he was ever discovered, as that was what happened to all of the mysterious creatures and monsters in the films Harrison watched. They were tranquilised, caged, and forced into laboratories against their will. How they would capture Wally was a hard thing to imagine, but Harrison couldn’t run the risk. Plus, it would cost the creation of the machine if Wally was discovered, and that was too high a price. He had risked it all to get the necessary piece, he shouldn’t be so reckless.
“I’m sorry, Wally.”
The voice regained some of its composure. “It is alright, my friend. Did you obtain the piece successfully?”
Harrison held it up. “Yes, but—”
“Place it in the pool, and then tell me your story.”
He stepped forward and lowered himself to his knees but was amazed to find that the pool was empty. The string from the previous day had disappeared, and there was no sign of it ever having been there. Wally really was magic. This was really going to work! The bar fell from the boy’s hand like lead to the bottom, and no assistance from Harrison’s hand was required this time around. It clunked onto the stony bed, and it reminded him of a sunken battleship.
“It’s in,” Harrison said, and he took the ensuing silence as a platform to tell his tale. He spoke quickly. “I got it from Mr Potter’s Workshop in town, I don’t know if you know of it. My dad told me to try there, and he gave me some money but when I got there, Mr Potter told me it cost more than I had. I asked him if I could have it for less and he said no, and I couldn’t think of anything else to do. He’s a lovely old man but he wouldn’t listen, and I could hardly explain. So, I just grabbed it. I grabbed it and ran, and he shouted after me but I didn’t stop. I ran and ran, and I left town and came straight here. I don’t if anyone saw me but…what if they did? What if I get arrested? They won’t believe me if I tell them about you, and they’ll send me to prison! What if they send me to prison?! What am I going to do?!”
As the breath heaved in and out of the boy’s body like a needle sewing together his dread, the Wall remained silent. It was faceless and absent, all while his trusted friend descended into a pit. As a boy, Harrison’s understanding of prison was limited and stereotypical, but it was enough to send him. Spending years in a lonely cell and eating mushy food seemed worse than death, and the idea of taking that option did spring to mind. It’s awful when a child considers taking their own life, but I often scoff at everyone’s dramatic surprise to such a thing occurring. If a child is able to develop a relationship with an inanimate water feature, shouldn’t that tell you something about what their imagination can conceive?
I would laugh, but then I suppose you’d think me twisted. The reality is, Harrison considered everything in those quiet moments, and the scene remained stagnant for a few minutes. The Wall’s connection was always of emotional promise rather than emotional presence, and when it finally spoke, it was as though there had been no pause at all.
“Harrison, my friend, we must act with haste. I don’t know what is going to happen, but if you fear for your freedom, only my machine can guarantee its security. We must complete it tonight, do you understand?”
Hooked like a defenceless fish, the boy had no route but forward. “Will it stop the police from getting me? The machine?”
“Of course, my friend. If you have stolen something from the town centre, it is likely that someone would have seen you, and so only my completed machine can protect you from the dangers that may soon befall you. You spoke before of your father helping you with the acquisition of the wooden bar. Are you and him allies now? If so, I don’t know if I can—”
“No! No, I still want the machine! He only helped me because I lied. I still need it. Please, Wally, what do I need to get?” Harrison could no longer feel the erratic motion of his heart. It was like he was on fire.
“The final piece of the machine, Harrison, is a piece of glass. A long and sharp piece of glass, thin enough at one end to slip into a keyhole.”
“Why?” Harrison asked, abruptly. It wasn’t the latest stage that a child had first asked the Wall why a particular item needed retrieving, but it was a contender. Most of them query the first piece from a sense of natural curiosity and suspicion, but Harrison’s intrigue was delayed, and it grew. The first two things were mystical and beyond comprehension regarding their usefulness together, but glass was different. Glass was dangerous, and it somehow stuck out as strange to him. Strange enough, it seemed, to make him forget who he was talking to.
“Harrison, why must you question me again? We have no time to be wondering about why the piece must be collected. What use is telling you when you have no way of ever comprehending my craftsmanship or the essence of what it is that I am making? You are a boy, Harrison. A boy that I am trying to help, but you must cooperate. You must collect the glass or this isn’t going to work, and you will be left to the mercy of the police and your father. Do you think he will respond calmly when he discovers that you have stolen? Do you think your mother will be able to take the wrath that will soon unfold as a result of your actions? You need my machine before that happens, and that is only possible if you listen to me and do as I say. Do you—”
“Yes! Yes! I will get the glass,” Harrison blurted. “Where, though? Where do I get glass?!”
“Anywhere, Harrison! Anywhere you can! But I must have it by tonight. Find it as quick as you can and return to me before the sun sets.”
Harrison had no idea what time it was, but the sun would only be up for another few hours at the very most. He needed to act fast.
“Okay!” he shouted, but before he charged into the shrubbery and into the upside-down world, something else fell out from his mouth. As he spoke, he stared straight into what he imagined to be the soul of the waterfall, imagining there to be an all-seeing eye just beyond its aquatic veil. “Will it save me? Wally, will your machine actually save me?”
The splashing of the waterfall’s constant collision with the pool below seemed to be all that would answer at first, but then Wally spoke to his friend with sincerity and poise. It was as honest as he had ever been to Harrison. He told him the truth.
“Tomorrow, my friend, this will all be over.”
The Glass
To his terror, Harrison had been right about the impending speed of sundown. As he tumbled from the cover of Peter’s Wood and desperately tried to think of where he was going to get a piece of long, thin glass, the sky had already turned a luscious violet. Darkness was on its way.
Without much expertise to fall back on, being so young, Harrison scrambled for a place to begin his search. I forget sometimes how young these people are, the children that stumble across the Wall and engage with it. They are barely capable of walking into a shop and counting out the right amount of change to buy something, and yet it is as though the Wall’s words age them, making them its equal. It is fascinating, even for me after all this time. And yet, they are not its equal. To be equal, the Wall and its visitors would need to share a sense of compromise, to alternate between victor and loser, but this is never the case.
Harrison’s first thought was to return to the town centre, but the obvious negatives of that quickly kicked in. The shopfronts were all likely closed (not that any of them sold glass, anyway), and all of their owners would be on the lookout for the notorious workshop thief prowling the night streets. Harrison imagined how fast the truth might have spread over the past hour or so. Would his parents know yet? Not likely, but they soon would, and then only the Wall would be able to save him. He needed to clasp every second available in order to get the machine completed and ready for use – whatever that meant, anyway – but where could he go?
He thought hard, harder than he had ever considered anything before. It felt impossible with so little time and so few options. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack when you don’t even know if there is definitely one in there. He could look but he wouldn’t necessarily find. He felt doomed.
But as he wandered the suburban streets surrounding Peter’s Wood, edging ever closer to the outskirts of the town under the blind pilot of his occupied brain, a memory came. It was faint and unfamiliar, but it was a memory all the same, and something about it stuck out from the rest with a helping arm extended. Like a book left slightly out of line on a bookshelf, it was noticeable and enticing. It told Harrison that it could help, and he tried to focus on it.
He was only two years younger in the memory, yet it felt like an eternity ago. The reason why it stuck out in his mind was clear as soon as Harrison let the events replay, but he chose not to dwell.
In the memory, he was beside his father, holding his hand pleasantly enough, and standing in a queue for something. Looking back, he knew it was for a grilled sandwich from Dingbat Baguettes – a small, lone-standing store on the very edge of a suburban field – but at the time Harrison was oblivious, caring only for the delightful view of the surrounding scenery. There weren’t many families around on that summer eve, many of them having already gone home after a warm afternoon of sunbathing and games, and so the wide stretches of green were open for the young boy’s eyes to enjoy. Harrison looked back and away from the small little outhouse where the food was served, moving only when he felt the anchoring tug of his father’s hand pulling him closer to it. Those larger hands had not yet administered physical punishment, but on the backend of that one summer afternoon, waiting for a cold can and pepperoni pizza roll, all of that would change. And it was all because of that luxurious field.
“Come on, Harrison. Stop pulling me,” Rodney said as they neared the front of the queue. Only one other customer stood between him and the window. Sitting around in the sun was one thing all by itself, but having to entertain his son in the blistering heat had taken it out of him. Sylvia was at home, overcome by the humidity of the day, so Rodney had been a solo act that afternoon. All he wanted now was a beer for himself and some food to occupy his son when they got home. That was all, but it was dragging on.
“But Daddy, the grass is so nice,” Harrison replied, pulling his father’s hand gently. “I want to run around in it.” The heat had done nothing to diminish the boy’s energy, and even as the sun began to make its way to the other side of the world, he still felt like a fully-fuelled jet ski, ready to rip around the gentle waves and go as far out into the green sea as possible.
But Rodney was stern. “I think you’ve ran around quite enough today, don’t you think? Come on, the faster we get this grub, the sooner we can go home.” The temperature had waned a little bit from its mid-afternoon peak, but there was still no escaping the incessant clinginess of the air. Britain might be miserable all year round, but when it got hot, it found all new ways to get under your skin. God save the Queen, Rodney thought.
The thought of going home was not as appealing as what lay before the young boy. “But Daddy, I want to run around!”
“No,” Rodney said again. He tightened his grip and pulled his son forward once more, this time with enough force to turn his small body. The motion parted the rancid film of sweat that had developed under Rodney’s armpit, and the new coolness of his skin made him feel disgusting and in desperate need of a shower. Didn’t he used to spend afternoon like this working on the car? The sun’s hesitation to leave had been a blessing those days, and the irritating body pulling him back towards the field had been a pleasant extra pair of hands. Upgrading to an electric car had seemed like such a good idea when Sylvia had suggested it, but now Rodney was starting to think it was the worst thing he had ever agreed to. He was getting more annoyed now at the relentless tugging of his hand, but the thought of the cool sofa and the sweet metallic kiss of a beer can went a long way in keeping a lid on his pot. It also made him forget about the car. He wouldn’t need to be here much longer. All he needed to do was--
Harrison jolted towards the field and pulled again, catching his father off guard. It almost knocked Rodney off balance, yanking him a few inches further away from the small sandwich shop, and it proved too much for his temper to tolerate. In a jerk reaction, he squeezed the boy’s hand harder than he had done before and hauled him back into position, but this time he did not have complete control over his son’s weight. His small frame flew forward and barged into the man ahead of them in the queue, slamming him into the wall of Dingbat Baguettes. The man dropped to the floor in a loud crash, and Rodney heard the faint whispered jingle of glass under the man’s groan. The sliding window beside the startled employee’s face was smashed.
The man’s head – who Rodney now saw belonged to a large, frightening bearded fellow – had crunched against it. Glass shards fell like snowflakes from the pane, and blood dripped from the man’s forehead, as if they were both falling from the same cloud. Rodney did not notice the symmetry. All he saw was an angry man regaining his awareness and rising to an immense height before him. Bulging muscles covered his long arms and there were cuts on his knuckles. The Terminator doppelganger stood up straight, inhaled deeply through his nostril, and bore his gaze down onto the unlucky son of a bitch that had pushed him. The breath of the towering colossus stunk like the Friday night pub.
“I am so sorry, mate. Really, I am. My son was pulling me, and I just tried to get him to stop and I—”
The man’s right fist felt like a bullet train as flung across Rodney’s face. He fell to the floor and collapsed onto the grass, unable to hold his composure under such a heavy hit. The world spun but he had no time to find his feet as his stumbling attacker instantly came forth with more fury.
“I’ll fucking have you if you want, mate!” He hadn’t seemed so drunk from behind. “Fucking…twat…”
The man grabbed Rodney by the shoulders and hoisted him up as though he weighed nothing at all. Then, with mindless effort but incredible strength, he shoved his feeble victim to the wall and sent a barrage of kicks and punches to his gut. Rodney could do nothing but shimmy and tense his stomach, helplessly suspended by his attacker’s iron arms. After a few minutes of relentless pummelling, the drunken man ceased his onslaught and threw Rodney into the window, except this time it caused more than just a trickle of glass. His head flew through the pane as though it were not even there, and its entire glass body came flying out of the frame. Harrison jumped back; the employee inside of the shop screamed.
With Rodney on the ground, the man walked away, ignoring Harrison. He stumbled straight into the wide-open field and towards the suburban homes where he presumably resided. He seemed to have forgotten that he was hungry. Meanwhile, Rodney did his best to pick himself back up. The ripping pain in his face and body was insurmountable, and all he could do for a few minutes was lie still and breathe in his bed of glass. Lines of red ran like streams across his face, but they didn’t seem to flow in vast amounts. The glass cuts were numerous but shallow, and Rodney eventually got to his feet without paying them any mind. He was only concerned about one thing.
Throughout the fight, Harrison had done nothing but watch. Entranced by the confusing conflict, he had stood still and tried to comprehend what was happening to his father. What he did not understand was that it was his fault that it had happened. That fact was quickly addressed.
Rodney smacked Harrison in the face and grabbed him by the neck like he was an infant pup. He didn’t care if anyone was watching or if the employee was still peering nosily out of the serving window. His brain was no longer a complex, multi-faceted machine considering multiple things at once. It was now a red block, utterly rigid and cemented in rage. His son squealed and asked to be let go, but Rodney refused to pay even a shred of notice. He stared straight ahead towards the housing estate and dragged his son’s body by whatever piece of skin his fingers could keep a hold of. His neck, his ear, his hair. The boy’s screams were muffled and benign. All that Harrison could understand as he was being pulled away from the sandwich shop was what he could see. He no longer looked out to the field of green. All his father’s careless hold would allow his head to see was the shop window and the ocean of glass below it. The sun caught the shards and crystals, and the blood flooding to the boy’s head made it all seem like water; the longer pieces jutting up like rising waves amid a raging tempest. That was all he could see as he struggled to get free, and it lingered so prominently in his mind because that was the last thing he saw before his father stopped walking.
About halfway through the field, Rodney spun around, leaned forward, and screamed into the watered-down colour of his son’s eyes. The world changed in that moment.
“You will never misbehave like that again! You will listen to me in future and do things as and when you are told! Do you understand me, Harrison?!” He slapped his son again. “Do you?! I could have died, you idiotic boy! I could have been killed because of your fucking silliness!”
A few more quick hits landed on Harrison’s cheeks, and he could do nothing but cry. To get his boy up, Rodney kicked at his legs. Light and snappy, they were like electric shocks. The dragging then resumed and the illusion of the glass ocean was replaced by the smudge of real water. There they remained, the shards, behind the veil of tears.
Rodney Little had never hurt his son in the same way as he did on that diminishing summer day, but it did not matter. Each metre of grass covered as he hauled his son by the earlobe was imprinted into Harrison’s mind. Every slap to the face was another comma in a long list of shame. Merely remembering that day pulled him from the streets around him and forced him into a dark and dingey crevice of his mind. Every time he thought about it, he wanted to crawl into the darkest cave in the world and wait to die.
But Harrison fought against that urge this time. He hadn’t gone back to wallow or cry or bathe in the remnants of the worst day of his life. He had done it for a purpose, an all-important reason.
He pictured the glass. The glass that had always been nothing but a reminder of suffering, dancing playfully upon the stage of his dreams. But it represented something else now. It marked the finish line.
It took a while for Harrison to get to the particular field he remembered. The streets were dark and indiscernible from one another with only the light of the sparse lampposts to work with. Eventually, however, he managed to sift through the cul-de-sacs and alleys, aided largely by the very memories that he always considered a scar, and arrived at the shore of the field.
The green he remembered was drearily tinged by the lowering sun, and now looked a measly grey. The temperate green sea was now a boggy swamp, dull and dangerous. This was saddening but ultimately terrifying – changing shades meant that time was running out. Out in that darkening space was the outline of Dingbat Baguettes, lying in the centre of the field like a beached whale waiting to die. The sun looked like it was fleeing rather than setting, desperate to get away from this place.
An apocalyptic dye was spilt, and it set almost immediately over the world. Colours became cruel, and the whale in the distance was seconds from crumbling into a haggard, useless skeleton of black. Harrison sprinted towards that block of darker space like it was an oasis in the Sahara. He had to get there before he couldn’t see anything.
The ground below him was hard and flickers of fatigue were creeping into his legs, but Harrison ran anyway. There was nothing on this planet worth stopping for. Above him – Harrison looked up to distract his mind from the heavying sensation of tiredness – the sky was dulling evermore. There was only so much juice left in the day, but by the end of it everything would be okay. Harrison almost felt happy, thinking about where he was and where he would soon be. This field, this area of grass, this minute expanse of the Earth, it was where his life had tectonically shifted. But by the time the sun had retreated beyond the horizon and the moon had clocked in for its watch, the world would be anew. Harrison’s entire life would click back into place, and everything would be fine. Wally and his machine would fix everything.
I sometimes wonder whether I should have intervened at this point. Events are still unravelling I know, but may I take a moment? I’m just considering how many times I have to watch the same thing happen before I think I ought to step in and do something about it. Don’t misunderstand me, I am no moral being, nor do I aspire to live within such frameworks of dirt and mud. I merely ask myself from time to time whether I should step in at this part of the tale and show my hand. Play the game, so to say, rather than being the observant dealer. Every child reaches this peak of wonder and power, and they all fall, each in their way, so I suppose that is worth watching.
But could I prod the situation, divert just a single child’s path, and send them to a different fate? It is a conundrum for me. You may think me deranged in a way, unwilling to derail the course of things when I know the exacts of their conclusion, but that isn’t true. Patterns are not laws. Cycles can stop; but then, am I the thing required to stop them? I am unsure.
Harrison is a child, like Michael, Courtney, Alicia, James, Ronald, and Jessica were all children. To this point, he has followed an almost identical path to his predecessors, excusing the details, of course, but they are merely colours filling in the same lines and borders. When it is not the abusive father, it is the antagonising sister, the untrusting mother, the thieving friend. They all have their motivations, and each follow them like donkey chasing carrots; but I assure you, it is not I that wields the stick. They meet the Wall, as it insists on being called, and it promises things to them all. They follow its guidance, ‘collecting’ or ‘performing’ whatever it is that it ‘requires’. Then again, maybe that is my fault. Each child goes forth doing the Wall’s bidding, and they all climb the very same summit, staring up into the sky or thinking beyond the present, certain of victory. They look me in the eye as I remain quiet, and I ponder whether to play the game or simply keep watching. You may plead to my conscience, but what am I to do? The chips are always stacked against me, and to interfere is to risk toppling the stack and making a mess.
Anyway, we are going off track, and I have told you this too many times before. Does that make me a pattern? I keep telling the same story to the same people, reminding them of the same facts and having the same debates. I suppose that does put in good stead to be considered a cycle myself, but alas. It’s certainly one to ponder.
Anyway, I shall continue.
Harrison approached the beginning of his decline almost seconds after he had graced his peak. It’s horribly funny that way. The heavenly ceiling was met and passed, and then the features of the sandwich outhouse’s opaque silhouette began to manifest before him. Its shape was the same as he recalled, as well as its overall structure. It was a block in the middle of the field with a serving window on its front. A large wooden board sat at the top where the Dingbat Baguettes sign had hung wide and proud.
But as Harrison drew closer, the mirage of the past fell away as though nothing but a thin cloth, and the present that lay beneath was disturbingly different. Where the face of the beloved shop had been, bearing its bright font and recognisable name, there was nothing but a bare skeleton. A plain wooden board sat exposed, selling nothing and attracting no one. The menu that Harrison recalled beside the serving desk was gone too, revealing the crude and tasteless brick that sat behind it. Holes where the nails had pinned it up were still visible, remnants of the treasure that had once been here. The most horrifying sight was the serving window which, despite the seemingly decrepit state of the rest of the small building, had been repaired. A fresh set of panes were fitted within the static and sliding frames, and the glass pile that had been there for so long was gone. The ocean had dried up at long last.
How was this possible? Harrison was a young boy, barely familiar with John Steinbeck and covalent bonding, but even he could see the inconsistency here. The building was abandoned, lacking any form of character or future enterprise, yet the window was fixed. Why? Granted, he hadn’t been there for a few months – having only passed it in the case of visiting a friend from this area or using the neighbouring grassland for football – but how had it been addressed and fixed so recently? It seemed uncanny. Unbelievable, even. But as much as he despised the curve ball, it had happened, and Harrison had to do something. The sky was blackening, and the wind was getting colder and colder with every breathe of the approaching night. The hunting moon would find him soon, so he had to think.
Then the worst happened.
“Harrison? Harrison, are you here?”
The boy froze. A woman was shouting from the streets behind him but, as he turned in the near darkness, there was no one in sight. The island of light beneath the distant lamppost was empty, revealing nothing but the pavement and curb beneath it.
Harrison thought he recognised the voice, but he was too alarmed to consider who it could be. It was so distant, and he had to hurry. His head shot to the glass. The batting waves of panic harassed him, but he put all of his conscious effort into repelling their pull and thinking rationally. What could he do? What could he try? Then he was interrupted again by the woman’s calling, this time joined by a deeper and louder set of vocals.
“Harrison!” his mother and father called together. It was an unmistakeable harmony. Before long, he could see their small bodies rising out of the sea of black and stepping into the lamppost light. There was no stopping the panic now.
How did they know he was here? There was no way this could be happening. Harrison squinted his eyes as they drew closer under the dome of yellow light, and it became ever clearer that the tiny figures were his parents. The taller figure trudged mercilessly closer from the street, unfazed by the world of black before it. Behind, a pair of huge, square glasses glistened beneath the streetlight.
Mum.
Harrison rapidly assessed what lay around him. A stick, scattered litter, a rock. He grabbed the rock and did the only thing he could think of that would help him in getting some glass. Without any further consideration, he threw the rock as hard as he possibly could at the window, causing it to shatter and split into a thousand pieces. Between the calls of his name, like small marks of punctuation, he could hear the twinkling sound of falling glass.
Although he couldn’t see very well in the swelling darkness, Harrison thought about where the pool of glass had gathered before and approached. He closed his eyes (although there was little point in such blackness) and he saw the blazing brightness of that summer day, the tall drunk ahead of him in the queue, the window.
Startled muttering slithered through the night, and Harrison quickly knelt down to where he thought the pile would be and began assessing the individual fragments he had created. Most of it was useless grains of the former pane, but his blind hands knew something more significant sat amongst the rubble. It was like he was feeling a variety of rocks from another planet, each a different size and composition, trying to figure out what alien characteristics they possessed.
The sound of feet hitting the hard grass rose behind him and the incessant repetition of Harrison’s name began to feel like it was coming from the world’s most annoying alarm clock. He wanted to smash it to pieces, but instead his hands moved faster to feel out his prize.
Ouch! Damn! Ow!
The material fought back like a miniature army, scratching and pricking Harrison’s smooth fingertips, but he couldn’t stop. He might have been bleeding, he had no way of telling, but he needed that glass. The approaching footsteps and retreating sun demanded he quicken his pace.
At long last he found a piece. He held it carefully in his stinging hands, trying to judge what it looked like without cutting one of his fingers off. It was long enough, as best as he could tell, and there was no denying it was sharp. There was no way of knowing whether there were any compromising cracks or whether the shape was adequate for its unknown purpose. That would have been impossible to deduce even if it wasn’t dark, so Harrison quit trying.
Gently trying to avoid snapping it in his grasp, he stood up, but couldn’t run away. Before he could even entertain an escape, his father was grabbing his shoulders and spinning him around to face him. The glass tumbled to the ground and clattered a few yards into the dull evening light, lost.
“No!” Harrison screamed.
“Harrison! Harrison, stop! What is going on?!”
Sylvia caught up to her husband and cried out in heavy, gasping breathes. “Harri! Oh my god, thank the Lord you are okay! Why are you out here? We’ve been worried sick!”
But Harrison didn’t hear a word. He shook off his father’s grip and plunged into the dark. He scanned the ground with his feeling hands, praying that a sharp point or edge met him, but nothing did. Instead, he felt the arm of his father wrap around his stomach and rip him from the ground.
“Be careful, Rod,” Sylvia whimpered. “Oh, Harrison, thank God you’re okay!” She was delirious with relief, but I can assure you, God was not listening.
“Easy, Harrison. Easy!” Rodney tried his best to walk back towards the light of the street but his son’s manic kicking was proving too much to handle. It was like trying to control a lit firework in a bottle, and it quickly got out of hand. “Harrison! Please will you—”
The heel of the boy’s right foot met Rodney’s teeth with immense power, and he let out a blunt cry of pain. The strike caught him off guard, largely thanks to the low light, and he stumbled to a stop.
Not even realising (or caring about) what he had done, Harrison quickly looked to take advantage. He began rapidly kicking again and shaking his entire body like a terrified fish. Rodney dropped him, and Harrison sprinted back to where he thought the glass was as soon as his feet hit the grass. As he searched, his father regained his balance and began drawing nearer again.
“For God sake, Harrison! What the hell was that?!”
“Rodney, please!”
“He’s just kicked me in the face, Sylvia! What am I supposed to do? This has gone on long enough!” The hurt bled from his words and complicated his rage. His steps were now multipurposed, no longer taken with mere irritation at his son’s careless galivanting, but with a blend of that and fiery revenge. Harrison’s belligerence would go on no longer.
Rodney stomped towards his son’s silhouette but soon lost him in the confusing shadows. The whispers of the grass gave him a loose indication as to where to look, but his aging eyes were struggling to determine the boy’s body from the rest of the colourless world. He thought he found him again but stepped into empty space. He was the bull, the taunting darkness his infuriating matador.
“Harrison! Come here now!”
He got no reply.
A few metres away from his growling father, Harrison felt like he was getting close. Rather than a harrowing pedal on the pressure, he used the shouting and screaming as a twisted incentive which electrified his body and quickened his hands. The old man could keep hollering and crying like a little girl all he wanted. Once Harrison found this piece of glass, he was going to be free of his aggressive and hurtful brute of a dad and the pain would finally be over. This glass would be the key to a tranquil life, free from the bruises, cuts and grazes of that animal.
Under the powerful percussion of his father’s booming voice was the gentle weeping of his mother, but that also added to Harrison’s thrill. Fear not, mum. This glass was going to save everyone, and these tears will be your last. Wait and you’ll see! Once this glass is found, then you’ll see!
Harrison’s hand hit a spiked blade and instantly knew what he had found. He picked up the glass and tucked it gently between his body and arm as to not cut himself. There was no time to delicately assess its body this time, and Harrison knew there was nothing to do but run. As he set off, he heard his father speak from a few feet in front of him. By now, the field was almost pitch black.
“Harrison, are you there? Harrison, please stop this. Your mother, she’s…this isn’t right, son.”
The boy paused before his father’s words. He had been lectured by his father more times than he could remember in his short but troubled life. They were angry, demeaning speeches, often accompanied by a firm hand on his small shoulder or a set of blazing eyes positioned directly in front of his own tearful pair. The display was also often followed by an encore of quick hurt, depending on the scale of his father’s displease. It could range from a sharp smack on the bottom to a push into a wall or chair if he was truly furious, just like on that horrible day on the field.
But the words Harrison heard now were different. They did not fire from the cannon of his father’s mouth and fly at dangerous speed, nor was their content vulgar and cripplingly patronising. It was like someone had swapped the pistol for the crop hose, and now Rodney’s speech was gliding over and setting into his son’s head, planting seeds. It held a confusing tone, but Harrison resisted as best he could.
“Listen, son,” Rodney said. “I don’t know what this is about, but me and your mother just want you to come home. We…we can talk about whatever it is that’s the matter. I promise.”
Harrison’s nerve swayed. Never (and I can confirm this one) had his father offered to talk like this. It was a trick, a vicious enticement to get him back into his clutches, but then Harrison felt his grip of the glass shard loosen. The words were slipping into his ears and manoeuvring their way south, unlocking his body’s aches and tensions like a warm, paternal key. His dad was finally offering the hand he had always been denied, and somewhere in the darkness it was being extended physically. Muscles relaxed, and the flower of Harrison’s palm threatened to blossom.
If the world was frozen at this point in time, the relationship between Harrison and his father may have found the material to rebuild, to grow. The seed could have taken to the soil of the boy’s mind, and upon the next rise of the sun it could have been nurtured to health. A bond might have sprung, reaching higher and rooting deeper with every passing day of conversation and quality time. They may have discovered that they both missed the car and the spiritual gravity of those weekend afternoons. Maybe they would have bought a new car – not electric, of course – and got to work, sharing the labour this time around. A new master and apprentice; teaching and learning long into Harrison’s teen years, rolling so far from their troubled past that it was no longer visible in the rear-view mirror. Working on his own car – an adult by then, his father grey but as enthusiastic as ever – Harrison might have even told him all about the Wall and its promise, and they might have laughed together, embraced, and shared a tear over their regrets. Whether it was right or just a fantasy, the runway to salvation was ready and waiting for them.
But alas, as you and I both know, time waits for no one.
The next second changed everything.
Sylvia shouted from somewhere in the near distance, “Harrison, we love you, come back! Please, Harri, come on. Come back, please, come back!”
“Shut the fuck up, Sylvia!” Rodney screamed. “I am handling this!”
“Don’t shout at her!” Harrison screamed in return. He charged at his father and punched him in the only place he knew would generate enough pain to cripple his movement. His fist flew straight into his father’s groin, and he heard the violent exhalation of air as the large body keeled over. But Harrison didn’t stop running after that. Tumbling faster and faster into the black, he ignored his mother’s screaming and thought of nothing but the feeling of the glass in his hand and the lamppost in the distance.
Harrison ran as fast as he could, and he didn’t look back when he eventually came to the lamppost and its island. The Wall was a vast and trying voyage away, and Harrison was already late. Very, very late.
The Machine
The green of the shrubbery drained into ubiquitous black as evening slipped into night. It had not been a dry week by any means when Harrison had discovered the Wall, but that did not stop the evening of their final encounter from unleashing a downpour that even the roof of Peter’s Wood could not fight against. None of the mortals below could see the clustering clouds as they formed into shadowy blocks in the sky, but it did not take long for them to hear their snarls. The thunder began to crack as Harrison navigated the main roads, and by the time he arrived at Peter’s Wood, the artillery had begun its viscous barrage.
The floor beneath the usually solid canopy of the forest was damp and muddy as the boy trudged along the path, and the dark leaves around him danced under the machine gun fire of rain droplets. Puddles were wide and countless, and the whipping wind slithered through the trees in an unrelenting surge. Still, Harrison fought on to run and jump over the obstacles before him. Water was everywhere, delaying from below and battering from above, but he eventually arrived at the right area of shrubbery and wasted no time in diving between its bushes. The sound of the waterfall was muted by the falling heavens, but Harrison was now confident in its whereabouts. At this stage, all of them were.
The hop down onto the neatly trimmed lawn was calculated and slow. The glass still hugged Harrison’s side and, despite how late he was, he didn’t want to end up puncturing an organ with its sharp edge. He got one foot steadily placed before he leapt down, and when he had both securely set, he pulled the glass out.
Unlike the previous times he had visited Wally, Harrison could barely see anything. The only source of light was a single sword of moonlight that cut through the green ceiling and illuminated the very base of the waterfall. Harrison hadn’t noticed the hole above him until now but, then again, why would he? He had never been here at night. It was like someone had cut it just for this occasion, and it worked a treat.
The dull line twinkled on the still pool at the foot of the tumbling water and brightened the edges of its cascading flow. It was enough for Harrison to get his bearings, and it somehow made it all feel even more surreal than usual. The world outside was pitch black and consumed with the storm, but here, even though the rain still forced its way through, at least he could see it. He existed in a protected pocket of the world, constituting its own universe of time and space. #
Harrison was grateful, for this was probably exactly what the Wall could do. With its power, it could change the world around it and create whatever it deemed necessary. He felt excited as he looked down at the glass in his hand, which now shone under the low light. He could not quite see his reflection, but that was ultimately a good thing. Children at this point should never see themselves. It would destroy them. Harrison’s eyes were bloodshot and raw around the edges, and the rest of his body was a murky affair. Dirt covered his school trousers, and muddy handprints decorated the points where his father had tried to seize him. On his hands, dry brown had fused with the hellish red of his own blood, sourced from the cuts he endured as he had searched for the glass. They were dead man hands, and like I say, if he had seen them himself, Harrison would have thought they belonged to a corpse.
“Wally!” he shouted. His voice croaked and fell flat in the busy air. The rain riddled the ground and leaves, and it was like the entire forest was chanting. The choir rose and rose in volume, but the boy fought to make himself heard. “Wally! Wally!”
A pair of birds snapped from a nearby branch. The distant thud of thunder broke from above the canopy like a giant knocking on the forest roof, demanding to be let in. Harrison thought of his father. Would his parents have tried to follow him, or would they now be at home, reporting their missing son to the police? Either way, someone must be coming.
The excitement in Harrison’s bones became contaminated with the familiar zing of fear. He screamed again, forcing all of his breathe into a long, stretching bellow, but still nothing responded. He recalled the difficulty of getting the Wall to respond on the other visits, but he was now in no mood for theatrics. Every wasted second was a cluster of steps taken towards him by those out looking for him. His mum, his dad, the police maybe.
But what if it wasn’t a game? He had been expected by sundown, so what if Wally had left, transported himself to another part of the world and given up on him? This really got him worried, and Harrison quickly started making his way towards the waterfall, begging for some recognition. His free palm slapped the stone face as his voice punched its way through the relentless downpour. He pleaded with the Wall, with anything that was out there, to help him. He needed the Wall. He was running out of time.
“It’s me, Harrison!” the boy screamed. That was his final throw of the dice. A sharp rustling of leaves came from behind him, but he shrugged it off as the pushing and shoving of the storm. The previously still ceiling was now beginning to sway, and the shrubbery to his sides was cracking and crunching with the heavy raindrops. Thunder boomed far away once more, and a small animal of some kind scurried along the ground.
When the voice finally came, Harrison thought he might cry.
“Harrison?” the Wall said. The boy placed his hand on the rock.
“Yes! Yes, Wally! It’s me!” He spat the rain from his lips, and drops began rolling down his forehead. It was really breaking through the treeline now. “I have the glass! It’s what you asked for, but I’m really going to need the machine now! I hit my dad, and I’m going to be in a lot of trouble when I go home! Wally! Wally, what do I do? Do you need it in the water? Wally! Wally!”
The voice spoke as calmly as it could whilst still managing to break through the competing noise. “Yes! Yes! Place it in my pool, Harrison!”
The boy quickly turned and bent down, slipping the glass into the water. Tiny geysers of water cluttered the pool’s surface as the rain droplets plonked into it, but the glass sliced amongst them as if it were not even solid. Once underneath, it sat and blended into invisibility, and Harrison quickly lost sight of it in the dark liquid.
“It’s in! It’s in!”
The voice boomed, and Wally sounded different. More alive. “Can you feel it, Harrison? My friend, can you sense what is happening?” Lightning flashed beyond the small hole in the leaves, and Harrison felt his spirit rise. This was magic. Actual, real-life magic. He cheered and the voice spoke again. “Harrison, my friend. I must ask you to leave me for a moment. I must now craft the machine!”
“Leave?” The uplift ceased. “Why do I need to leave?”
“Do you not see, my friend? I must craft the machine! I cannot do it before you, for I do not wish for any harm to come to you. Trust me on this, Harrison. It will take just a few moments. That’s all.”
The boy acquiesced. “Alright, well…where am I supposed to go?”
“Just step away a moment. To the path, perhaps. I will call you when it is finished, and then the world shall be yours!”
Harrison did as he was told and trudged up the slippery trail, cautiously popping out onto the path. No one was in sight, although he couldn’t see much at all now in the darkness. He leant up against a nearby tree and waited, as though at a bus stop waiting for the morning commute. He trained his eyes to look forward and away from the Wall’s construction, busying his mind with keeping watch. If someone were to come strolling up the path, either searching for him or completely unaware, he would need to hide. It was pitch black and the air was getting colder, so if someone found a young boy just lingering in the woods out in the rain, they might have some questions.
With his eyes switching between all the possible sight lines, Harrison felt proud of himself. It was a clever consideration in such an immense moment, and as he scanned the black for any anomalous outlines, he felt like a grown up. The world was gloomy and wet, and yet here he was, standing alone, looking after himself. No silent angel or watchful guardian looked over him. All that surrounded was the pantheon of oaks, stoically minding their own business. Their branched hands waved in the brisk waves of the wind as though batting away evil spirits, but that was all in the boy’s head. When the storm passed and the winds simmered into uninteresting breezes, the gentle motion would stop, yet the evil would remain.
“Harrison!”
He sprung to his feet and darted down the trail. As he dropped onto the lawn for the final time, Harrison looked around and assessed what had changed in his absence, and he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. There was no majestic chariot waiting to take him away or glowing sword sticking out of the ground. His analysis deemed the neat lawn and the falling water to be perfectly identical to its former state.
“Wally, wh-where is the machine?” The tumbling water roared as the rain above eased. It was still thumping all around him, but its wild strength had diminished, and it had a strange effect on the scene at play. The tamed downpour lured Harrison’s attention to the cold which had snook its way into the world. He could now see the clouds breathe gliding into the night from his agape mouth, and the hairs on his arms now resembled the army of trees around him.
“The machine,” the Wall said, “is right in front of you. Look into my pool and you shall see it.” The voice was serene in its composure, casting that familiar bubble of protection around its young visitor, though its film was a little thinner this time. It was as though the Wall were unaware of the rain, the wind, the cold, the pressure of the moment, the significance of Harrison’s situation. Either it did not care, or it was nestled comfortably within its own confidence in the machine’s efficiency, and so felt no need to consider such irrelevant variables. I know which one it was, but I shall leave that for you to discover. It will not be long now.
Harrison approached the pool, squinting to decipher what the object was that lay beneath the surface. The pale moonlight strip met the twinkling ripples but dove no deeper, and the boy quickly realised that he would have to put his hand in to grab it. Invisible frost clutched his quivering fingers as he lowered them towards the pool. It felt like an electric shock as the tips graced the surface. It instantly became clear to him that speed was the best option, so he quickly thrust his hand downwards.
He felt the handle of the machine immediately. It was oddly familiar, like Harrison had somehow held it before. Without focussing on its texture and shape for too long, he ripped the machine out from the water and held it out before him as the freezing water dripping from his shaking hand. Sharp, drastic breathes rushed in and out of Harrison’s mouth, but he soon found it impossible to stand still. The machine was relegated to an afterthought as he frantically wafted the water from his arm and tucked it into his body in an attempt to dry it. But once he had finished, a feeling of disdain clogged his mind. What he held made no sense to his erratic, shaking body.
The reason for the handle’s recognisable texture was obvious from the second the thin strip of moonlight struck its wet surface. It was the wooden bar. Harrison couldn’t believe his eyes at first, but it was definitely the same piece of wood that he had supplied to the Wall. It was the same shape and felt just as heavy, but there was one thing different. Around the top half of its body, a thin piece of string was wrapped and tied tight. Was this the same string that he had asked his mum for? He wasn’t one hundred percent sure, as he couldn’t deduce its length in the poor light, but it would make sense. Same wood, same string, same…
“Wally, I don’t…” Harrison’s voice fell away. He didn’t understand. The string was wound so tightly around the top of the wooden bar that it secured within it a long, sharp material. Some of this mysterious component lay beneath the string as to secure it, but the rest stuck out, fixed in place.
The boy wanted to punch and scream at his inability to see what he held in his hand. He focused and stared, but to no avail. In a frustrated and thoughtless bid to find out, Harrison placed his hand onto the material and slid it gently down its spine, and that proved to be enough. A flash of pain sizzled his skin and he instantly pulled away. It was the glass!
“Wally, it’s—”
“Yes, Harrison!” the voice bellowed. “I have used your bravely collected pieces to assemble a device that will answer all of your sorrowful woes and desires! Your quest has been arduous and strained, and yet here we stand. You have your reward, and you shall soon have your prize. Can you feel its power? Do you sense what you are to do with it?”
“No, I…” The segments of the device were like old friends, strangely alien despite their identifiable appearance. Harrison felt stupid. “Wally, I don’t understand!”
The voice’s words surged with emphatic volume, and all competition with the storm was obliterated. Now the voice and Mother Nature joined forces and unleashed a coalition of bombarding noise and vibration that rose to the forest roof and thundered back down again. The wind flew and the voice’s words rode it like a berserk warrior into battle, unstoppable and engulfed in red mist.
“Harrison, you fool! Do you not wish for your father to cease his demonic reign of violence and selfishness!”
The wind picked up and Harrison felt like he was going to be whisked up and suddenly flung into the waterfall.
“Do you not want to save your mother from the inevitable, reoccurring bruise of your father’s hand!”
A thud of thunder smacked the black sky above.
“You say you don’t understand, but Harrison…I think you do!”
The boy looked down at what lay in his hands, the offensive wind advancing in long, aggressive strides against his face. The rain flooded down as if dropped from a divine bucket.
“Harrison, you need to take this machine and plunge it into your father’s heart! Kill him! Kill him, Harrison, and rid your life of vile, vile ways! Kill him! Kill him! Kill him!”
The plug was pulled, and the world began to swirl. Harrison stepped back, disorientated and lost. It was collapsing, all of it, and the lightless depth of the sky was suddenly around him, hugging his shoulders and legs, smothering him. A cloud passed over the moon, and the beam of light was snapped.
“Wally, I…I can’t do that!” The muscles in Harrison’s face contracted and his eyes threatened tears.
“But you must!” the Wall bellowed. “It is the only way; it is what we have been working towards!”
The flimsy assemblance of scrap material felt pathetic in Harrison’s small hand, yet unforgivingly heavy at the same time.
“But I can’t kill him! I…Wally, I thought this was magic! Real magic! I…”
The tears came now, and the boy’s lips began to shudder in the wailing storm. The rolling droplets left lines of ice down his cheeks. “You said this was magic!”
“Oh, but it is, Harrison! Can’t you see? Puncturing the heart of that rancid devil of a man and watching the blood trickle from the wound will do things that no wand or genie ever could. Plunge it and twist it, right above the solar plexus, and see the life drain from his body with passing second. Push it further, sending him to the floor. Yank it out and thrust it into his body again, counting how many times you can make him scream before his final breathe secretes from his pathetic lungs! Lacerate the skin until its nothing but a suit of torn muscle and out-sticking bone. Do it, Harrison! It is my machine, it is our machine, and you must now use it! Use it! Kill him! Kill him!”
“No!”
Harrison thrust the blade onto the ground. Blood soared around his body, thumping now more in rage than upset. Rather than plunging into a belly of dirt, the fickle machine thumped against the solid surface and fell apart. The glass popped from its hold; the string snapped under the pressure of the blade and unwound from its host; the wooden block bounced and gave out a deep knock as it met the ground. In the pitch black, Harrison could make out the various pieces of the pathetic contraption, and hysteric anger erupted from within him. The fact that he was not standing on real grass, and instead cheap AstroTurf, meant nothing. He didn’t even notice. If he had, maybe he would have had a chance to run away and alert someone as to what had happened to him. Maybe he could have stopped the cycle – doing what I really ought to, I suppose – and saved countless others. But he didn’t. It was dark, wet, and he was a child. Just like the rest.
“So, all this time I’ve just been making a knife?!” the boy roared. Never in his short life had he experienced such untainted fury. Hatred bubbled, sizzled, and popped within his every limb, and he had no idea how to process or manage any of it. But it wasn’t just the wrath of being deceived that fuelled his words. He had hit his father, lied to his mother, stolen from Mr Potter. The boy he was had been abandoned, and the mask of a servant had been obscuring his face for nothing. When his parents eventually came to search Peter’s Wood, likely accompanied by a search party, and found their boy, what would they see? A dirty criminal who had completely lost their respect and love, hiding away in the wild like the animal he was, and they certainly wouldn’t hear the voice coming to his defence. He would leave, sit silently like a startled rat, and leave Harrison all alone. He hated Wally in that moment, more than he had ever experienced towards his father.
“Wally, why?! Why have you let me do this?! This isn’t magic! What in the world am I going to do?!”
The Wall did not answer.
“Answer me, Wally!” Harrison screamed.
The storm stood no chance of muffling him.
“Wally, I need you to fix this! Make a better machine, please! Make me something that can get me out of this! I need you to! Wally! Wally! Wally!”
Harrison did not accept the silence. He dropped and ripped the pieces up from the machine from the ground, launching them at the rock face. The glass shattered under the force; the wooden bar clanged and flew into the vegetation, disturbing the dense leaves. The string did nothing, as you would expect, and this lack of satisfaction compelled Harrison to step forward and approach the waterfall. He let out a barbaric shriek and punched the flat wall of stone. The bones of his knuckles clicked, sending his entire hand numb from the blunt impact, but he didn’t care. He opted for a change in tactic and began kicking at the base of the waterfall over and over again like a shot horse, ignoring the freezing touch of the tumbling water. He demanded at the top of his voice for a response.
“Answer me!
“Answer me!
“Answer me!”
Blood spilt from the cuts on his knuckles. He slapped and smacked the rock, he banged and boomed, he tried to beat the words out of the inanimate formation. There is a popular phrase about trying to get blood out of a stone, and I had never understood it until that night. Frustration built with horrific speed, and it took only seconds for the tears and the screams to merge into an ear-blistering whine of panic and hysteria. The boy was collapsing, his sense of awareness diving deeper and deeper below the surface. If he were watching himself from, say, the position I am, he would not even recognise himself. Red covered his hands and dried into the pores of his skin, and his feet were numb from the relentless kicking. Raindrops and tears camouflaged one another, and his face was a rageful rouge.
“Wally!
“Wally”
“Please!”
Harrison thrust a blind fist into the waterfall itself, and then the mirage began to shatter. As his knuckles smashed through the curtain of water, he was struck by the fact that his hand had not met the blunt denial of the rock face on the other side. Instead, it had slipped into a gap behind the water, a small crevice of some kind hiding behind the screen of liquid.
Was this where Wally’s heart was? Where his brain was? The neurons in Harrison’s brain fired out every imaginable explanation as his freezing hands felt around with revitalised energy. He had no idea what he was looking for, but that didn’t matter. Something soon found him.
At first, Harrison thought he had touched some kind of animal, and he pulled his hand from the hole and shook it wildly. After realising that there was nothing there, he reached in again, and this time felt what he had initially thought to be a body with a bit more care. The adrenaline racing around his body was still lightning fast, but his mind was channelling it into focus. The peculiar item behind the waterfall had a smooth, flat surface like the bonnet of a car. It was a box, he could tell that much, but there were no features to decipher what exactly it was supposed to do or why it was placed there.
Was this Wally? Harrison didn’t think so, but as his fingers slipped down to its face, his conviction dried. Cylinders and switches littered the front of the item, sticking out in varying directions like the features of a robotic face. Unwilling to imagine any longer, he gripped and tore the item from the hole.
The mysterious item came easily from its perch, but it did not come alone. Harrison ducked as something came flying down from above, and the forest came alive in a symphony of chaos as heavy objects fell and smashed onto the grass behind him. It was like an aeroplane was breaking through the canopy above, but the boy was not crushed or killed. When Harrison opened his eyes, all he saw were two large, rectangular speakers, lying cracked and chipped on the tidy lawn. Glancing up above the waterfall, he saw from the flattened grass that they had fallen from above him when he pulled the strange item from the hole.
Long, thin wires poked out from the backs of the speakers, extending from their bodies like black, rubber snakes. The wire of each speaker was long and gangly, but they came together in what seemed to be a small device lying on the ground between them. From what he knew from his design classes at school, Harrison could tell that it was a receiver of some kind, designed for sending radio signals and messages. But why would there be radio equipment in Peter’s Wood? Who would want to send a message out here?
“Wally?”
The night was not listening. Harrison stepped forward in the empty world. Nothing existed except himself, the objects, and the rain. Descending to one knee, he attempted to twist one of the large speakers, but it was incredibly heavy for his small, tired body to haul. He settled for moving around it instead, and when he did, he saw its large, gaping face staring back at him. His father had enormous speakers just like this in his study room, mostly used for blasting the radio on Sunday mornings when he was working on the computer. His father’s had varnished wooden sides, but these speakers were jet black.
The circular diaphragm looked back at the boy like an enormous eye, unblinking behind its netting cover. The raindrops made the inanimate object look as though it was crying. Harrison felt like joining it. This couldn’t be Wally. It wasn’t possible. He had promised so much.
He shuffled along the damp grass to the small box he had dropped amidst the panic. It was upside down, surrounded by its bigger brethren, and Harrison feared he had broken it. He had yanked it through the waterfall, soaking it in the process, and the rain was now relentlessly pelting its metal body. There was no one around to tell him off or express any anger at its potentially damaged state, but he was anxious all the same. It’s a thing with children. Fear is just in their nature.
The boy’s frozen hands lifted it from the ground and just about managed to turn it the right way around. His fingers were sending so little information to his brain that Harrison could no longer feel the rain thumping onto his bare skin. He examined what he could about the receiver, hoping it still worked. For what purpose, he didn’t know. The buttons meant nothing to him, nor did the small white letters accompanying them. AM. FM. Had he seen those letters in the car before? He searched his mind, wishing something from that stupid design class would come back to him now, but nothing arrived except for the banging cry to go home and go to sleep in his warm, dry bed. Droplets exploded upon the receiver’s roof, thumping the metal like a rapid, ominous drumroll.
A small black dial stuck out from the centre of the box and Harrison directed his stiff fingers towards it, hoping he could learn more about the device that way. They were like chopsticks in how senseless and rigid they were, and he could neither experience the texture of the dial nor move it in the exact way he intended. The best he could manage was connecting the tip of his index finger to the coarse outer layer of the dial and poking it until it spun around. On his first attempt the dial spun, and as it moved, a sound erupted from the speakers like a car tail-spinning on a dry summer road. The screech was intense, but then came a voice.
“…and that’s what I’m saying, Jessica. If the government refuse to address the question that the Labour Party – and let’s be honest the rest of the country are asking – then the public have every right to wonder why the Transport Minister was allowed to…”
Harrison threw his head to the thin trail; certain a group of adults had found him. The voice was so close and so clear that the speaker could be no more than a few metres from him. The man continued, explaining something the boy couldn’t understand, but nobody approached. The forest was as still as it had been before, and then Harrison realised that the voice was not even coming from the real world at all, but from the large speakers beside him. Embarrassment rose but was swiftly beaten down by an overpowering force of curiosity.
He moved the dial again.
“…that was a good one, wasn’t it? Always been one of my favourites, anyway. Stay right here, folks, because we’ll be playing more tunes like that all night long, only on—”
And then again.
“…and he has to start scoring! He cost the club sixty-four million, Terry, am I the only one that expects more from him?”
And once more.
“…I…get what you’re saying, Anna, I do, but the figures! Your team couldn’t sell as much as the other team and their profits were almost triple of what your team generated. I’m sorry but, for that reason, you’re—"
Harrison moved the dial a final time but only static came through. Empty noise filled the space, but the voices still rang in his head. Clear, loud, realistic. They had sounded like they were right next to him, speaking to him as though just from the other side of the pool. They sounded just as clear as Wally had.
“Wally? Are you actually here?”
The forest answered.
A bush, somewhat off in the distance behind where Harrison was kneeling, parted down the middle. The boy turned at the noise and trembled at what he saw. What had he hoped for? Wally, shining in the moonlight, gliding through the air with a halo and wings? Possibly. His school did fill his head with such images, but no angel had come for him. Instead, it was something more down to earth. Gut-wrenchingly real.
A man stood in the hazy distance. Alone. His tall, grey silhouette broke out like a blooming tree from the general foliage beneath and just stood there, completely still in the falling rain and rising mist. Harrison stood up. The body was nude, male in anatomy, and shrouded in the dark of the night. A wide chest floated in fog, a stem of rigid abdominals beneath. It looked like a statue, and yet perfectly human except for the fact there was no face atop its shoulders. Where Harrison expected to see a nose, chin, and skull indents to signify the presence of eyes behind the veil of darkness, a set of semi-circle beacons glowed out into the darkness. Yellow in colour, modest in brightness. They neither succumbed to the blackness nor brought the world into visible colour. They just hovered there. Shining enough to see, shining enough to be seen.
It was like a pair of hands were over Harrison’s ears, the static from the speaker numbing the world around him. Lightning cracked across the sky, flashing down to the world below, but no thunder followed. The universe hung in suspension. Timeless, motionless. All movement belonged to the lightning as it flashed the scene into the theatre of existence. The wind held its breath. The man did not move, and neither did Harrison.
The spell lifted, and an eruption of thunder threatened to crack the pane of the world. Harrison winced and went to cover his ears, but his eyes stopped him. Just as the first had, and with startling similarity in its movement, another figure sprouted from a bush. It assumed the exact same posture and stillness as its predecessor. It was naked, just the same, and shared a similarly impressive physique. Again, there was no face, and its stillness was harrowing. Two more amber eyes glistened.
Harrison didn’t know whether it was just a trick of the light, but both of the figures seemed incredibly pale. He suddenly questioned whether he was in a dream. Dread cemented his body to the spot, and he didn’t think he could scream even if he wanted to. His throat was dry and stale, and if he screamed, he knew nothing would come out but a dusty croak. The bone-coloured bodies continued to linger, unmoving and seemingly unmotivated to. They were part of the forest, another set of trunks like all the rest. But those eyes; they were not from this forest, and Harrison knew that they did not belong. They were opaque, pupil-less eyes: they did not belong to a living being. Character, instinct, reaction – they looked devoid of them all. They were hollow.
Whether there was a difference between the first body and the second, Harrison could not tell. It was as though the same muscular form had been copied and pasted, and there was nothing of the face within view to examine. They were both just out of reach for a decent visual analysis, and even if they were, Harrison’s eyes may not have been capable of conducting one. He was tired, betrayed, confused. All he could focus on was the four yellow eyes now staring at him, and his own pair were beginning to dry in their stationary glare. His brain was slipping from its chair too. Fear, as sharp an emotion as it is, was losing its venom. Fatigue was beginning to grease the sides and help it slip from its perch. But then terror found its footing once again.
Another body appeared. Then another. And then another. Harrison gasped and almost choked on his own breath. A galaxy of amber now levitated before him, resting upon a series of organic scaffolding, nude in the chilly night air. But there was no sun in this universe. No sun, no planets, no God. There was nothing but the cold, the rain, and the eyes. Harrison thought he couldn’t scream, but that idea was quickly dispelled. I can tell you for a fact, that boy could scream. I heard it myself.
The bodies ran towards him.
The Story
Hello, and welcome to the regional news at 10. I’m Tom Davidson.
Our top story tonight: local police have pledged to double their efforts tonight after yet another child has been discovered dead in Peter’s Wood. Harrison Little is the thirteenth child to go missing and the sixth to be found dead by police in the last twelve months. He was found in the early hours of this morning, naked and with several stab wounds.
Police Chief Michael Jacobson, also father of Courtney Jacobson who disappeared earlier this year, says he will not rest until the killer is found.
“I have said it before, and I will keep saying it until the individual or individuals responsible are brought to justice: these are the most disgusting and perverted acts of evil I have ever encountered, and my colleagues and I will not stop our investigation until the families affected are given the answers that they deserve. My wife and I have never healed from Courtney’s disappearance and…and we can’t…I’m sorry. And we can’t imagine how the parents of Harrison Little must feel. I send them my thoughts and prayers, as well as my complete and unwavering determination to apprehend and punish those responsible.”
Harrison’s father, Rodney Little, says that he and his wife, Sylvia, are devastated. Some viewers may find the following clip distressing.
“Sylvia and I are…crushed, obviously. I…I…I can’t believe it. Harrison was our b-boy. He was such a good kid, and he was only just finding himself in this world. We just can’t take it in yet. It doesn’t feel real. I just wish I could tell him that I love him.”
“Harrison was my little baby! Rod and I wanted the best for him and…and we just want him to know that we will always love him. We struggled as parents but…but we’re going to keep praying for him and telling him that we love him. We…oh it’s just so much to take on. We just love and miss him so much.”
Very moving words there from Sylvia Little. Of course, we will keep you updated with how the story develops, and everyone here at Local News will certainly be praying for little Harrison.
Now, are you struggling to get the most out of your supermarket loyalty card? Well, it seems that many people in our area are finding it hard to know what their loyalty cards even do, so local grocer Kathy Jenkins has started an online help service to lend support when it comes to getting more bang for your buck.
Our reporter Phil Gilmore has the story.
The End
P. A. Farrell is a licensed psychologist and a former Associate Editor of PW and King Features Syndicate. She has published with McGraw-Hill and Demos Health, writes for a number of publications on Medium.com, has published several self-help books and has a Substack publication. Farrell lives on the East Coast of the US where her passion continues to be writing, photography, and musing about the many times she cheated death as a psychologist. |
Travels by Myself
The harried young woman looms over her ten-year-old son, saying, firmly, “You have until the end of this flight to do your homework. And don't talk to me like that. I won't stand for it.”
Since I was scrambling to stuff my luggage anywhere I could, I hadn’t heard the “talking to her” that had gone on. I had to secure one of those all-too-scarce overhead bins for my carry-on luggage. Most bins appeared to be full. People entering took the first bin they saw, never caring it wasn’t for their seat.
“I don’t know why you get so upset.” He’s pouting now. Head down, he looks like a child who may not grow up to be a very pleasant adult. She’s continuing her diatribe and this poor boy must sit and listen. I’ll bet she’s a stepmother and he’s wondering why someone doesn’t save him from her. Still, he makes no response to her railing.
“Don’t talk to me like that. Just get to doing your homework.”
The din dies down as the flight attendant goes through the cabin, closing the overhead compartments with a resolute slam that tells all they’re full.
“Is that a bag there?” Sweat appears on the flight attendant’s face. A twist of the head and pursing of the lips indicated the true intention of the question. “Are these your things? You can hold onto your coats. Let’s see what we can do here.” Sounds like an auction coming up.
The elderly woman clings to her coat as though it were a child of hers. I could almost hear her whispering to herself, “Maybe they'll let me keep it or I might never see it again.” Satisfied, the flight attendant disappears with her bags and began looking for a place to stuff them. The woman watched anxiously as the man with her, a Jose Ferrer look-alike, contented himself with fiddling with his pen, looking at it as though he had never seen one before. A new Mont Blanc with its shiny cap, the pen held his complete and undivided attention.
“Is that another bag?” The flight attendant, back again for another inspection, is a bit firmer this time, believing they have somehow tried to hide a bag from him. The elderly couple reacts as though the flight attendant is about to mug them and take their carry-on luggage. The concern is written all over their faces. If you're not booked in First Class, it’s part of the trauma of traveling with carry-ons.
I’d been on too many flights this year, but none of them had prepared me for Mr. Baby and the characters on this flight. True, they were mainly the same types of business personnel carrying their suit bags, their rolling carry-ons and their computer cases. Pretty much the same, but there was a sprinkling of others. This flight, to LA, had to be different. Of course, it did. Who would call a child by something other than his name, if not an LA mother?
Ok, I’m being unfair to LA mothers, but too many of them care more about looking good than caring for their kids. Bash me, if you wish, I’m used to it. Thirty years in the field of psychology and I’ve been called a lot of things. I’ve been burned by lit cigarettes when I tried to intercept a call to Alaska on the house phone of a mental health center. Once I was warned that the woman I was with could “kill you fifty ways” as we sat in a hospital kitchen area. I didn’t doubt her creativity because I knew she’d already killed one man and almost did away with her psychiatrist. Well, gossip was that he did try to sexually molest her. Did he deserve death? Not my call, please.
Free from the menacing world of institutional mental health, I was headed to California for a much-needed vacation among those with low humility. At least they wouldn’t threaten to kill me fifty different ways; they’d only think it as they dawdled over their dirty martinis or whatever the drink of the moment was. Smiling faces can hide so much, it’s amazing. When acting is your business or you’ve inhaled so much of the entertainment industry, it’s quite natural to smile and not mean it. Did any of them know about the Duchenne smile? Probably not.
All I knew was I was off and it would be a world away from the gray, poorly lit small spaces where people lingered in pharmacologic stupors. It would be a great escape for sure, no motorcycle involved.
No, I would not be bringing anything more than jeans, shorts, tees and personal care products, so I’d be traveling light. After all, this was a vacation, not an audition. Yes, I have gone to auditions, and they are horrid experiences where frightened people sit around and try to look confident even when they know they’ll probably not get the gig.
In this plane’s First Class, partially seen through the hanging curtain dividing “them” from “us,” I see an overstuffed young man leaning back in his leather seat. He takes the glass of orange juice the flight attendant offers and drinks it down in one gulp. The seats are arranged two to a row, and the young man fills his seat completely. His ample belly hangs down over his waistband. The Turnbull & Asher shirt struggles to maintain the cascade of flesh beneath it while the Tiffany silver buckle on the belt struggles to do its share in the battle.
Meanwhile, in Economy, or whatever class they are calling it these days, the cabin crew attempts to maintain order with passengers who are already grumbling.
Flight attendants scratch their heads, have you noticed? They also blow their noses while serving food. Why does this remind me of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence? What makes that line stand out, the one about not using anything other than a silver knife for cutting cucumbers? I don’t know.
“Mr. Baby’s tired, isn’t he?” The voice of the young mother sounded sympathetic, but I felt that Mr. Baby must surely be a toy. Perhaps he's some dream of a toy manufacturer's fantasy. This toy, the perfect baby, would cry, wet, and, possibly, vomit on command. But, please, not all over the Donna Karan suit mommy is wearing.
The cry sounded real. Was I out of touch with the world of toys and the genius of Mattel? It had to be a baby. But who would call an infant, "Mr. Baby?" Have we become that removed, that refined, that cultured, that even a baby, little Marys and Roberts, and Charlies and Harrys, are now Mr. and Ms. Baby? Oh, well—this plane was headed for the West Coast, and she was a California mother.
The flight seemed uneventful except for Mr. Baby, who was crying uncontrollably and kicking. I accepted the headset the flight attendant offered to me, even though I had no interest in the film, but perhaps it would muffle Mr. Baby and his incessant screams. California mommy looks at the headset as though it had cooties. But, on this plane, it was free, so she took it with two fingers, whipped it with a disinfectant towelette from her purse, and sat back.
I was bored, and I began to give my imagination free rein. What are those insistent “pings” that ring on airplanes? Have you ever wondered? Is the captain telling the crew that they will have to abandon ship or that he has to go to the powder room or wants the flight attendant to prepare for landing? Is he telling the crew he wants more coffee or he forgot where he’s supposed to be landing today?
Do they have a series of “secret” codes that would let us in on all manner of stupid things, if we only had the knowledge? I was tired of all this secret communication, of Mr. Baby and his crying, the dinky little snacks and the people moving their capacious hips into my space in these things they call seats.
Who is that “average passenger” they use to decide the width of these seats? Is it that “average woman” for whom they make all those size 8s or 10s, 12s and 14s? I never fit into any of them, seats included. Then, of course, there is that store that makes size 2–3s. I told the saleswoman I must have stopped in the wrong store. “No, dear, believe me, you are a size 3.” Well, I’m not, but who’s arguing when they drop your blouse size by 10?
I wanted to fling off my seat belt, in apparent violation of the lighted sign, run up into First Class, and demand to use their restroom. Have you ever noticed how they guard that restroom? Even when no one is using it and the conveniences in the Economy section are full, they still won't let you use it.
So, for something like $2,000, I could buy the right to a WC reserved expressly for the anointed. One wonders about the elegant tushes that linger there. Was there something special about that restroom, too?
Oh, I was in fine form. I would refuse to take my seat in Economy, I would demand decent meals, and put my seat into the fully reclined, not upright, position. Who cares if I would be lying almost face up in the lap of the passenger behind me?
I wanted freedom on this flight, but, of course, the voice of Sister Irenita Marie called out loud and clear: “Stop being a bold, fresh piece.” I stopped my fantasy dead in its tracks. Sister was right; I would behave.
Mr. Baby continued to cry fitfully until he exhausted himself or was filled to the epiglottis with all that milk his mother was dutifully pressing on him. A loud roar was reduced to sobs and then to soft little moans and then, finally, silence.
Was Mr. Baby asleep in a milk-induced stupor, or had his mother drugged him? Who knew? He was quiet for the rest of the flight, and I stopped allowing the beast inside my head to run rampant with my senses.
I quieted down, too. I busied myself with scrutinizing the elaborate flight patterns on the back of the safety instructions, which I had pulled from the seat pocket. In the in-flight merchandise magazine, I looked dutifully at all the "wonderful" things I could squander my every cent on.
I wondered if these items were indeed only for "in-flight purchase," or could anyone who hadn’t had their sanity taxed by Mr. Baby buy them while on the ground? Was this an actual reward for what I’d just suffered through? No, anyone could buy them. No exclusivity here.
Hopes dashed, I listened to the captain drone on about what we could see if there weren’t so many clouds in our way, and how we could expect to be landing “shortly.”
I know that most of us would think of “shortly” as meaning that something would happen within a specific length of time. In airline lingo, however, it means whatever it means.
Airline lingo is similar to how we think about IQ tests. When someone asks what an IQ test measures, we dutifully answer, "An IQ test measures whatever an IQ test measures," and hope that they won't take us away in a clean white jacket complete with lovely buckles down the back.
Yes, I'm a psychologist. Still, even psychologists have their limits and, no, we don’t sit passively while patients call us all sorts of names.
Inside, those of us who have blood coursing through our veins may even fantasize about seizing the opportunity to let our patients find someone else or suggesting that they might like a referral to someone else.
Of course, that means less income. Still, I've always thought that my mental health is important, too, and income cannot compensate me for tolerating the boorish behavior of people who think I’m a paid whipping girl.
The plane landed, and I learned that "shortly" actually meant twenty minutes on this flight. I grabbed my bag from the overhead, trotted off the plan, and left Mr. Baby and all my fellow passengers to their own devices. It was pleasant to feel the sting of the Los Angeles air in my eyes.
One thing I knew: I'd be back, and who knew what adventures awaited me on that return flight? I could only hope that Mr. Baby was home to stay in LA.
Resurrection
Dieter
March 1945
The black Mercedes 770 drove into view, bouncing over the ruts and hillocks of frozen earth before it rolled to a stop at the edge of the pine forest. Dieter watched as four men in black Schutzstaffel uniforms got out of the car. One of them, a tall blond officer, held the rear door open for a man in a white overcoat and military-style cap. The man’s left hand shook badly, as if from a palsy.
The passenger turned to Dieter.
“Be sure to have the aircraft refueled and ready to leave when I return.”
“Yes, Herr Doktor.”
The passenger jogged over to the Mercedes. He spoke to one of the SS officers before turning to the man in the white overcoat and extending his right arm in a stiff-armed Party salute. He led the way as all six walked away from the car and into the trees.
Dieter refueled the aircraft and went through a careful check of its exterior. Their next refueling stop was four hundred kilometers away, and they must take off soon if they were to have any chance of making it there before dark. He lit a cigarette and waited.
The young pilot had no idea what the men might be up to, nor did he waste time speculating about something that did not concern him. His orders had been clear enough: fly the passenger anywhere he wants to go, at any time of the day or night. The Reich official who took him from his Luftwaffe squadron eighteen months ago also made it clear that under no circumstances was he to allow his passenger to fall into the hands of the enemy. He tried not to think about that part of his orders.
The High Command kept him supplied with maps of a very special kind. Each showed the locations of safe landing zones and caches of petrol in areas still controlled by Germany. The maps had been updated every month until after the Normandy invasion. Now, despite the growing chaos infecting the Reich like a plague, new maps reached him every week.
His Fieseler Storch had been stripped of all its military markings and outfitted with an auxiliary fuel tank. Dieter knew that making the plane resemble a civilian aircraft would offer little protection against an enemy pilot intent on shooting him out of the sky, but luck had been his companion so far. He hoped it would not abandon him on this last flight into Franco’s Spain.
Dieter reached into the plane’s cockpit for the maps delivered by messenger only yesterday. He studied them carefully, calculating distances and fuel consumption to the various alternative landing sites. When he was done, he checked his chronograph. Another thirty minutes had gone by and there was still no sign of his passenger.
He ran over to the Mercedes and saw that two of its windows were beginning to frost over. Dieter smoked another cigarette and paced back and forth by the motorcar. The chances of reaching the next refueling stop before nightfall were quickly fading. He went to the place along the tree line where the six men had disappeared and, after a nervous backward glance at his plane, walked into the forest.
Dieter was immediately enveloped by a misty, green twilight alive with the scent of pine. A soft carpet of brown needles cushioned every footfall, so that his movement through the trees was nearly without sound. The forest felt utterly peaceful, almost dreamlike. It made the endless violence of the war seem suddenly very far away, a part of some other world. For a moment it was possible to imagine that the nightmare of the last six years had never happened. The notion made Dieter smile, but the illusion of peace faded quickly and his handsome young face once again became a rigid, anxious mask.
He was no traitor or defeatist. He had fought bravely for the Reich over the skies of Poland, France, and the English Channel. And yet this quiet place made him think of other paths open to him. The war could end for him tomorrow. All he would have to do is walk away. Spain was a big, beautiful country that had its own führer in General Franco, a man to be respected and admired. It would be so easy to disappear, to lose himself in a new land far from a dying thousand-year Reich.
The heavy scent of pine also brought with it thoughts of the holidays. Back in December, Dieter had pleaded with the passenger for a day’s leave to visit his family in Dresden. He had offered to find a reliable pilot to take over his duties, but the request was instantly denied. The passenger insisted that Dieter and no one else must remain at his disposal. There would be no exceptions, even for a son’s understandable wish to be with his family at Weinachten. Nothing outside of his secretive mission seemed to mean anything to the man. Now Dieter’s mother and father were dead, victims of the enemy’s latest criminal fire-bombing of civilians.
As for his older brother, Werner, God only knew what had become of him. Dieter had heard nothing from him since the Sixth Army’s surrender at Stalingrad two years before. He was probably dead or taken prisoner by the bestial Russians, which amounted to the same thing. If he did decide to begin a new life in Spain, he would not be leaving anything or anyone behind.
Dieter had gone nearly two kilometers when he came upon a clearing where the pine needle floor abruptly ended, replaced not by bare earth but by a pale green concrete slab. A structure the size of a small tool shed, sheathed in dull gray metal and draped with camouflage netting, stood at its center. Part of the netting had been pushed aside to reveal a door. Dieter approached it warily and saw that the door was slightly ajar. He was only a few meters from the shed when the ground shuddered violently and he nearly lost his footing. The sudden quake was followed by a low rumbling sound. The pungent smell of burning rubber stung his nostrils and a yellow mist rose from the earth like a fog. The trees around him seemed to undulate, as if he were seeing them through the rippling heat haze of a desert noon. Dieter became suddenly light-headed and backed away, off the concrete slab and into the woods. He reached out to steady himself against the trunk of an old pine. Its rough brown bark was hot to the touch and he jerked his hand away as a cold surge of panic gripped him. And then it was over. The yellow mist slowly dissipated and the forest was again quiet except for the sound of distant birds and soughing wind.
Dieter turned and ran.
He was breathing hard, shaken and sweating, when he emerged from the tree line. He ran to the Storch and stood alongside the aircraft smoking cigarette after cigarette, trying to calm himself. The passenger returned twenty minutes later, without the SS officers or the man in the white overcoat.
“Is everything in readiness?”
“Yes, Herr Doktor. What about the motorcar?” He pointed to the gleaming black Mercedes.
“My companions no longer need it. Let us get on with our journey, Dieter. I would like to reach Spain as soon as possible.”
He quickly re-checked his newest maps, his hands still trembling from the bizarre occurrence in the forest.
“Are you alright, Dieter? You seem agitated.”
“I am fine, Herr Doktor.”
He flew most of the way to their next refueling point at treetop level, even though there was little chance of encountering enemy aircraft. The war was nearing its end. Very few dared say it aloud, but Germany was probably only weeks away from surrender. The promised miracle weapons that were supposed to stave off defeat had done nothing to prevent American and Russian armies from closing in on the Fatherland. The once invincible Luftwaffe now barely existed as a fighting force, and Wehrmacht divisions, or what remained of them, were falling back in disarray on all fronts. The Third Reich was vanishing before his eyes, like some magician’s hideous sleight of hand.
He needed more time to compose himself and was relieved when the passenger fell asleep. He could not begin to understand what had happened back in the clearing, but was certain that his passenger was somehow involved. He was also sure of something else: he had not been meant to see any of it.
Dieter landed at the next refueling stop, a pasture thirty kilometers from the nearest town, just before nightfall. He quickly located the drums of petrol and went about fueling the Storch, being sure to fill the auxiliary tank to full capacity. The extra fuel would provide the additional range needed to complete the final leg of their journey over the Pyrenees and into Spain. But the tank also added weight that took away from the small plane’s maneuverability. His fellow Luftwaffe pilots used to joke that Dieter could make an ME 109 do magical things while aloft. He prayed that he would not have need of such skill before their final journey was at an end.
The passenger woke just as they were again getting underway.
“We should be crossing into Spain just before dawn, Herr Doktor.”
“Have you spotted any enemy aircraft?”
“None, sir.”
“Good, good.”
The passenger was restless. He shifted in his seat and started to light one of the American cigarettes he always managed to have with him. Dieter reminded him that smoking was forbidden inside the aircraft, especially now that the auxiliary tank was full to capacity.
“My apologies,” he said, and put the cigarette away.
They had last flown into Spain late in 1944, around the time of the Ardennes Counteroffensive. The weather was terrible and as a result enemy air activity had been minimal to non-existent. Dieter landed in the usual place, a large field near the abandoned barn where his passenger kept an old Maybach. He had watched the man drive off toward the northwest. To pass the time until his return, he read copies of the Volkischer Beobachter and drank bitter coffee he brewed on a camp stove.
The passenger had never been gone more than half a day on their previous flights, but that time he did not return until well after dark. He drove directly into the barn and said nothing as he stepped out of the car, put on a pair of heavy rubberized black gloves, and took a metal box from the Maybach’s boot. He carried the box as if it contained something fragile and very precious, gingerly placing it at the rear of the plane’s cockpit floor.
That night they sat in the barn eating bread, cheese, and fruit, and washing it all down with some good vino tinto. The passenger sat on a crude wooden stool by a kerosene lamp, intently using his slide rule and scribbling in the small black notebook he always carried with him.
Dieter never asked about the contents of the box. He had learned that it was not a good idea to ask too many questions about anything. If you did, sooner or later someone might start asking you a question or two, and in the hellish, frenzied last days of the Reich there were people in power who saw traitors behind every bush. Even the most innocent question could be twisted around and made to sound sinister. He had heard far too many stories of summary executions based on groundless accusations and kept his questions to himself.
His usually quiet passenger suddenly became talkative.
“I have performed a miracle today, Dieter,” he yelled over the sound of the engine. “A miracle!”
He had no idea what the man was talking about or what he should say in response, so he said nothing and pretended to check the plane’s instruments.
“It is criminal to have to keep such a thing secret, Dieter! Criminal! The world worships Einstein and will never know how I have accomplished what that Jew can only dream of.”
“Yes, Herr Doktor.”
He carried on about his miracle without ever saying what it was, and continued to imagine what the scientific community would say, how it would lionize him, if they were only permitted to know of his accomplishment. Dieter was grateful when his passenger finally stopped talking and fell asleep.
They reached Spain just as the sun’s first rays brightened the rim of the eastern sky. He expected the passenger to drive off in his Maybach as soon as it was fueled, but the excitement he had shown aboard the Storch was upon him again like a fever. He paced around the drafty old barn, gesturing and talking.
“I don’t expect you to understand what I have done. There are brilliant physicists all over the world who, even if they knew, could not understand. I have turned one of man’s eternal dreams into a reality.”
He stopped pacing and looked around the empty barn with a sly, conspiratorial smile on his face.
“Now here’s a bit of news for you, Dieter. In the coming weeks the world will be shocked by the death of our Führer. His body will be cremated, which will, of course, make identification of the remains very difficult, if not impossible. The war will end and the enemy will occupy our sacred land. But Germany will go on, Dieter, and our Führer will be every bit as alive as we are at this moment. He will be safe and restored to perfect health where our enemies cannot find him, even if they were to search every square centimeter of the planet.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
What he was saying sounded like nonsense -- the Führer dead, but somehow also alive.
“Of course not. How could you? How can anyone? That is why he is so utterly beyond the reach of our enemies. And yet it will be true, Dieter, I assure you.”
He was certain now that the passenger was mad. Perhaps whatever it was that happened in the forest had disordered the scientist’s senses, destroying his ability to reason. He concluded that it would be best to listen quietly, humor him until he was done with his lunatic rant and quietly drove away.
“Of course, as is the case with nearly all human endeavors, our plan has not been without its flaws. The Austrian actor who so successfully doubled for our Führer since the spring of nineteen forty-three became, how shall I say it, too involved in his portrayal? The fool started believing he could do a better job than the Führer himself. And to make matters even more ridiculous, the Führer’s mistress, the pretty but empty-headed Miss Braun, appears to have fallen in love with the man! Imagine that, Dieter, that idiot woman preferring a trifling actor to the greatest man in human history! Well, she will be gone, too, a loyal wench preferring death to a life without her Führer. A love story for the ages, eh, Dieter?”
“Of course, Herr Doktor.” Dieter smiled uneasily, finished fueling the Maybach, and began wiping the big auto’s dusty windshield.
“When the time is right, the Führer will restore the Reich and make us masters of the world. That has always been the inescapable destiny of our people. It will happen, Dieter, I promise you. In the meantime, he will wait patiently in his new world. Oh, how I envy him the wonders he is even now experiencing!”
“Yes, Herr Doktor. I think that’s fine.”
The passenger stared at Dieter.
“You think I’m insane, don’t you? I can see it in your young face. Well, that is good. Let them all think I’m insane and that what I have accomplished is impossible. In this case, the notion of impossibility is a splendid ally and protector. What a man cannot imagine, he can never suspect.”
“Certainly, Herr Doktor.”
“I must be on my way now. I have a long journey ahead of me. The Third Day Project is just getting started and will require much work.”
“The Third Day Project?” Dieter asked with feigned curiosity.
“Yes. The Führer himself chose the name for the project. It is a small joke on his part. Think of the Easter story, Dieter, and you will understand. From this point onward The Third Day Project will consume my life and the lives of all the others devoted to its success. These past six years have been a prelude and nothing more. Let our enemies celebrate their victory when it comes. It will be nothing more than an illusion. But I have already said too much, too much. You must understand that I am on fire inside, Dieter.”
He looked at Dieter for a long time without saying a word, then shook his head and said, with sorrow in his voice, “You should never have done it, you know. You had strict orders to remain by your aircraft until my return.”
“Sir?”
“Klaus, one of my officers, briefly left the underground chamber for a cigarette and saw you approach through the trees. He ran down and told me. He did a most admirable job of describing you, Dieter, so there can be no doubt who it was he saw. I suppose it is partially my fault. The area should have long ago been fenced off and put under guard, but there has been so little time, really no time at all.”
“You are an excellent pilot, Dieter, and I was fortunate to have had you assigned to me. In a just world, we would be winning this wretched war and you would have been assured a brilliant future in a new Germany. But in the ugly and unjust world we are forced to inhabit, loyal servants of the Reich have been left with only the taste of ashes as a reward for their heroic efforts. Yesterday, I assured us all of a Fourth Reich. Today there is, sadly, an unfortunate present that must be dealt with.”
He pulled a Luger from his overcoat pocket. Dieter stared at it, too surprised and frightened to speak.
“I detest having to do this, Dieter, believe me, but I’m afraid you saw too much during your little forest excursion. I cannot take the chance that you might one day share what you saw with someone else. Look at it this way, my boy, we are all soldiers of the Fatherland and soldiers die in battle every day.”
“You are not yourself, Herr Doktor. Please put the pistol away.”
The passenger seemed not to have heard him.
“So many have had to die already,” he sighed. “The thousands of laborers who built my underground chamber during the early years of the war, the Wehrmacht guards who oversaw them, and only last summer the scores of engineers who assembled the device also had to be sacrificed. I understand completely the necessity for their elimination, yet I cannot help regretting it. But I assure you that I will regret no death as deeply as yours, Dieter.”
“I don’t understand anything you are saying, Herr Doktor.”
There could no longer be any doubt of his passenger’s insanity. Unless he found words to dissuade the madman, he would soon die a senseless death out in the middle of nowhere. Dieter suddenly longed as never before for the sight of his ruined homeland.
“I know, I know,” his passenger said, and pulled the Lugar’s trigger.
Klaus
November 20, 2083
The food here is abominable. I can only imagine that Americans have become accustomed to consuming the wretched stuff from childhood and so are able to eat it without becoming physically ill. Only this morning I was forced to travel miles to be served a breakfast which can charitably be described as adequate.
They have so much in this new world: motorcars and lorries that consume no petrol and move without a sound, trams that speed about high overhead on a rail no wider than a human hand, devices the size of small books that connect to a universe of information, and sleek aircraft that fly around the globe in mere hours. The marvels are endless. And yet, amid all these wonders, Americans remain a weak, undisciplined people who know nothing about enjoying the truly good things in life.
I have investigated the student for weeks and unearthed nothing. His article about Herr FrÖemke’s work was surely a fluke, nothing more than a flight of fancy. Unfortunately, the piece came to the attention of someone high up in The Third Day Project who took the matter very seriously indeed. It was a foolish thing to do, since a bit of trash published in a popular science rag is unlikely ever to have been read by anyone of importance. Still, I had my orders. I was to follow the student, determine if he or anyone around him was in a position to jeopardize the secrecy of our work. This I have done. Now only a single task remains, and it will be taken care of this very morning.
The student leaves his flat at the same time every morning, and then stops at a local café for coffee before walking to the university campus, where he invariably remains until late in the evening. When he leaves today, I will cross the street, enter the building, and carefully search his flat. Of course, I could have done that at any time in the past month, but was held back by the fear of leaving behind some small telltale sign that would cause him to alter his behavior. My success has always depended on his total ignorance of my presence.
I know what must be done if this morning’s search yields something damning. The Sauer 38 tucked into my waistband is a fine weapon. One exactly like it served me well during the Polish and French campaigns. A single shot directly to the back of the head delivers a swift and certain end. The silencer in my pocket will assure that no sound carries beyond the flat’s walls.
I truly hope that he will not have to be eliminated. After weeks of being closer to him than his own shadow, I have come to know the student. He is not a bad sort for an American. Certainly his taste in women can never be called into question. His lady companion is a slim redhead with luminous green eyes and long shapely legs. I followed the two of them to a restaurant only last night and discreetly bribed the maitre d’ to seat me at a nearby table. I listened to their conversation with the help of a splendid little earpiece provided by The Third Day Project. I heard every syllable while pretending to be absorbed in a volume of Heine’s verse. Much of their talk was utter nonsense, the foolishness of infatuated young people. But I did manage to learn something new about my subject. While clearly intelligent, he is at the same time strangely naïve. He should have used the evening to seduce the woman, and instead wasted the opportunity by talking about his plans for the future. He never once mentioned her eyes, her hair, her smile, or his desire to be with her. I left the restaurant more convinced than ever that such a naïf is incapable of having unearthed the best kept secret in the history of the world.
Still, a nagging uncertainty plagues me. Have I missed some detail that would reveal the boy to be a cunning dissembler? If my search of his flat fails to yield evidence of this, then I can be certain that it simply does not exist.
It sometimes feels as if I have been in this terrible place for an eternity, but it was in fact only one month ago that I received a call from Herr FrÖemke summoning me to Munich. He reached me in my Paris flat on a Saturday evening, just as I was dressing for dinner and a night of dancing with a woman I met while on a skiing holiday in the Alsace region. Persuading him that a Monday meeting would do just as well proved to be an impossible task. He insisted the matter was urgent and would not be put off. A limousine was waiting for me when I left my flat thirty minutes later and another picked me up at the Munich airport when I arrived there just after one in the morning. The driver took me directly to a lavish, old-fashioned hotel that reminded me of a museum.
As instructed, I asked for Ricardo Huebner at the front desk and was directed to the main dining room. Herr FrÖemke, looking alert and cheerful despite the lateness of the hour, was waiting for me at a corner table. He was nattily dressed, as always, this time in a pearl gray three-piece suit, pale blue silk shirt, and silver tie. A gleaming brown leather briefcase was on the chair next to him.
“You look well, Klaus. Life in Paris seems to agree with you.”
“It is a magnificent city.”
“I have ordered coffee and pastries for us. I hope you don’t mind.”
“I’m not very hungry, but I will join you in a cup of coffee.”
“Good, good. So, let us get to the point of this meeting. I’m afraid, Klaus, that I must ask you to leave Paris for a little while. The Third Day Project has a task for you, a very important task.”
“Of course, anything.”
“Excellent! You were a brave and loyal soldier during the war, a credit to the Fatherland. I’m glad to see that these qualities have not been diminished by time or your new life.”
“What are my orders, Herr Doktor?” My voice had more pique in it than I had intended. I was still thinking of the beautiful woman who had waited for me in her flat on the Rue Pascal.
He opened the leather briefcase and took several sheets of paper from it.
“Have a look at this, Klaus. Tell me what you think.”
He handed me a copy of an article from some sort of electronic publication. The title immediately caught my attention: “The Time Machine That Might Have Been.” The author was an American named Austin Stryker.
I read it quickly. It contained a very old photograph of Herr Fröemke sitting among a group of scientists. I looked up from the photo at the middle-aged physicist and was amused to see that he had on the same type of rimless spectacles he wore as a young man in ill-fitting clothes.
I went back to the article and found that it was a rather long and tedious bit of speculation on how Herr Fröemke’s early theoretical work might have, given the proper resources, led to the creation of a working apparatus. It contained several unusually accurate illustrations showing what such a device might have looked like.
“Do you think it’s possible that this man knows something about our work?”
“I’m not sure. It does seem remarkably detailed for mere conjecture, wouldn’t you say, Klaus? In any case, we cannot afford to take chances. If he does know something, we must learn how he came upon such knowledge. This article could prove extremely dangerous, especially now that an American news service has made mention of it. They treated the matter with levity, to be sure, but there may be a few curious individuals out there who may take it very seriously indeed. This matter now requires closer examination, the personal touch, if you will. Your background in intelligence work is called for here, my boy.”
“I will do whatever is required, Herr Doktor.”
“I knew you would. That is why we have chosen you. Nothing can be allowed to jeopardize our sacred mission. Oh, you should see the Führer, Klaus! The medical treatment available ninety years into the future is nothing short of miraculous. You would not believe how he is flourishing. How vigorous, how strong and full of renewed inspiration he is! The facial reconstructive surgery went better than anyone could have imagined. I myself barely recognized him! No, Karl, we cannot afford to have anything put our mission at risk. If the current European situation develops as we hope it will, it is entirely possible that The Third Day Project will soon have an opportunity to realize its ultimate goal.”
“If you will permit me a question, Herr Doctor, I have always been curious about one thing.”
“Certainly, Klaus. What is it?”
“Why wait for an opportune time to restore the Reich? Why not send an individual with a detailed knowledge of the war into the past? They will know the placement and movement of troops and armor in every battle, and thus change its outcome in our favor.”
“You disappoint me, Klaus. I thought you understood my device better than that. As miraculous as it is, it cannot go back to a time before its own existence. But you are, sadly, not alone in your misapprehension. Others, people of great influence within The Third Day Project, have suggested to me that I use the device to peer into the future and in that way discover an opportune time for the Führer’s return. I have had to make it clear to them that altering history is far from a simple matter. Look at it this way, Klaus: every choice we make in life contains within it a multiplicity of possible outcomes, and each one of those outcomes brings with it many other possible outcomes. It is the same with the history of nations. I have learned that events must be allowed to evolve on their own and then exploited for our benefit. That is the only way. In other words, my boy, the circumstances for our eventual success must be allowed to create themselves.”
I nodded as if it were all perfectly clear to me, which it was decidedly not.
“When do I leave?”
“Tonight.”
He handed over the briefcase.
“Your new passport and airline tickets are in this case, along with a file containing everything we have thus far learned about your young subject. Reservations have been made for you at a hotel and an automobile will be waiting for you in the hotel’s garage.”
”A Maserati?”
“No, Klaus. We thought it wise to acquire something a little less conspicuous. Anonymity is always an ally in these matters, as you well know.”
“Of course.”
“And my firearm?”
“You will find a Sauer 38 and silencer in your hotel room. It was placed inside the luggage that arrived at the hotel yesterday morning. That is your weapon of choice, is it not?”
“Yes.”
“Your passport is a particularly fine job of forgery and will present no problems when you arrive in America. You will be Anton Duvalier for the duration of this assignment. There is no danger whatsoever that Herr Duvalier will turn up to contest the validity of the document. He seems to have met an unfortunate end some time ago while on holiday in the Fatherland.”
He looked toward the hotel kitchen and smiled.
“Ahh, wonderful! Here are the pastries!”
I have been marooned in this barbaric place since the day after that meeting.
Just then I saw the student emerge from the building and hurry down the street. I check my chronograph and wait precisely ten minutes before crossing the wide avenue. Ignoring the cramped lift that always smells of onions, I take the stairs up to the student’s flat. I stand in front of the blue metal door with “2D” stenciled on it and look up and down the hallway -- an unnecessary precaution, since I have made a point of learning the comings and goings of the other tenants on this floor. The woman cabaret performer across the way in 2C will be asleep for hours. The tall, thin journalist in 2B has been gone since early this morning. And the elderly couple at the far end of the hallway in 2A will not stir until close to noon, when they will leave their flat in order to walk their dachshund in a nearby park.
I take a thin silver card from my pocket and insert it into the door’s entry slot. One of the truly curious things about this new world is that there are no latch keys. They simply do not exist. A series of six pinpoint lights suddenly come to life on the metallic card, flashing red for an instant before each in turn becomes green. The card emits a soft buzzing sound and the heavy metal door clicks open to reveal a shabby little flat: two cramped rooms and a kitchen barely large enough to move about in. The furnishings are Spartan: a sofa, a few uncomfortable-looking chairs, a rather large desk, scattered pieces of mismatched living room furniture, a small bed, a chest of drawers, and an ugly pea green rug that is years past its best days.
I will work outward from the flat’s center, systematically, careful not to miss anything. When I am done, any remaining uncertainty about the student’s innocence will surely have been put to rest. My duty-bound conscience will be clear and I will happily take a late flight back to Paris. I should arrive home just in time to have coffee at a favorite bistro with my lovely friend Camille.
Austin Stryker
November 19, 2083
Croesus taking leisurely inventory of his fortune couldn’t have felt any luckier than I did on that sunny Friday morning. I yawned, stretched, and sat up in bed. A smile spread across my face as I remembered my evening with Abby.
She had been waiting for me in front of her town house. Her black, sleeveless dress clung to every curve of her body, and her long red hair fell in bright waves down to her shoulders. She smiled, looking impossibly beautiful, like a princess out of a fairy tale come to life. My dinged up old Tesla wasn’t close to being good enough for her. I should have picked her up in a golden carriage drawn by six white horses.
I got out of the car and ran to hold the passenger side door open for her. Her green eyes lit up with amusement at the old-fashioned gesture.
“Good evening, Austin,” she said in her slightly accented English.
Our date began with dinner at the best restaurant in town. We went to the theater afterwards, a good local production of Ibsen’s Ghosts, and followed that with espresso and pastry at a nearby café. When I drove her home she surprised me by inviting me up to her apartment, the first time she had done that since we had begun dating. Abby spread big red and black cushions on the floor in front of her white-brick fireplace and, as I got a fire going, went into her kitchen and brought out a chilled bottle of Chateau Margaux ’95, a gift from her wealthy uncle.
We sat in front of the fire listening to music, sipping wine, and talking. When I got up to leave, explaining that I had an early meeting with my mentor at the university the following morning, she took my hand and pulled me back down next to her. I tasted the sweet wine on her lips and tongue as we kissed. She stood up, slid the thin straps of her black dress from her shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Shifting red and yellow light from the hearth fire washed over her body and for a moment she seemed a fiery illusion, something I’d conjured up out of my imagination. We made love on a sea of cushions, hurriedly, a little awkwardly, and afterwards lay there spent and breathless. We had more wine and later, in bed, held each other and talked in sleepy whispers for a long time. We made love again, this time slowly, patiently, like lovers who have known each other all their lives.
I woke in the middle of the night with Abby asleep next to me. I was careful not to wake her as I got out of bed and dressed. Before leaving I paused just long enough to take a final look her sleeping figure. The moment only served to reinforce my feeling that fate had somehow made me golden, and that good fortune would be mine forever.
It was hard to believe that only a few short weeks ago Abby and I had been strangers who met at a campus seminar. She walked into the lecture hall that afternoon -- every eye was instantly on her -- and took the seat next to mine. Smiling, she held out her hand and introduced herself. I stuttered out my name. She seemed surprised and asked if I was by any chance the same Austin Stryker who had recently published an article in Gamma Magazine. I said yes and we chatted about it for a while. That’s how it started. We went out for coffee afterwards and have been seeing each other ever since.
I can think of many words to describe Clifford Oates: insufferable and annoying are a couple of fairly accurate ones. Even though I do everything I can to avoid his company when I’m on campus, Cliff somehow manages to track me down and bore me with endless talk about his schoolwork. Perhaps it’s my ingrained Sunday school sense of right and wrong that forces me to admit how much I owe him. The truth is that if Cliff hadn’t sought to embarrass Dr. Walter Larkin on a long-ago evening, I would never have heard of Otto Fröemke, never written the articles that brought me a brief celebrity, and probably never have gotten to know Abby.
Like a film on an endless loop, that evening’s events have played themselves out for me over and over in the intervening months. I see myself walking into the Clinton Auditorium half an hour early. Faculty and students are drifting in, one or two at a time. I find a seat, third row center, and check my tablet for messages while I wait. Cliff turns up minutes later. He zeros in on the seat next to mine and instantly begins carrying on about any number of things. I'm not sure of anything he might have said since I stopped listening seconds into his rant. And then I see Larkin enter, tall and impressive with his steel-gray eyes and shock of snow-white hair. He is trailed by Dr. Felix Sludge, the head of the Physics Department. Short, balding, and fat, he is the physical opposite of Larkin. He trundles up to the lectern and introduces the celebrated physicist, making light of Larkin’s choice of the evening’s topic, time travel, calling it “whimsical” and even managing one of his tight little smiles. There is respect and admiration in his voice as he delivers a long litany of his guest’s achievements and awards. He concludes his remarks and applause floods the auditorium as Larkin approaches the lectern.
Larkin focuses on a point above and beyond the audience, and seems to be speaking to himself when he says, “There are those in the scientific community who consider time an illusion, a result of the human mind’s need to impose structure and context on daily life. For such people time has no existence outside of human consciousness. I could not disagree more. Count me among those who, along with Isaac Newton, believe that time is a separate and very real dimension. The notion of travel through that dimension is not the fantasy many of my fellow scientists believe it to be. I am convinced that it is achievable within the lifetime of many sitting in this audience tonight, and I have come here to tell you why I believe that to be so.”
Larkin speaks for an hour or so. His remarks are followed by a brief question and answer period. Clifford, gaunt and jittery, runs long, bony fingers over his freckled face and close-cropped red hair before rising to ask a question.
“Why is it, Dr. Larkin, that you never mentioned Dr. Otto Fröemke in your lecture? Are you unfamiliar with his work? And if that is not the case, then why would you fail to bring up a figure so important to the field of time travel studies?”
Clifford sits down with a smirk, certain that Larkin knows little, perhaps nothing at all, about Fröemke, and that he has managed to embarrass the famous scientist.
Larkin smiles at him tolerantly.
“I know a little something about Fröemke’s work, young man. In the only two papers he ever published on the subject, he proposed a novel method for achieving time travel and vaguely described a device capable of what he repeatedly refers to as zietverschiebung, or “time displacement,” something of a misnomer, I think. He does his best to offer a theoretical underpinning for his proposed apparatus by providing a few clever and elegant equations. But what, when all is said and done, did Fröemke actually achieve in those two papers? His discussion of a confluence, or crosscurrent, of fantastically powerful magnetic fields to be concentrated around a bell-shaped structure is interesting, but he avoids any mention of precisely how the enormous energy requirements of his proposed device might be met. That omission, along with a number of other unresolved problems, was to be addressed in a third and much more detailed paper. That paper never appeared, and because of this I’m afraid one is forced to relegate his ideas to the province of science fantasy rather than true science.”
Cliff reddens and rises to his feet. He argues his case with vehemence, insisting that Fröemke’s equations should in and of themselves be considered important contributions, and that the device he envisioned was the conception of a genius. “That was a very noble defense of what is, I’m afraid, an essentially indefensible position.”
There is scattered laughter in the auditorium. Cliff sits down and somehow manages to look both miserable and defiant at the same time.
Larkin leaves the stage to loud applause. Overhead lights come on and a slow procession of students and faculty begins making its way up the aisles. I turn to Cliff as we walk toward the exit.
“So who was this Fröemke guy, Cliff?”
“You heard the great Larkin, didn’t you? He was a fool, a lunatic, a fraud.”
“Then why did you defend him the way you did?”
“Because, for starters, I don’t like Larkin. He’s a charlatan. He popularizes serious science for the sake of people capable of understanding nothing and makes a fortune doing it. And because I also happen to think he’s dead wrong about Fröemke.”
Clifford tells me that he briefly considered making Fröemke the subject of a doctoral dissertation, but was forced to give up on the notion when he found information on the man nearly impossible to find. It is, he says, as if someone had deliberately sought to erase all traces of his existence.
“Who knows what might have happened if Fröemke had taken his work further than he did?”
I usually pay little attention to Clifford’s opinions on anything or anyone, but this time he succeeds in making me curious about something, so after parting outside the auditorium I head straight for the Stevenson Library. It doesn’t take me long to locate the two papers mentioned by Larkin. Both were published in Annalen de Physik, the first in May of 1929 and the second in December of 1931. With the help of a dictionary and what I can recall of my undergraduate German, I read through each with painful slowness, taking notes as I go along.
Cliff was right about Fröemke, at least in part. His work was at times brilliant. He attempted to show how, by using a crosscurrent of extremely powerful force fields, one might create open a pathway through the fabric of time. And yet, despite their occasional brilliance, the two papers offer little beyond an interesting theory. At the conclusion of his second paper, Fröemke promised a third, much more comprehensive work that would resolve all problems and provide a detailed blueprint for a working device. As Larkin pointed out, that final paper never materialized.
Fröemke produced nothing of scientific value after 1931. His only appearances in print were occasional articles in praise of the criminal regime then in charge of his country. He published nothing after the onset of war in September of 1939. Perhaps he fell out of favor with Nazi officials and ended his days in a concentration camp, or maybe he was a casualty of an early Allied bombing raid. It is impossible to know his fate.
I sat in the library until one in the morning, re-reading both papers, taking still more notes, and playing with the tantalizing notion of how Fröemke’s ideas might have been turned into a working device. What would it have looked like? How could its enormous energy demands have been met? The desire for answers took hold of me and, although I had no way of knowing it at the time, as I made my way home that night the specter of Otto Fröemke was walking beside me.
For days after my visit to the library, I spent nearly all my idle time poring over Fröemke’s two papers. The walls of my small bedroom were soon covered with increasingly detailed sketches of what I imagined his device might have looked like. At the same time, most of my efforts at learning more about the physicist were met with frustration. I did manage, after countless hours of searching, to track down a blurry old photograph. It was buried in the massive online digital archives of Heidelberg University and showed Fröemke, looking uncomfortable in a dark suit that was clearly too small for his tall, lean frame, seated with adozen other scientists. The lenses of his pince-nez spectacles reflected the photographer’s arc-lamps and those twin bursts of light gave him an eerie, otherworldly look.
My obsession with Fröemke ended one morning as I was having breakfast. I had just poured myself a second cup of coffee when a phrase came to me. I went to my desk, took a new legal pad from the center drawer, and wrote it down in my small, neat script: “The time machine that might have been.” Those words led, almost without effort, to more words, and I had soon completed a paragraph. That paragraph became two, then three. Days of speculation spilled out of me in a torrent of words, filling page after page. I wrote all the rest of that morning and on into the afternoon and evening, missing all my classes and fighting off fatigue with streams of coffee. By the time I was done, I had completed the first draft of a long article.
Writing is nothing new to me. I’ve been submitting articles to tablet dailies and popular science magazines since my undergraduate days. Among my few published pieces, I was proudest of an article on Einstein-Rosen bridges that appeared in Gamma Magazine the year I entered graduate school. The Fröemke article easily eclipsed it. I ran the handwritten pages through the Physics Department’s OCR device and, after some corrections and minor editing, submitted it to Gamma.
The magazine responded with uncharacteristic swiftness. It seems that my timing could not have been more perfect. The editors had been looking for something new on time travel, a topic then in fashion thanks to a best-selling novel that had been turned into a successful film. The editors happily predicted an enthusiastic response from its readers. As it turns out, they were both wrong and right.
Although circulation went up slightly the month of its publication, the article itself received only a lukewarm response. Then something as odd as it was unexpected happened: a popular national news program ended its nightly broadcast with a brief and much-amused mention of the article, misrepresenting it in any number of stupid ways. The broadcast made me sound like a lunatic, and yet, despite that, interest in the article suddenly skyrocketed. I even had a couple of calls from enterprising local reporters asking for an interview. Of course, I refused both requests.
Foreign-language editions of Gamma Magazine came out later that same month and added thousands more views. All the attention thrilled the people at Gamma and they suggested I do a follow-up piece. I was more than happy to oblige.
A string of musical notes from my tablet interrupted my train of thought. It was Abby.
“Why are you still home? Don’t you have an appointment this morning?”
Her voice had a cold, distant quality.
“Sure do. With Shukov. Big day today. I’ll be all set if he approves my thesis proposal. I was up until five this morning putting the finishing touches on it. But that meeting’s not until ten.”
“It’s after nine, Austin.”
I tapped the tiny clock icon on my tablet. Its bright white numbers showed 9:35.
“Holy Moses!”
“We were supposed to meet in front of the cafeteria an hour ago, remember?”
That explained the coldness in her voice. She was upset over being stood up. Well, I’d find some way to make it up to her. Maybe dinner at one of the nicer places in town would do the trick.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes, Abby.”
“Too late. I’ve got to be somewhere else in a little while.”
“How about later, at the coffee shop near the south entrance to the campus? You know the place. At noon? I should be done by then.”
“We’ll see. Good luck with Shukov.”
“Thanks, Abby. I’d better get going.”
Her lovely face faded from the screen. I tossed the tablet onto my unmade bed, stripped off my shorts, and hurried into the shower. I was dressed and ready to go in less than ten minutes. Grabbing my backpack from its peg by the front door, I ran out of the apartment.
I took the stairs down to the lobby two at a time then sprinted to the café a couple of streets away. I was there only long enough to pick up a large coffee and check the scrolling time display on their wall. It read 9:47. My appointment with the notoriously bad-tempered Dr. Shukov was now fewer than fifteen minutes away.
I jogged the mile to the university and was nearly at the front gate when the image of my tablet sitting atop an unmade bed stopped me in my tracks. A sick, sinking feeling hit me in the pit of my stomach. All my notes for today’s meeting were on that tablet, including the multiple changes I had made only last night. I turned and raced toward home, cursing myself all the way.
Five minutes later, sweating and breathing hard, I burst through the lobby doors and sped up the stairs to my apartment. I thrust my entry card into its slot. The lock clicked and I shoved the door open.
A tall, blond stranger was standing in front of my desk. He turned toward me and his look of surprise quickly turned to one of anger. I watched in disbelief as he pulled a small pistol from his waistband. It took me little more than a heartbeat to cover the space between us, but I wasn’t fast enough. He fired and missed. The sound of shattering glass came from somewhere behind me. I tackled him before he could get off a second shot, driving him back over the desk and sending it and the two of us crashing to the floor. My knee came down like a sledgehammer on his chest, temporarily knocking the wind out of him, and as he fought for breath I pinned his left arm and gripped the wrist of his gun hand, twisting it hard and forcing the muzzle up against his chest. His breath was still coming in ragged gasps as he struggled to push off the floor and topple me sideways. One of these lurching attempts must have made his right hand jerk spasmodically because a shot suddenly echoed through the room like a thunderclap. The tall stranger stopped struggling. He made a long sighing sound and was still.
I got to my feet, stumbling backward away from the body, trembling uncontrollably. The stranger’s pale blue eyes were open and staring directly at me, frozen in a look of astonishment.
Lieutenant Carl Noble
November 2083
Two uniforms and a crime scene tech were already on the scene when we walked into the place. The living room looked like it had been redecorated by a tornado. The stiff was on the living room floor, his sightless blue eyes open and a pool of blood spreading out beneath him in the shape of a lopsided heart.
A crime scene tech was kneeling by the body. She looked up at me.
“What can you tell me?”
“Looks like the student who lives here, a kid named Stryker, walked in on a burglary in progress. The guy pulled a gun, got off a shot that made mincemeat out of a sconce lamp over by the front door. There was a tussle, and the gun went off again, this time at point blank range right through the burglar’s pump.”
The stiff was still holding the gun in the clenched fingers of his right hand.
“Mind if I take a look?”
“Help yourself. We’re pretty much done here.”
I called my partner over.
“Hey, Ritt, take a look at this. Pretty well dressed for your average burglar, wouldn’t you say?”
“Maybe he wasn’t an average burglar.”
The tech held up a plastic evidence bag.
“Here’s a little something you might find interesting. It must have fallen out of his pocket during the struggle.”
The bag contained a wafer-thin silver object about the size of a business card. I’d seen others like it before. It was every burglar’s dream come true, a contraption that scans and opens just about any electronic lock on the market, even those activated by palm or finger prints. The nasty little things are illegal and cost about as much as a cabin cruiser.
I went through the stiff’s pockets and came up with a leather billfold containing eight thousand dollars in cash, a rare thing these days when nearly everything is paid for with the scan of a handheld device. He had an international identification card that told me he was Anton Duvalier and that he lived on the Rue Saint-Paul in Paris. His expensive-looking jacket had a label from a tailor’s shop in that city. The slacks and shirt looked as if they, too, were custom-made. His outfit probably cost more than I earn in a month.
“What do you think, Ritt?”
“Not sure yet, but this doesn’t feel right.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.”
Stryker was sitting at the kitchen table across from Officer Timothy McGivern, a good cop and a friend from way back. The kid looked up at me with dazed brown eyes. He was probably hoping this was all a bad dream and that any second now he’d wake up next to his girlfriend.
“Looks like you had quite a dance with our friend over there.”
“Dance?”
I’d have to go easy with him. The kid was still deep in shock.
“Sorry. I mean, there must have been quite a struggle.”
“I … I walked in on him. He took a shot at me and we wrestled, knocked over a lot of things. I had him pinned, trying to get the gun away from him … and … and it went off.”
“Ever see him before?”
“No, never.”
“I’m Lieutenant Carl Noble. This is my partner, Sargeant Walter Ritter. Why don’t we go over what happened here, step by step? Take your time.”
McGivern and his partner stood up.
“We’re going to take off now, Carl.”
“Thanks guys. We’ll take it from here.”
I sat across from the kid.
“Go ahead, Mr. Stryker.”
An hour later Ritt and I were on our way back to the station house. He hadn’t said a thing for a whole ten minutes, a record for him.
“Okay, spill it. What’s wrong, Ritt?”
“Nothing.”
“You haven’t tossed two words in my direction since we left Stryker’s apartment.”
“I’m thinking.”
“That’s what worries me.”
“Why don’t we stop for a bite before we go back? That new seafood place over on Arlington looks like it might be worth a try.”
“We’ll go anywhere you want, but first tell me what’s on your mind.”
“Well, for starters, we’ve got a burglar who dresses better than the police commissioner. He’s also got enough cash on him to start his own bank and is walking around with an illegal device that costs as much as my house. Did you by any chance take a look at his hands?”
“Yeah, I saw. The stiff liked jewelry and manicures. So what?”
“So that was no ordinary burglar lying there with a hole in his chest. So maybe this wasn’t a burglary at all. Could be the two guys knew each other, argued over something -- money, a woman maybe, whatever. So maybe what we’re looking at here isn’t self-defense but murder.”
“I talked to the kid for nearly an hour. The kid’s clean, Ritt. If he was lying, I’d have known it.”
“Why don’t we make sure?”
“What are you getting at?”
Ritt reached in his pocket and brought out an evidence bag with a few strands of hair in it.
“These came from the Stryker’s hair brush. I looked around the place while you were talking to him. I’ll a buddy of mine in the lab run a DNA tracer and see what he comes up with. In a few days I’ll have a report and we should know everything the kid’s done since he came out of his mama’s belly.”
“Are you aware of the laws against that type of thing?”
“We can always get a search warrant later if it turns out he’s dirty. Who’s to say when, or how, we got a couple of strands of the kid’s hair?”
“Sometimes you worry me, Ritt.”
“Let’s get some lunch. Playing Sherlock Holmes makes me hungry.”
I wrote my report when we got back to the squad room. The DA’s office would take a statement from him tomorrow and then it would be up to them to decide if Stryker was guilty of anything other defending himself against an armed intruder. I was willing to bet my pension that they wouldn’t.
Ritter got his DNA report two days later. He sat across from me, reading it and shaking his head.
“So, were you right about the kid, Sherlock?”
“Doesn’t look like it. Stryker’s a boy scout. The tracer doesn’t even show a parking ticket. He was an honor student in high school, where he was also captain of the wrestling team and valedictorian of his graduating class. The kid went to college on a scholarship and wrestled there, too, until a back injury put him out of commission during his junior year. He graduated Magna Cum Laude and now he’s working on a PhD in Theoretical Physics, whatever the hell that is, over at the university. The kid’s also some kind of author, written some stuff for a tablet mag. Take a look at this.”
He dropped a hard copy of a tablet magazine article on my desk: “The Time Machine That Might Have Been.”
“Have you read it?”
“I tried. It’s about some crackpot who dreamed up a time machine.”
“People can’t seem to get enough time travel garbage since that awful movie came out last year.”
“Yeah, I know. Only this article is a little different, Carl. It’s not made up stuff like the movie. The guy he writes about actually lived more than a hundred and fifty years ago.”
“Still sounds like a load of crap to me, just like the movie.”
I tossed the article into my desk drawer.
“Anything else, Ritt?”
“Not about the kid. We did get something on the stiff’s gun. It was reported stolen six months ago by a commercial dealer in antique firearms. How about you? Hear anything from Larry about Duvalier?”
Larry Sobel is the city coroner and chief medical examiner.
“Not yet. We should have something soon.”
A call came in just then: a citizen named Rehnquist reporting a body out in the waterfront district, a possible homicide. A Med Unit was on its way and would meet us there.
The “body” turned out to be a vagrant who had passed out after taking a hit of Oblivion, the latest drug making the rounds of our fair city. It’s supposed to knock you out for half an hour or so and while you’re in never-never land you experience visions that change your life in all kinds of wonderful ways. The dirt bags who sell the poison promise users that they will be born again. It’s been a real problem over at the university, where students sometimes overdose and wind up with screaming nightmares they have a hell of a time waking up from. Then there are the poor kids who take it one time and never wake up again.
The med techs managed to bring the vagrant out of it. If the poor slob felt born again when he woke up, he certainly didn’t show it. He vomited for ten minutes and had trouble remembering who and where he was. They finally carted him away to a local detox unit.
Ritter shook his head as we walked back to the car.
“The fun and games never end for us humble servants of the law.”
Larry Sobel called me the following day. I took it at my desk display unit in the squad room.
“Got a wild one for you, Carl.”
“Meaning what, Larry?”
“I’m talking about your well-dressed decedent. First of all, his wound is entirely consistent with Mr. Stryker’s account of what transpired. Things get a little peculiar after that. Duvalier’s identification card is a forgery, the best my office has ever seen. The real Anton Duvalier was a jeweler who went missing while on vacation in Germany. The Paris address on the card turns out to be an antique shop owned by an elderly Latvian couple. We ran the guy’s prints through every database known to man and cop and came up empty, so I did facial and iris scans and drew a blank again. How old would you say he was?”
“Thirty maybe, give or take a year or two.”
“That’s just about where I’d peg him, Carl. That means he should have an embedded chip, just like everybody else born in the last forty years, only this guy doesn’t and there’s no scar to show that it’s been removed.”
“He’s a foreigner, Larry.”
“Makes no difference. We were late getting into the chip game, remember? The rest of the world was tagging babies years before us.”
“How about Interpol?”
“Same story. Nothing. There’s one other really curious thing about the deceased, his teeth. They were in good shape except for a couple of fillings. It looks like some butcher used a drill on the guy. My God, can you imagine that, a drill? And you wouldn’t believe what they used to fill the cavities. The stuff’s been used for at least eighty years. Unbelievable.”
“What are you trying to tell me, Larry?”
“I’m telling you that your burglar doesn’t exist, at least not officially. He’s a John Doe and that’s what he’s going to remain unless someone comes out of the woodwork to claim the body. If no one does, we vaporize the remains in thirty days. That gives you a month to try and find out who he was, if you’re so inclined.”
“When will I get your report?”
“Give it a couple of hours. Look under the case number.”
“Thanks, Larry.”
Larry’s face faded from the display.
“So, what’s the story on the stiff?” Ritter had been out getting what was probably the day’s fifth cup of coffee. He hadn’t heard any of my conversation with Larry.
“There is no story, Ritt. The guy’s a blank.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just what I said. He’s a total blank, doesn’t exist. I.D.’s a phony. No chip. No match on the prints or anything else. The only thing Larry knows for sure is that he had a butcher for a dentist.”
“Dentist?”
“Don’t ask.”
“Guess that’s that.”
“No, it isn’t. Not for me.”
“Why should you give a damn who he was? He’s dead. Over and done with.”
“I don’t, not really. I just hate loose ends.”
“Is that what this Duvalier character is, a loose end?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’m afraid I do, Carl. You know what Chief Carpenter says about you?”
“Sure. He says I obsess over cases.”
“I’m beginning to think he might have a point.”
“He does. It’s on top of his head.”
“Listen to me, Carl, if you’re so hell bent on wasting the department’s time and money finding out who this creep was, why not try getting in touch with Paul Boyer? We know the stiff’s duds were all made in Paris, right? And he was carrying an I.D. with a French address. Maybe Paul can come up with something that’ll tie all your loose ends together.”
“You think I should bring him into this? Chief Carpenter would just love that.”
“I’m not suggesting an official request. Make it a personal thing, a favor for a friend. Strictly unofficial.”
Paul Boyer is an inspector with the French police. Two years ago, he was on the trail of a banker, a guy named Jean Chevalier who, after embezzling a fortune from his employer, had poisoned his wife and her lover. It was a week before the bodies were discovered and by then Chevalier had bought a one-way ticket to the USA, where he proceeded to lose himself among our four hundred and fifty million overcrowded citizens. The French cops were under a ton of pressure to find him. It seems Chevalier had family connections to some very prominent people in the government and they were mad as hell about his still being on the loose. They wanted him caught, and fast.
The French police thought he might be living in or near our city in order to be close to a married woman he’d been having an on-again, off-again affair with for nearly ten years. They’d met while she was teaching at the Sorbonne and the affair continued until she left France and came to work at our university. The French authorities requested assistance in apprehending him and placed Paul on temporary assignment with our department. We kept an eye on the girlfriend, hoping Chevalier would eventually feel safe enough to come out of hiding and contact her. After all, boys will be boys, and having seen his lady professor I can’t say I would have blamed him much for wanting to get close to her again.
It took a couple of months, but Chevalier’s hormones eventually got the better of him and he showed up at the woman’s door, looking arrogant and self-satisfied. We were there waiting for him when he left her place. I suppose we all assumed that a slightly overweight, middle-aged banker wasn’t likely to give us much trouble. How wrong we were. He saw us closing in and pulled a Ruger automatic from his overcoat, firing as he ran for the sporty red roadster he’d left parked up the street. He never made it.
Paul and I got to be friends during the two months it took to nail Chevalier and we’ve kept in touch ever since.
“I just may do that, Ritt. He owes me a couple of favors and this might be a good time to collect one of them.”
I reached Paul at his home in Montreuil late that evening. We chatted for a while before I got around to asking him for help. He didn’t sound very enthusiastic, but agreed to do what he could. I sent him all we had on the case and waited.
I heard back from him four days later.
“What have you got for me, Paul?”
“And bon jour to you, too, Carl.”
“Sorry. How are you, my friend?”
“Old, exhausted, and in debt, but otherwise manifique. And you?”
“About the same.”
“Well, this was a curious little puzzle you dropped in my lap.”
“You came up empty, too?”
“I came up, as you say, ‘empty,” but only at first. Then I took the photograph you sent me to the tailor’s shop where your well-dressed corpse had his clothes made. A very expensive place, I might add. The clerks remembered him quite well. He had been a very good customer of theirs for the past two years. The fellow called himself Günter Hess. That’s all the clerks were able to tell me. All his purchases were delivered to a luxury residence in the sixteenth arrondissement. The building flat is managed by a local real estate agency for its foreign owners. The woman I spoke to at the agency said that Hess bought the flat for sixty million in cash.”
“Then Hess was the guy’s name?”
“No. Oh, he did produce a passport and a European identification card when he bought the flat. Both had the name Günter Hess on them. I’m sure the agent wasn’t interested in checking any further. Why should he? When a man pays that much for a place to live, he’s allowed to call himself Mickey Mouse if he wishes. I also had a chat with the building’s concierge. He told me that Hess was quite the ladies’ man. Excellent taste, too, he said, but quite fickle, never seen with the same woman for very long. And ladies were not his only passion. He had two new Maserati convertibles parked in the building’s garage, one red, one black. We traced those and found that they, too, were paid for in cash and registered to Günter Hess. Your burglar was also something of a gourmet who ate at only the very best and most expensive restaurants our city has to offer. Hess managed to live in this most enviable fashion while having no income, at least none that I have been able to discover. The real Günter Hess, by the way, was a school teacher who disappeared several years ago while on holiday in Munich. Now let me ask you a question, Carl.”
“Shoot.”
“Have you disposed of the remains?”
“No. If a relative doesn’t show up within fifty-three days, the body will go into the chamber and disappear in a cloud of blue smoke.”
“You must not allow that to happen.”
“Why not?”
“That is the strangest part of this puzzle, Carl. You see, when I was unable to identify your burglar through conventional means, one of my assistants, an ambitious young fool who has not been with us very long, took it upon himself to run the prints you sent us through an old database, an idiotic thing to do, since that particular database is a collection of millions of very old records of deceased individuals from all over Europe. It contains everything from nuns, prostitutes, entertainers, and generals to thieves, politicians, housewives, serial killers, university students, and infants. It is used strictly for training purposes. Incredibly, this burglar of yours was in that database. His name, it seems, was not Duvalier or Hess but Klaus Auguste von Tauber, born on the fifteenth day of April in the year 1915, which made him approximately one hundred and sixty-eight years of age on the day of his death. So, my friend, if you have not yet rid yourselves of the remains then you may wish to take them to a facility for advanced medical research. This fellow could very well help science discover the secret to eternal youth.”
“It’s a mistake, Paul. Some sort of computer mix-up. You know that.”
“Of course, it is a mistake, Carl. There can be no other reasonable explanation. Still, it presents us with a fascinating mystery, does it not? How is one to explain the fact that Duvalier’s finger prints are a match for Von Tauber’s, or that the photograph on the old kennkarte my determined young assistant came up with appears to be the same person, a little younger perhaps but without question the same individual or his identical twin? Now here’s another curious fact, Carl: while Herr von Tauber was born in Germany, his last known residence was a place right here in Paris, not the flat where he lived the past two years, but 84 Avenue Foch, which happens to have been the headquarters of an SS counter-intelligence unit during the unfortunate twentieth century occupation of my country. The German authorities were kind enough to track him down in their archives and sent my assistant a copy of an old dossier on von Tauber. I’ll forward a copy of the dossier and identity card to you. Does anyone in your department read German?”
“No, but if I need a translation, I can always find someone at the university to do it for us.”
“No need. I’ll have my assistant translate the documents before sending them along. His maternal grandmother was German, and among his talents is a fluency in that language. My assistant tells me that this von Tauber fellow was from a family of wealthy Prussian aristocrats, a university graduate who studied in both England and France. He also seems to have been a good little Nazi, very devoted to the cause. The dossier chronicles his activities through early 1944, when he was assigned to the staff of a civilian scientist named Fröemke, Otto Fröemke. He seems to have disappeared after that. I’m having Le Clercq -– he’s the fellow who discovered everything I have just told you --- look into this Fröemke person. I doubt that anything useful will come of it, but if nothing else the search will help to keep my ambitious assistant out of mischief for a while.”
“Nothing about this business makes any sense, Paul. What motive could this guy, whatever his name really was, have had in the first place? According to you, he had been living like a king in Paris for the past two years. We’re supposed to believe that one morning he wakes up and decides to travel thousands of miles for the sole purpose of breaking into a place rented by a student he doesn’t know, a kid whose total net worth maybe adds up to what he paid for a couple of his tailor-made suits? That makes about as much sense as his being one hundred and sixty-eight years old.”
“Let me ask you something, Carl. Does your burglar have a scar on his right shoulder? Is there a small kidney-shaped birthmark on his lower back? Von Tauber had both. If your corpse also has them, then I think we are left with a most curious situation: a man who has been dead for a very long time appears to have been the person killed in your city a week ago.”
“You saw the coroner’s report, Paul. The scar and birthmark are both there.”
“Well, that is it then, isn’t it? You handed me a mystery and I have given back a conundrum. Incredible as it may seem, the facts seem to tell us that von Tauber and the deceased are one and the same person. The probability of an error in this case is statistically so small as to be virtually non-existent, or so young Le Clercq assures me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I am going to my favorite bar and have a large absinthe, possibly two, while I try to forget all about your well-dressed Methuselah.”
“Thanks, Paul. I owe you one.”
“Allow me to offer you a little brotherly advice, Carl. Don’t bother reading the dossier Le Clercq is sending you. What does it matter who your burglar was or might have been? He’s dead. Forget him and get on with your other cases.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Can’t? Or won’t? There is a world of difference between those two.”
“Give me enough time and I’ll find out who this guy really was.”
“I wish you luck, Carl. In the meantime, young Le Clercq will get in touch with you should he discover anything new. Au voir, my friend.”
***
“Aren’t you going home today, Carl?”
“You go ahead, Ritt. I’ve got some work to catch up on.”
Ritter looked at the pile of paper on my desk and shot me a long, skeptical look.
“Jeez, are you back on that again?”
“Go home, Ritt.”
He shook his head as he walked out of the squad room.
My desk was covered with everything I had on Duvalier. The similar birthmarks and scars could be chalked up to coincidence. Many people have scars, many have birthmarks. Explaining a seemingly exact match between the photograph and finger prints on old German identity card and what we had on Duvalier was a hell of lot harder, and yet to accept what they suggested was crazy. Thirty years of experience told me that hidden somewhere in the pile of information in front of me was a telltale fact that would destroy the ridiculous notion that Klaus Auguste von Tauber and the burglar killed in Stryker’s apartment were one and the same person.
For the couple of hours I sat at my desk poring over files, while outside the dusty squad room windows the sun went through its daily disappearing act. I read through everything twice and found nothing, but that didn’t discourage me. What I needed was in those pages, and sooner or later I’d spot it. I opened my desk drawer to put the files away and that’s when I noticed Stryker’s article. It had been there, buried under a clutter of notes and old paperwork, since Ritter first handed it to me. I’d never bothered to look at it.
I was at the ragged end of a very long day and badly in need of some Chinese takeout, a couple of cold beers, a hot shower, and ten solid hours of sleep, in exactly that order. That’s how the evening should have played out for me, but I made a mistake, a big one. I picked up Stryker’s article and scanned the first few paragraphs on my way out of the squad room. Inserted within the text was an old black and white photo of a tall, thin man in an ill-fitting suit and pince-nez glasses. The name under the photo jumped off the page at me: Otto Fröemke. I froze where I stood.
Like most other cops, I’m used to dealing with facts, sometimes cruel and pitiless facts but always facts, never fantasy, never impossible coincidences. Standing there looking down at that name I felt suddenly adrift in a strange new place where facts meant nothing and truth had a thousand faces. The twenty or so steps back to my desk seemed to take forever.
I read Stryker’s article all the way through, unable to make much out of his equations and all the stuff about space-time and relativity, but I still managed to get to the heart of what he was saying: almost a century and a half in the past, a German physicist named Otto Fröemke had published a couple of papers in something called Annalen der Physik that described a contraption he said was capable of moving through time. He was dismissed as a dreamer, a lunatic, but Stryker wasn’t so sure he was either. His article was illustrated with drawings of what the machine might have looked like. I examined each one carefully, but all I could see was a contraption that resembled a giant black bell with wires all around it.
I put the article down and closed my eyes. Random facts were slowly coming together to form a pattern, only the pattern they formed made no sense. For the first time since I was a rookie, I needed answers and had no idea how or where to find them. I felt a migraine building, still some distance away but headed straight for me like a locomotive.
Just then my tablet signaled an incoming call. I was going to ignore it until I saw the French identity prefix. I hoped it was Paul calling back to explain how his assistant got it all wrong: electronic records had somehow been mixed up, with absurd results. I switched the call from my tablet to the large desk display. The face I saw was not Paul’s but that of a man with dark eyes and a head of unruly brown curls. He looked to be somewhere in his early twenties and had an expression lit up by an idealistic young cop’s enthusiasm for his work. We had the same type on our own force. They didn’t remain idealistic for long, and the enthusiasm usually died a whimpering death after a few years on a job where you’re forced to confront all the terrible ugliness people are capable of.
“Good evening, Lieutenant Carl. I am Georges Le Clercq. I work with …”
“I know who you are, Inspector Le Clercq.”
“I was asked to call you about a matter you and Inspector Boyer discussed some days ago.”
“What have you got for me?”
“I thought you might be interested in a document I happened on while looking into a man named Otto Fröemke. As you may already know, a Major von Tauber was assigned to his staff in 1944.”
Le Clercq was wrong. At that moment, I wasn’t the least bit interested in his document. Supper and a night’s sleep were the only things on my mind, but I didn’t cut him off, mostly for Paul’s sake.
“It is a statement given by Ladislau Rutkowski, a Polish national who was part of a group of engineers forced to work for the Germans during the Second World War. His deposition was given in connection with the prosecution of the commandant of a concentration camp where he was briefly confined. The commandant’s trial was scheduled to take place in nineteen forty-eight, but by that time Mr. Rutkowski had fallen ill and was far too weak to appear at trial, so the American occupation authorities allowed him to submit a deposition in lieu of testimony in open court. His deposition was never used because the accused committed suicide before a trial could take place. Rutkowski’s statement was later archived with other materials documenting the Nazi war crimes trials.
“Rutkowski was one of fifty engineers forced to work on a project located in a remote and heavily forested part of eastern Bavaria. The engineers were divided into small groups and kept isolated from each other at all times. Each group worked on one section of the project and was taken away as soon as its work was completed. No group was told exactly what it was they were building or what it might eventually be used for. Rutkowski writes of witnessing the near-fatal beating of an engineer whose only offense appears to have been curiosity. He had been foolish enough to ask a guard what it was they were constructing.”
“What does any of this have to do with Duvalier?”
“Well, the connection is slight, to be sure, but it is very definitely there. You see, Rutkowski claims to have seen Otto Fröemke at the site on numerous occasions.”
“How did he know it was this Fröemke character?”
“He didn’t, not at first, but then he overheard the name spoken by guards whenever the man was present. Rutkowski spoke German, you see, among several other languages, a skill he was careful to keep hidden from his captors. The guards often joked among themselves about what was going on. They called the project ‘Herr Fröemke’s hole in the ground.’ They were apparently kept as much in the dark as the engineers who were forced to work there. Mr. Rutkowski somehow managed to escape after a few weeks. He traveled at night, hid during the day, subsisted on what he could forage, and in this way eventually reached the Czech border. Unfortunately, he was recaptured by the Germans and sent to a concentration camp in Poland.”
“Do you have any idea what the Germans might have been up to?”
“No, Lieutenant, but Rutkowski does mention a phrase he heard Fröemke use on several occasions: das dritte tagesprojekt. I’ve searched all the records provided to me by the German authorities and found no other mention of this phrase or what it might signify.”
“What does it mean, Officer Le Clercq?”
“It means ‘the third day project.’”
“Is that all this Rutkowski had to say?”
“Well, there is one other thing. He blamed some of the materials brought into the work site for the particularly aggressive form of cancer that eventually took his life. That suggests to me that a radioactive substance may have been used. The Germans were known to have had an ambitious program in place for the development of an atomic weapon. It may be that the project was in some way connected to that. Rutkowski described the area around the construction site in great detail. He even named a small town, a village really, some sixty kilometers due east of the work site. He was very precise in his description, so it was easy for me to identify the location. You see, Lieutenant Carl, I am only half French. My mother is German. In fact, her family was originally from Bavaria and as a child I spent many summers there at the home of my grandparents, much of the time bicycling and hiking through the countryside. I know the place Rutkowski wrote about, Lieutenant, know it quite well. Now here is where I encountered something odd, something that relates more directly to your case. If you’ll recall, the flat von Tauber was --”
“Hold on a moment.”
“Yes?”
“All we know for sure is that the guy used a couple of aliases. We still don’t know who he really was, and I’m not buying this ridiculous von Tauber business.”
“Yes, of course. My apologies. The building in Paris where the deceased individual had a flat is owned by the Oststern Group, a large multinational corporation with headquarters in Munich. And as I learned only recently the site where Rutkowski and others were forced to work is today owned by that same company. It has been turned into a very large research compound that is guarded around the clock by a cadre of armed private security guards. Interesting, no?”
“Maybe. Big companies usually own all sorts of things, don’t they?”
“Certainly. I merely thought it an interesting link between a very old document and your recent investigation. I will have a translation of Rutkowski’s deposition forwarded to you in the morning.”
I thanked him, even though I had no use for it.
“You are most welcome, Lieutenant Noble. Inspector Boyer gave you my personal number, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“Please do not hesitate to call me if you need more help with this curious business.”
“Thanks. Listen, Inspector Le Clercq, I’m grateful for this call and your offer of help, I truly am, but at the moment I’m very tired and have just about had it with Duvalier or Hess or whatever the hell the guy’s name was.”
“I understand completely, Lieutenant Noble. Have a good night."
I tossed Stryker’s article in the trash on my way out of the squad room. Paul had probably been right when he suggested it would be best to drop the matter and get on with my work. After all, who would care what a dead burglar called himself after he went into the coroner’s disposal chamber and disappeared in a cloud of blue smoke? Of course, I knew the answer to that all too well -- I would.
My fifteen-year-old jalopy, an ancient hybrid nobody drives anymore, was waiting for me in the station’s basement garage. I took a long look at it and decided that the car and its owner were very much alike: both have seen better days, both aren’t as fast as they used to be, and both have a built-in refusal to quit. I got in. The mixed odors of leather, tobacco, and Jim Beam hung in the air like memories.
A car drove by as I sat there. Tim McGivern was at the wheel, on the way home to his wife, Marlene, and their two kids. I shut my tired eyes and was instantly drawn back to the scene in Stryker’s apartment: the stiff lying on the floor with a startled look in his wide-open blue eyes, the cheap rug under him damp with blood, and Stryker sitting in the kitchen with a dazed look on his youthful face. Yeah, there was about as much chance of my letting go of a search for Duvalier’s identity as there was of my old wreck magically turning itself into a sleek new sports car. Unanswered questions have always had a way of eating away at me; of waking me up in the middle of the night and starting me on the ugly business of losing sleep.
I should have started my car then and, like McGivern, headed straight for home, or the two-room walkup I’ve called home since my divorce. But I didn’t. Instead, I continued to sit with my eyes shut, massaging my temples in an attempt to get rid of a growing headache, while at the same time trying to make sense of all I’d learned about the man killed in Stryker’s place. Each attempt led to the same impossible conclusion. Then, with the suddenness of a lightning strike, a solution came to me. I bolted from my car and ran up the three flights to the squad room.
I pulled the copy of von Tauber’s dossier from the desk drawer and went through it until I found what I was looking for, a single detail that only an hour ago had been a meaningless fact in a sea of other meaningless facts. The coroner’s report was next. Page three of that document told me what I needed to know. My path to the truth was now clear.
A call to Georges Le Clercq was the next, crucial step. It would be past one in morning in Paris, late for a call from a near-stranger asking for a favor. On the other hand, the determined young cop had contacted me not all that long ago. I took a chance and tried reaching him at his private number. He answered immediately. I hurriedly explained what I had in mind.
“I will be happy to assist you, Lieutenant Noble. However, what you ask may take some time and will involve the cooperation of others. That cooperation, of course, I cannot guaranty, but I will do what I can. You have happened on a fine solution to your problem, Lieutenant. I only wish I had thought of it myself.”
There was nothing left to do then but wait. So, after having been on duty nearly sixteen hours, I went home. The last thing I thought of before drifting off into an exhausted, dreamless sleep was how good, how beautifully rational, the world would look after the crazy notion of a one-hundred-and-sixty-year-eight-old burglar was laid to rest forever.
***
Two weeks went by before I heard back from Le Clercq. I was sitting at home trying to decide whether to have Thai or Indian for supper. My tablet came to life just as I made up my mind to go with Indian.
Le Clercq’s face filled the small display.
“How are you, Lieutenant Noble?”
“Surviving. How about you?”
“I am fine, Lieutenant.”
“Good. Got any answers for me?”
“I do.”
“Wonderful. Let’s have them.”
“Karl von Tauber was married in August of 1939, several weeks before the outbreak of war. He and his wife had one child, a son named Eric who was born in 1941. This much you knew from having read von Tauber’s dossier. Eric von Tauber survived the war and lived to the age of sixty-three. His son, Heinrich von Tauber, is ninety years old and very much alive. He is, as far as I have been able to determine, Klaus von Tauber’s only living blood relation. Heinrich has been hospitalized in Belgium for the past two weeks, which made obtaining the necessary blood sample far easier than it might otherwise have been. Our laboratory in Alsace has confirmed a DNA match. He is without question a descendant of the man you know as Anton Duvalier. I had a laboratory in Zurich check the results and they corroborate our findings.”
“Are you telling me that the guy in our morgue and von Tauber are definitely the same person?”
“It would certainly appear so. The methods employed in making such a determination are not new. They have been used for many decades and are considered as close to infallible as science can make them. Let me assure you, Lieutenant, that this result is as troubling to me as it is to you.”
“Well, I suppose that’s it then. Thank you, Inspector Le Clercq. If there’s ever anything you need from me, anything at all, don’t think twice about calling. And please give my best to Paul when you see him.”
“I will.”
Le Clercq’s image faded from the display and for a long time afterwards I sat staring at the blank screen.
There was my answer, looking me in the face and daring me to deny its existence. I had sought Le Clercq’s help in destroying an absurd notion and he had instead confirmed it in a way that seemed irrefutable.
What was next? A call to Larry Sobel asking him to fill out a death certificate in the name of Klaus Auguste von Tauber, age one hundred and sixty-eight? Common sense and logic had been the tools of my trade for a very long time. Was I now supposed to toss them out of the nearest window? I felt lost. Von Tauber, Duvalier, Hess, Fröemke, Rutkowski, time machines, the Third Day Project: was there any way of putting them all together that did not defy reason? I couldn’t, but I knew one person who might be able to do exactly that. He was my last hope.
I opened my small black notebook, the kind every cop on the planet stopped using decades ago, and found Stryker’s tablet identification number written in my penciled scrawl. It didn’t take him long to link up at the other end.
“Lieutenant Noble?”
“Are you busy, Stryker?”
“A little. I’m trying to get set up in my new place and start work on a doctoral dissertation at the same time. Right now, I’m not making much headway with either.”
“I’ve got a question for you and I want you to think very carefully before you answer. Have you ever heard of something called The Third Day Project?”
“The Third Day Project? No, I don’t believe so.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
“How about Klaus von Tauber? Ever come across that name?”
“Von Tauber? No, never.”
I wanted to sit down with the Stryker, tell him everything I’d learned about the man who called himself Anton Duvalier, and have him explain why the craziness taking shape in my head had a perfectly reasonable explanation with deep roots in the real world.
“Have you had supper yet, Stryker?”
“No. I was just thinking of going out for something.”
“How about Indian? I’m buying.”
“Sounds okay.”
“Why don’t you meet me at the Delhi Palace in half an hour? It’s on the corner of Arlington and Smith.”
“I know the place.”
“Good. See you then.”
“Hold on a moment, Lieutenant. What is this all about? I’ve already given my statement to the district attorney’s office. I’m afraid I have nothing new to add.”
“Forget about that. Listen, I’ve got a godawful mystery on my hands and you’re the only person I know who might be able to solve it for me. Tell me, Stryker, do you like a good story?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do you like a good story?”
“As much as anyone else I suppose. Why?”
“Meet me at the Delhi Palace in thirty minutes. I’ll buy you supper and tell you the damnedest story you’ve ever heard in your life.”
Klaus
November 20, 2083
There he is -- dressed, as always, in denim slacks and work shirt. If there is anything worse than the way these people eat, it is the way they dress.
It is not like young Stryker to be so late leaving for the university. His days are usually carbon copies of each other. Staying at the woman’s flat last night has doubtless upset his usually rigid schedule. It was certainly a sacrifice worth making. The young woman he had dinner with, and later took to bed, was as beautiful a creature as I have ever seen. Under different circumstances, I would have spared neither time nor expense in making her acquaintance.
He will be gone until evening, giving me more than enough time to search his flat thoroughly. I have followed him for weeks and nothing he has said or done suggests that he knows about the Project’s existence. If this morning’s search fails to uncover anything new, I can be certain beyond any doubt that his troublesome article was the byproduct of coincidence and a lively imagination, nothing more. I will then be free to return to my flat in Paris. I have had more than my fill of this vulgar place. America is a land of so many wonders, and yet its people remain stubbornly uncivilized.
I touch the Sauer 38 inside my waistband. It has a solid and reassuring feel. One exactly like it saw me through the Polish and French campaigns. A single shot to the back of the head from a Sauer 38 always does the job. Although I will not hesitate to use it if such a thing becomes necessary, but I truly hope it does not. The simple truth is that I have developed a certain admiration for the lad.
My chronograph shows that ten minutes have gone by since Stryker left. He has had time to pick up a coffee at the café where he goes every morning and be on his way to the campus.
“Do not cross the street, Klaus.”
I reach for the Sauer as I turn to face the voice behind me.
“Don’t be alarmed, Klaus. It’s only Otto.”
I stare at him in astonishment.
“What are you doing here, Herr Doktor?”
“The Project has canceled the mission, my boy. You are free to return with me to Paris this very afternoon.”
“But why?”
“Oh, it’s none of your doing, Klaus, I assure you. The fact is that any further effort on your part would have been wasted. We have determined beyond any doubt that the student knows nothing that can compromise the secrecy of our work.”
“How could you have reached such a conclusion before receiving my report?”
“By using other means, Klaus.”
“Other means?”
“I’ve always been a cautious fellow, perhaps even overcautious. It is a fault, I know. When I first sent you on this assignment, I took the precaution of providing our organization with a measure of insurance in the form of a zealous young Party member from the Rhine Valley -- a backup plan, if you will. This loyal soldier of the Reich was, like you, tasked with learning how our young author came to write his disturbingly accurate article. The agent was able to do precisely that. Unfortunately, we learned of it too late to avert a dreadful turn of events. That is why I have traveled here today, to prevent a repetition of that regrettable outcome.”
“Repetition? I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
“You were about to search the student’s flat, were you not?”
“Yes.”
“I can assure you, Klaus, that your search would have had a tragic end, one that involved local authorities and very nearly uncovered the existence of the Project. Of course, that is something we could not permit.”
“Herr Fröemke, I have not moved from this spot.”
“No, you haven’t. But you most certainly would have. In fact, you did.”
I am familiar with Herr Fröemke’s miraculous device, and was among the first chosen by our Führer to voyage upon a sea of future-time. I understand what it can and cannot do. And yet there are still times when the physicist’s words fill me with confusion, such as now, with his talk of the outcome of something I have not yet done.
“I don’t understand, Herr Doktor. I never …”
“Well, well, what have we here, Klaus? A fellow you know well, I believe, and he seems to be in quite some hurry.”
I followed his gaze across the street and saw Stryker running up the sidewalk, his face glistening with sweat. I watched as he ran into the building.
“A good thing you weren’t up there going through his flat, wouldn’t you say? Who knows what might have happened?”
A strange chill went through me as he spoke those words.
“Fortunately, what that fellow does is no longer any concern of ours. Now, why don’t we get on with our journey home? A motorcar is waiting for us a few streets from here.”
“Very well, Herr Fröemke.”
I fell in step beside him. He doubtless saw the confusion still written on my face, because he smiled and shook his head after glancing over at me.
“Believe me, Klaus, I know how you feel. Like any good soldier, you would have preferred to see your mission through to its end. If it will make you feel any better, try thinking of our sudden departure as, what is the military term, a tactical retreat? You will return to Paris and I will go back to the Oststern compound. I’m afraid that, like me, the device has grown old and requires much care.”
We walked the rest of the way in silence.
“Ah, here we are!”
Herr Fröemke turned into a tree-shaded side street and approached a white Mercedes parked at the curb. A woman got out of the driver’s side and held the rear door open for him. She was young, probably in her mid-twenties, with bright red hair cascading down to her shoulders. Her green eyes flashed when she looked at me.
“Good day, Major von Tauber.”
Her voice rang with amusement. I found her every bit as beautiful in broad daylight as I had last night.
Herr Fröemke smiled up at me from inside the Mercedes.
“Allow me to introduce Olga Arndorfer, Klaus. She is the young agent from the Rhine Valley I mentioned earlier.”
I stared at her in disbelief, unable to say anything.
“The Major and I have encountered each other once before. Haven’t we, Major von Tauber? I was dining with a mutual acquaintance and I believe the Major tipped the maitre d’ to seat him at the table next to ours. I’m afraid he eavesdropped shamelessly the whole evening. Oh, don’t look so surprised, Major. I was briefed before being sent here from Munich and knew who you were the instant you entered the restaurant. I watched you almost as intently as you were watching my companion.”
“Congratulations, Fraulein Arndorfor. You have apparently done a brilliant job of extracting the necessary information from young Stryker. Of course, you bring certain advantages to the endeavor, advantages I will never possess.”
Fröemke laughed.
“Good. We will stop at your hotel, Klaus, and collect your things. Olga will drive us to the airport. The bar there serves an excellent cognac.”
I sat next to Fröemke in the rear seat. A faint scent of the rosewater he always uses on his hair filled the inside of the Mercedes. I watched with interest as Olga disabled the auto-drive function and elected to operate the big motorcar herself.
“Today is a special occasion, Klaus. It is Olga’s birthday.”
“Is it? My regards, Fraulein Arndorfer.”
“I was privileged to have been born the year our Führer published Mein Kampf.”
“Sadly, Olga will be leaving us in a week’s time. She has been assigned to the Führer’s staff as a Wächter or, in her case, a Wächterin.”
So she was to become our Führer’s guardian. I knew well what that meant. She would soon be transported by Fröemke’s device into a future where the Führer waits to fulfill his destiny. She might be given any number of minor responsibilities, but in truth she would have only one: in the event of the Führer’s death, she was to carry out a rescue mission by traveling to the town of Bamberg, arriving there on the morning of December 25th 1947. She would then go directly to the safe house where the Führer stayed twelve hours on that day. She would then return with him to a time just after the death of his future self. The resurrected Adolph Hitler will undergo a complete renewal of health and, later, the reconstructive surgery that now makes him unrecognizable to all but members of the Project. He will then be free to resume his new identity and his sacred work on behalf of the Fatherland.
All twelve members of Project’s governing council are similarly shielded from death. I suppose one could say that Herr Fröemke’s machine has, in a way, made them all immortal.
“You are looking remarkably youthful for a woman of one hundred and fifty-eight, Fraulein Arndorfer.”
“Thank you, Major von Tauber.”
“Since Olga and I must remain in Paris for several days before returning to Munich, why don’t we all meet for dinner?”
“I will look forward to it, Herr Fröemke.”
“Excellent. We will have a lovely dinner and everything will be explained to you then.”
“There is one thing I would like to know before we dismiss the Stryker matter.”
“And what might that be, Karl?”
“How Fraulein Arndorfer managed to extract the truth from our troublesome student.”
She looked at me in the rearview mirror. “Why ask when you can see for yourself, Major? Here you are.”
She tossed a tiny, bronze-colored cylinder into the back seat. I picked it up and examined it.
“What is this?”
“Don’t you know?”
“No.”
“You must forgive Klaus, my dear. He is something of a Luddite. He believes that this new world’s technology is too all-pervasive and threatens to make us … what is the word you use, my boy?”
“Soulless, Herr doktor.”
“Ah, yes, soulless! I’m afraid Olga does not agree with you. Nor, for that matter, do I.”
“You are being too hard on the Major, Herr Fröemke. Remember that for all of us the world of the Third Reich was only a few short years ago. Give him time. He will adapt.”
“I hope I never do, Fraulein.”
“So, Major, to answer your question, that remarkable little device is last night, all of it, in exquisite detail. Every word, every action, every breath is there. All you need do is insert it into any viewing device.”
I understood then and looked at the cylinder with disgust.
“Fraulein Arndorfer, I am not without my faults. Very few of us are. However, I do not include voyeurism among them.”
I handed the cylinder back to her.
“I would much prefer a brief account of how you got the information from young Stryker.”
“Very well, Major. But there is really not much to tell. I merely expressed my admiration for his article after we made love and he spent the next half hour cheerfully telling me every detail of how it came about.”
“That’s that then, isn’t it?” Herr Fröemke said with a trace of annoyance. He had clearly tired of the subject.
“Let us forget the past and dedicate ourselves to our glorious future. When it becomes a reality, the Fourth Reich will write a new chapter of world history in letters of fire. Of course, its realization may take years, perhaps even decades, but that need not concern any of us. Have I not made us all masters of time? We must have patience, my young friends. Remember that even now, as we sit in this motorcar, the Führer also waits, patiently waits, for his time to come round again.”
Wylie Reed Richardson was born in New England, but has called NYC home since mid-childhood. He studied Creative Writing at the New School for Social Research, and has free-lance journalism credits in local (NYC-based) publications, as well as the national magazines Scholastic Choices and Tower Video Review. His seriocomic 'parody' soap opera script "Irrational Dreams" was produced in an off-off-B'way workshop by the Rising Sun Performance Company; the script is available on Amazon.com. His debut novel Golden Strings can be found on the www.barnesandnoble.com site. His personal blog is WyliesWondrousWeblog on blogspot.com. His favorite authors are Kerouac, Tolkien, Edgar Rice Burroughs, and George R.R. Martin. |
SUMMER OF '69
They were sitting in the back row, all eight of them. As "Midnight Cowboy" unspooled on the
screen of the first-run movie house in downtown Manhattan, Bill Hawson and seven people who shared his townhouse in Greenwich Village watched the saga of Joe Buck and Ratso Rizzo. Bill (affectionately known as 'Big Bill' to his many friends, due to his slight potbelly) was thirty-eight, and the owner of a health foods store on Bleeker Street. His long hair (usually kept in a ponytail), casual dress, and easygoing manner belied his material success (which is why the townhouse was fully paid for).
About twenty minutes into the movie, Bill reached into his pocket. His wife Susan smiled as
she saw him pull out a big fat marijuana joint. Susan was a pretty woman, four years younger
than Bill, with frizzy strawberry-blonde hair. Bill crouched down in his seat as he surreptitiously lit up the joint with his portable lighter. He took a nice long drag, then passed it to Susan. "Thanks, hon," she whispered as she took the joint from her mate.
Susan took a few puffs of the joint, then gave it to her brother-in-law, Greg. His steady
girlfriend Linda was clinging to his arm. The pair of them passed the pot back and forth a few
times, quietly taking in in that high-quality hemp. Alan, the newest member of Bill's household,
took the joint from Linda. By this time, it was halfway gone.Alan inhaled the weed cigarette,
allowing the flavor to nestle in his system. After taking a few drags, he gave it to Carl, the
resident artist of 209 West Fourth Street.
"Thanks, Alan!" Carl said under his breath. Carl cradled the joint in his hand while watching
Dustin Hoffman lead Jon Voight to his dumpy abode, up on the silver screen. He was so caught up in the storyline, he only bothered to take two puffs before handing it to Danny, Alan's cousin.
Danny, who worked at Bill's store (and was responsible for bringing Alan into Bill's extended
family), took a few hits of the joint, and passed it along to Millie, the twenty-year-old transplant
from Ontario. Millie finished off the joint, during the scene in which Jon and Dustin have a testy
conversation in Dustin's room. As Millie stamped out the butt on the floor beneath her, she
made an "OK" signin Bill's direction.
"That is really good stuff!" she mouthed slowly, making sure Bill could read her lips.
"Glad you like it!" he whispered back to her, then resumed watching the flick. The smell of
marijuana lingered in the air above the back row, as the eight of them quietly watched the rest of the movie. None of the other patrons, if they even noticed their pot-smoking, seemed to be
particularly bothered by it. In the summer of 1969, in the biggest and most happening city in the country, such things were understood to simply be part of the culture.
It was a nice balmy June evening, as Bill and his seven friends walked home. They
discussed the film they had just watched, as they strolled along the winding, irregular streets of Greenwich Village.
"I really liked that picture," said Alan, sipping the last few ounces of a cup of soda that he
had bought in the cinema.
"I did, too!" said Susan.
"It was way better than '2001'!" said Linda, as they passed a diner specializing in Mexican
food. "2001: A Space Odyssey" was a film that the group (minus Alan, who hadn't moved in
with them yet) had taken in a few months ago.
"But '2001' is Kubrick's masterpiece, Linda!" Carl told her emphatically.
"Not to me it isn't. What's so great about it? It started out with a bunch of monkeys going
crazy over a big black thing in the middle of nowhere, and it ends with a big baby in outer space.
Can you say 'pretentious', anyone?"
"I have to agree with Linda on that, Carl. I liked this movie more than '2001'!" Greg said
emphatically, as he moved his body to avoid running into a white-haired man in a knit wool cap
pushing a shopping cart filled with deposit bottles and cans.
"Oh, and why might that be, Greg?" replied Carl. "Because this movie had sex and pot, and
'2001' didn't?"
"Well, come to think of it... yeah! I mean, what's more important that good sex and good pot
and good parties? 'Midnight Cowboy' is one movie that has it's priorities straight!"
"Yeah, you're right, man!"
"So true!"
"He has a point there, Carl!"
Carl sulked a bit. "Fine, fine, take your precious 'Midnight Cowboy'! But John Schlesinger has a ways to go to prove himself to be another Kubrick. Let me go on record as saying that."
"I liked this flick," said Millie. "But the ending was kind of sad, though. When Ratso died on
the bus, I mean." The rest of them agreed on that point. The gang reached the corner of Houston Street and Sixth Avenue. A Coup de Ville automobile pulled up to the curb, just a few feet away from them, and waited at the red light. Greg playfully tapped the hood of it, and yelled "I'm walking here, I'm walking here!" Everyone else laughed at his near-perfect imitation of Ratso Rizzo. Even the driver of the car, who seemed startled at first, saw the humor in it. He chuckled as Greg and the others walked past the car, to cross the street.
The antique clock over the kitchen counter showed the time to be exactly 10:30, when Bill and the rest arrived home. Susan put out some bread and fruit, for anyone who wanted a late-night snack. Alice, the ninth member of the household, got up from the living room to greet them. "Hi, guys!" she said softly. "Tyler's asleep now, so you don't want to make too much noise." (Tyler was Bill and Susan's two-year-old son.)
"Was he a good boy, while we were away?" asked Susan.
"Well, he was a bit cranky when I put him to bed, but I read to him and the little tyke was
asleep before I hit page four."
Bill went up the staircase to the second floor. He did a quick check on Tyler, to make sure he was all right. He came back down to the kitchen, and gently patted Alice's shoulder. "Thanks for looking after him, while we were out, Alice!"
"Hey, it was my pleasure, Bill! Besides, it gave me the chance to work on some new songs."
She pointed to her open notebook, which contained Alice's handwritten notes and bars, with
some lyrics written underneath.
"Great! Maybe you can try 'em out for us soon!" said Danny, as he put a well-worn teakettle
under the sink faucet, and filled it up.
"It's a shame that you couldn't come with us tonight, Alice," Alan told her. What he didn't add was that he had wanted to sit next to her in the theatre. He had a mild crush on Alice, ever since he moved into the Hawson House (the residents' informal, but oft-used name for it) a month ago.
She smiled at him sweetly.
"How nice of you to say so, Alan. But I told you, I've already seen "Midnight Cowboy". But I
would love to come along, the next time we go out to the movies!" she told him, with a smile.
"It seems like we're running low on milk!" said Susan, checking the refrigerator. She added
'milk' to the grocery list that hung on the wall, next to a big poster that spelled out 'L-O-V-E' in
bright red letters. His cousin Danny placed the water-filled kettle on the stove, with a soft 'clang!'.
Five minutes later, the nine adult members of the Hawson House shared some herbal tea in
the living room. They lounged on the sofas and on the floor, while making small talk about
various things. They watched the local news, when it came on at 11:00. One of the stories was
about an anti-war protest. Everyone empathized with the people shown marching with signs at
Columbus Circle. They also paid close attention to a piece about Allen Ginsberg speaking at a
local university.
"That Allen is one cool guy!" said Greg, during the commercial break.
"Yeah, he's such a great thinker..." murmured Linda, who was sitting next to him on the living room floor.
"He's such a beautiful person. I would love to meet him one day," said Carl, as he drew on his sketch pad. He was copying the poster for "Midnight Cowboy", from memory. After the news was over, Carl and the others turned off the set and went to bed. The sleeping arrangements at 209 West Fourth Street were fairly simple. Bill and Susan had the master bedroom on the third floor. Their son's room was adjacent to theirs. Greg and Linda slept in the second-largest bedroom, on the other side of Bill and Susan's. A large sleeping area for Alice and Millie was on the same level as the living room and kitchen. A large blanket with intricate brown and blue art patterns was slung on a clothesline through the middle of the room, to give each woman a bit of privacy. Alan, Danny, and Carl each had a small bedroom one flight below. A bathroom with a sink, toilet and shower was used by the three young men communally.
Alan crept into his small room. His bed, stereo, and book-case took up virtually all of the
space. A few posters - a day-glo psychedlic design, a large photo of Jimi Hendrix playing guitar, a green peace sign, a black-and-white photo of Charlie Chaplin in his 'Tramp' outfit, and one of JFK - decorated the light blue walls. Alan wanted to hear some music, before he went to sleep.
He flipped through his record collection, and settled on Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde. He put
Side One on his turntable, and turned up the headphones loud. He loved the not-quite-subtle
drug references in "Rainy Day Women", but he also appreciated Dylan's sheer artistry, evident
on every track on the album.
As the plaintive "I Want You" played over his headphones, Alan couldn't help but picture Alice in his mind. She was sleeping soundly, just one flight above him. It was an exquisite agony for Alan, knowing that the person he desired most was so close and yet so far from him.
When "I Want You" finished, Alan turned up the volume a notch. He softly sang along and
tapped his feet to the next track, the epic "Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again".
When the song was over, the needle went to the very end of the disc. Alan put the album away, and went to brush his teeth in the bathroom.
Once his teeth were clean, Alan tiptoed back to his room. He slipped out of his clothes, and
got into bed. He grabbed his paperback copy of Jack Kerouac's On the Road from the small side table. He had gotten this book at a twenty percent employee's discount at Macdougal Street Books, the small independent bookshop where he worked as a cashier. Alan had gotten the job just a few days after he arrived in New York. He was checking out the neighborhood when he saw a "Help Wanted" sign in a window decorated with book jackets. He spoke to the manager, an Englishman named Peter. Alan impressed Peter with his dual knowledge of cash registers and literature. His seven-hour shifts at the bookstore allowed him enough income to chip in for expenses at Hawson House, and to have some money left over for his own use.
Alan read a couple of chapters, becoming involved in the narrative of Dean Moriarty and Sal Paradise, those two hipsters from the 1950s. He could identify with the pair of them, to a degree.
He understood the heady mixture of fear of the unknown and desire for adventure that
accompanied them in their travels across the country. Alan had felt it himself, that Friday night
back in May when he had packed up his wordly belongings into his grey Volvo car and driven to Manhattan all the way from Sayerville (a town in Ohio with a population of nearly six thousand).
His cousin Danny's written invitation to come live with him and the rest of Bill Hawson's
extended family in Greenwich Village was tantalizing to Alan. He had long grown weary of the
dullness of his small-town existence, as Assistant Manager at a music store. He was making
OK money, and had a handful of friends, but there was something missing in his life. Moving to
New York made him feel more complete. Just walking the streets here gave him a sense of
exciting optimism.
Bill and Susan Hawson were a friendly and easygoing couple, but they were selective about who they let into their home. Danny Riggs had earned their trust and friendship, through his three years plus of devoted service as an employee of their health foods store. That was why they allowed Danny to invite his cousin Alan to move in with them. When Alan arrived, Danny took him aside and gently explained the few house rules to him: no drug deals, no sexual activity outside of the bedroom, and no doing anything too politically subversive. Otherwise, he would be free to do as he pleased, under the roof of "Big Bill's" house.
Alan was constantly discovering new facets of human existence. He watched Buddhist monks chanting for peace on the sidewalks, and listened to poets and acoustic guitar players spin their creative webs in coffee houses. He shared good pot with the rest of the Hawson tribe in the living room, and went to nightclubs to dance the night away under bright strobe lights with plenty of other hip young folks. Life was busting out all over, in every direction at once, in this city. And there was nowhere else Alan would rather be.
The spectre of the Vietnam War was the only thing spoiling this summer of 1969. Everyone in the Hawson House fervently hoped President Nixon would make good on his promise to curtail American involvement in that conflict. Alan had used his family connections to grant himself 4-F status a couple of years back (his father had ties to the office of the Mayor of Sayerville), so he was excused from military service. The other young men who lived at 204 West Fourth Street had simply burned their draft cards, in protest. The peace signs and anti-war graffitti evident everywhere in this city made it clear that they were in the majority, in their dim view of the American policy in regards to Vietnam.
After finishing a couple of chapters of "On the Road", Alan turned out the light, and got a
good night's sleep. He got up at 9:30 the next day, which was a Saturday. He had a glass of
orange juice in the kitchen, and made small talk with Bill and Danny. He left the house early,
so he could spend some quality time in Washington Square Park.
There was always lots of interesting things happening in the park, on the weekends. It was
a beautiful sunny day, just perfect for lazing around for an hour or so before starting his shift at
Macdougal Street Books.
A nattily-dressed young man was seeking buyers for his "good weed" near the big stone arch at the entrance. Alan paid him no attention, and strolled into the large open area. He passed a young black couple, both in berets and sunglasses, soliciting donations for the Black Panther Party. A half-dozen young adults (including one latino and one black) were huddled under around a small wooden table. They were all wearing t-shirts with "NYUFSC" emblazoned on the fronts.
"July 10th is 'Don't Give a Damn Day', people!" said the group's leader, a bearded man in a
baseball cap and sunglasses. He was passing out flyers promoting this so-called event. Alan
took one, and scanned it as he strolled through the park. It was just a standard screed against
Vietnam, industrial pollution, Wall Street greed, and 'The Establishment'. It encouraged people
to attend the "Don't Give a Damn Day" rally in that same park on July 10th. It turned out that
NYUSC, the group responsible for printing these flyers, stood for "New Yorkers United for Social Change". Alan thought that he might want to check it out, so he folded the flyer and stuffed it into his pocket.
As Alan was about halfway through the park, he noticed a sizeable crowd around a clean-cut young blonde man in sandals and blue jeans, playing the acoustic guitar. He sang "House of the Rising Sun", deftly using his fingers to play the complicated chords to this well-known folk song.
He had an open guitar case in front of him, which had plenty of coins and dollar bills laying inside it - tributes to his talent other people in the park had offered him. He got a rousing bit of applause, when he finished.
"Thank you, thank you, good people!" the musician said, smiling and waving to the twenty
new fans. Alan noticed a pretty girl next to him, clapping along with him. She was five feet tall,
with chestnut-brown hair that went past her shoulders. Her yellow bell-bottom pants fit snugly
around her shapely legs and behind. Her loose, bright-red t-shirt was tied into a knot, about an
inch above her navel. She was slim, with a healthy complexion. Alan found her quite intriguing.
He cleared his throat and began to chat casually with her.
"This guy is really good, don't you think?"
"Yes, he has a beautiful voice. He can really play that guitar. And he's handsome." She
turned to look at Alan. "You know what, man? I think you're handsome too!"
Alan felt a lump forming in his throat, as he gazed into her eyes. He had a feeling that, even
though they had only just met, that they were going to be on very close terms, very soon.
"My name is Alan. Alan Kerrill." He offered his hand to her. She gently took it in hers.
"I'm Genevieve. But you can call me Jen. All my friends do."
"Well, I hope I can be your friend too, Jen!" He smiled at her.
Jen was taken in by his smile. It went well with Alan's deep blue eyes, strong chin, and
wavy blonde hair. "I think I would like that, man!"
Alan and Jen listened to the musician's next number, a very solid rendition of "For What It's
Worth", the hit number by the Buffalo Springfield. The crowd applauded him again, and a few
people threw money into his guitar case. Alan knew he would have to make his move soon.
"Say, Jen..." he said softly. "Would you like to go get a muffin or something? It'll be on me!"
"Why, that sounds just great, Alan!" The two of them walked along the outer edges of the park, until they found a breakfast cart, manned by a stout fellow with a mustache. Alan bought two muffins - one with blueberries, for Jen, and one plain, for him. They talked casually as they
chewed their late-morning treats.
Alan told her about his old life back in Ohio, and how much happier he was here in New York.
Jen, in contrast, was a lifelong New Yorker. Her parents lived on the West Side. She admitted
that she still lived with them, but that she hoped to strike out on her own. "I just need to get
enough bread, or get a good-paying job. Or maybe it's just a matter of making the right
connections, you know what I mean?" she smiled at him, as she took another bite of her muffin.
"Yes, I think I do," Alan replied.
"So how old are you, man? If you don't mind my asking?"
"Twenty-four."
"Hmmm... twenty-four. That's a good age to be," she mused, as a man with a big dog walked past them.
"You're right, Jen. It sure is! And how young a woman might you be?"
Jen finished swallowing a mouthful of blueberry muffin before volunteering that she had "just turned eighteen". Alan knew that girls her age tended to like older men. He realized that he had a fairly good shot at winning her over. He wanted to play it cool, though, so as not to spoil his chances. He made a show of looking at his watch.
"Oh, look at the time! I have to get to work soon. But why don't we meet here again, at
quarter after seven. Can you do that?"
"Sure, Alan. Where exactly should we meet? Right here on this same spot?"
"Why don't we make it... right by the arch?"
Jen agreed to his plan. They shook hands goodbye, and Alan headed off towards Macdougal
Street. He finished the rest of his muffin as he walked, and used a napkin to wipe his mouth
clean.
The seven hours he spent ringing up purchases at the bookstore that Saturday afternoon went agonizingly slowly. He had a recurring fantasy that Jen herself would show up in the bookstore, and forcibly drag him away. "Alan, I can't wait until seven o'clock to see you again!" she would tell him, as she led him away by the crook of his elbow. "I must have you now!" Then they would melt into each other's arms, as he put a "Closed" sign up on the store's front door. But his fantasy lost potency as the afternoon wore on, and Jen didn't show.
Alan finished his shift, and helped Peter close up. He stopped at a drugstore to buy a
package of three prophylactics, just in case they proved necessary, and slipped them into his
back pocket.
When he reached the marble arch at Washington Square Park, Jen was waiting for him by the arch, sipping a bottle of apple juice. She seemed happy to see him. Alan treated her to dinner at a local diner, then took her home. He whisked her up to his room, and closed the door behind them. She looked around Alan's room, and commented on the decor. "Wow, nice posters!"
"Thanks, Jen," Alan replied, as he sat down on the bed. He hoped that she would follow his
lead, and sit down next to him. Instead, she leaned forward, placing her hands on the knees of
her bell-bottoms.
"Alan, would I be out of line if I asked if you had any reefer we could smoke together?" she
said in a soft voice, punctuating her request with a smile. Alan really had the hots for Jen, and
was more than willing to fetch an ounce of the house stash from the cupboard in the kitchen.
Within the next five minutes, the two of them were smoking pot on Alan's bed, while listening
to a top-ten radio station. He lit up some incense, to add to the sensual experience. Alan was
enthralled by Jen. He offered no resistance at all, as she ran her fingers through his hair, and
across his cheekbones. "You really are such a fascinating creature, man..." she whispered to
him. "I want you to take me, Alan!" she suddenly demanded, her ithe girlish fingers grasping at
his arms. "Take me here in this bed! Let me experience you to the limit!" She ressed her soft
pink lips against his, allowing him a sneak preview of the carnal delights in store for them both.
The melodic strains of "Sad-Eyed Lady of the Lowlands", the epic-length number that took up
an entire side of Blonde on Blonde, accompanied the highly-charged lovemaking of Alan and Jen.
It was her idea to have this tune playing on the stereo, as they indulged their mutual appetite for the flesh. Lying naked on his soft yellow bedsheets, the pair kissed, and rubbed and touched each other's bodies.
Before long, Jen straddled Alan, scratching her long fingernails across Alan's curly brown
chest hairs. "Aaahh baby!" she cried, with his throbbing organ (encased in a latex condom,
thanks to Alan's presence of mind) buried deep inside her. Alan tried to keep his grunting and
heavy breathing under control as they mated, but Jen let loose vocally with a ferocity that startled him. She shrieked and howled as she climaxed, momentarily drowning out the pre-recorded voice of Bob Dylan emitting from Alan's speakers. Alan was embarrassed by her loud screams, but at the same time proud that he had induced them. "Sad-Eyed Lady" finished at roughly the same time that Alan and Jen did, with only a half-minute or so difference between them.
Alan was hoping Jen would stay overnight. But after they showered together, Jen dressed and told him she had to leave. "Curfew, man - it's a real bitch, but if I get home after midnight, I'm gonna catch hell from my folks!" She scribbled her phone number on a piece of paper, and gave it to him. "Call me sometime, Alan. And I gotta thank you for tonight. You are one fantastic lay, man!"
He led her out to the street. She pressed her nubile body against his, as she kissed him
goodbye on the mouth. Alan watched silently as she turned and walked down the street, her
back to him. He sighed - a mixture of satisfaction and longing - and went back upstairs to his
room. The sex that he had shared with Jen was the best he had in the past year, at least.
Once he was back in his room, Alan listened to a record by Eric Burdon and the Animals on
headphones, while he read another chapter of On the Road. He wondered if he and Genevieve were falling in love. Who knew? Maybe this was the woman he was meant to be with, for the rest of his life!
Alan was the target of some good-natured ribbing, at Sunday night's gathering in the living
room, after they had finished dinner and Bill and Susan put their son to bed. "It sounds like you
and your friend had a good time last night, Alan," said his cousin Danny.
"Yeah - a very good time!" Carl blurted out.
"You mean... it was that loud?" Alan asked sheepishly. He was afraid to hear the answer.
Everyone else nodded their heads affirmatively.
"Gosh, I'm sorry! I tried to get her to keep it down, honest I did!" This wasn't exactly the truth, but it just seemed like the right thing to say, at the moment.
"Aw, you don't have to apologize, Alan old boy!" Bill reassured him. "We're glad you finally
got some action since you moved here!" His belly jiggled, as he let out a jovial laugh.
"OK, people, let's not embarass Alan! Besides, some of us are trying to finish our tea here!"
said Alice, as she sipped her cup of the stuff. The subject was dropped, out of deference to
Alice's appetite. Alan liked to think that jealousy may have been behind her remarks. If it was,
then maybe she did have some feelings for him, lurking below her cool exterior?
Next Tuesday night, everyone showed up at a coffeehouse to hear a half-hour musical set by Alice. She had to share the bill with two other acoustic guitar players, but Alice was OK with that.
Alan made sure to smile at her from his table, every time she happened to glance his way. Even though he was confident that he would sleep with Jen again, he still wanted to keep his romantic options open.
The following day - June the 28th - turned out to be very significant. History was being made, within a few blocks of 209 West 4th Street. Bill and his clan watched the local news in rapt attention, as the newscaster told them of riots at a place called The Stonewall Inn. Dozens of homosexuals were fighting cops, by it's entrance. The images being broadcast over the TV set were stark, and very dramatic. Everyone watching voiced their sympathy for the patrons of Stonewall. "They really shouldn't have to put up with police harassment," said Susan.
"People should have the right to go anywhere they want, as long as they're not hurting
anyone," added Alan.
The next day, Carl set out to the Village neighborhood where the riots were taking place.
From a safe distance, he sketched pictures of the gays - some of them flamboyant drag queens - standing up to the officers in blue.
Millie celebrated a birthday - her twenty-first - two night later. All of her housemates were
there, to help her celebrate this milestone. Millie was grateful for their emotional support; she
had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend, and their presence was very reassuring to her.
"Gee, thanks, everyone! I love you guys so much!" she gushed.
They all dined on carrot cake ("better for you than chocolate!" said Susan, the house cook),
and toasted Millie with cider and red wine. After the birthday dinner, they all lounged in the
living room. Alice led the group in a round of singing. They all got so caught up in their
celebration, they didn't even bother to turn on the TV to watch the evening news. As the night
wore on, Millie found herself getting rather cozy with Danny.
Later that night, after everyone else called it a night, Millie boldly slipped downstairs to spend the night with Danny, in his room. They made enough noise so that both Carl and Alan knew of the middle and ending phases of Danny and Millie's lovemaking session.
The next morning, Alan and Millie bumped into each other, on the way to the bathroom. Millie was topless, her small but firm bosom bare to the hallway air. A pair of cotton underwear covered her groin. This was the very first time that Alan had seen one of the women of the house in this state. "Oh... excuse me!" he said, turning his head downwards.
"After you, Alan!" she said, pointing to the bathroom door. He thanked her, and went into
the bathroom. She didn't seem very self-conscious about being seen partly naked. Alan was
relieved by this. He called Genevieve later that morning, before leaving for work.
Alan and Jen went to a nightclub called The Spinning Top, after he finished his shift at the
bookstore. They stepped onto the crowded dance floor, and did the Frug and the Funky Chicken with dozens of other young couples. Alan and Jen worked up a good sweat, to the loud rock'n'roll music and colorful flashing lights. They cooled off with a couple of sodas at the bar. After they left the club, they walked to the Bleeker Street subway station arm in arm. It was getting close to Jen's curfew, so they had to part ways.
"Next time we meet, I definitely want to take you back to my place!" Alan told her, as they
embraced on the sidewalk.
"Yes, that would be just great, man!" She kissed him goodnight, and disappeared into the
subway tunnel. Alan walked over to West 4th Street, stopping in an ice cream parlor along the
way. He got a vanilla cone, double-dipped in chocolate sprinkles, for thirty-five cents. A young
couple who had just bought two strawberry ice cream cones commented about one of the flyers posted on the side wall if the parlor.
"Hey, look Chester! 'Don't Give a Damn Day' is coming up soon!" said the woman. Her
companion, a bearded man with a blue jean jacket, closely inspected the xeroxed sheet of paper promoting this social protest.
"Yes, but who gives a damn, Shirley?" he said, leading her out the front door. She give him
a soft slap on his side, either admonishing him for his seeming indifference or rewarding him for his clever wit (or perhaps both). Alan looked at the flyer, which bore the logo of the NYUSC.
He wondered how many people would show up at this demonstration.
Next Monday was a national holiday - Independence Day. The Hawson House residents
celebrated by taking in the fireworks display by the East River - an annual tradition for New
Yorkers. Bill dutifully passed around a communal joint, to enhance the experience. The bright
reds, oranges, greens, blues, and whites of the fireworks provided by Macy's elicited mass
'oohs' and 'aahs' from the many thousands of folks watching. All too soon, it was over, and the
spectators all trudged home. A few politically-minded people let out spontaneous cries of
"Peace now!" and "US out of Vietnam!" as they walked along the streets. There were some
policemen milling about, helping to keep order. Not surprisingly, a few pedestrians let out shouts of "Down with cops!" as soon as they were safely out of earshot of the men in blue.
Danny and Millie whispered in each other's ears, trading private little jokes between them as they walked home with the rest of the bunch. Alan felt a sudden pang for Genevieve. He knew that he had to take steps to make sure their budding love affair would be a permanent thing, rather than a short-term romance. He made up his mind to figure out a way to make Jen his, not just for now, but for a long time to come.
Next Saturday night, Jen stopped by to see Alan. She had two items with her. One was a
record album by The Jefferson Airplane. It was called Surrealistic Pillow. Jen insisted that the
two of them listen to it, while they enjoyed the pot that she had bought with her. Alan liked the
music well enough - it had some interesting melodies, and decent singing and playing. Jen's
pot was very good, very pure. Alan took his time finishing his joint, as he sat next to her.
"This is really good pot, honey. Where did you get it?"
She finished a drag on her joint, before answering. "From my uncle Harry. He lives in San
Francisco. He sent it to me. Have you ever been out there, man?" Alan shook his head no.
"Neither have I. But Harry says it's really nice out there. Like, good weather all year round.
They've got the bay, and the Golden Gate Bridge, and Fisherman's Wharf, and all sorts of cool
stuff going on!"
"Yes. I've heard lots of good things about 'frisco." Alan remembered something, as "White
Rabbit" began to play on his stereo.
"Say, Jen..."
"Yeah, Alan?"
"Aren't the Jefferson Airplane from San Francisco?"
"Yep, they sure are!"
"So what is all this about 'frisco? Is this 'National Appreciate San Francisco Day' or
something?" said Alan, with a chuckle.
Jen slid her hand along Alan's thigh, which was covered with blue denim. "Sweetie, I might
have the chance to move out there." Alan's heart sank. He was crushed at the news, but he
tried to put on a brave front.
"You do? Well, er... Hey, that's great... I guess." He swallowed hard. Jen studied his
reaction carefully.
"Well, you don't seem to be very happy about this. I guess you really like New York, eh?
You wouldn't even consider heading out west?"
It took a few moments for Alan to get her point. "You mean, you want me to go with you,
Jen?" He was more relieved that words could say.
"Yeah, man! My uncle Harry owns this day care center out there. He is offering me a job with him! He says he can use his connections to help find me a good pad near the day care center, if I am willing to help take care of those little kids. So I was thinking maybe you could come join me? Live with me, Alan! We would have a nice place all to ourselves!" She linked her arm with his. She felt so excited about this plan, and she so badly wanted him to share her enthusiasm.
"Well, when would you move out there, Jen?"
"Any time I wanted. Uncle Harry is even willing to pay for my plane ticket!"
The Jefferson Airplane record finished, but Alan didn't bother to flip it over; he just let the
needle remain locked in the final groove of side one, while he and Jen discussed this new
opportunity. Alan was very fond of Jen - he thought he might even be in love with her - but was
unsure if he was willing to leave New York so soon after arriving here.
"Listen, Alan, I know that there are no guarantees about the future," Jen told him, clasping
her hand in his. "There are no guarantees about anything, really, when you come right down to
it. But sometimes you have to take a chance, and that chance just might make life better for
you." Alan realized that was the very philosophy that had bought him to New York, to begin
with. Maybe New York was just a middle stop for him, and going somewhere else with
Genevieve would be the next step of his journey through life.
The two of them shared a half hour of intense discussion. Alan proclaimed his devotion
to Jen half a dozen times, and she did the same no fewer than eight times. Finally, Alan
agreed to move out to San Francisco with her. "I'll do it for our sake," he told her.
Jen was so happy when he said this, she threw her arms around Alan's neck and kissed him.
They celebrated their new plan with a long lovemaking session. Alan got her to lessen her
screams of delight by sliding his fingers into her mouth, at the climactic moment.
The rest of the Hawson House was sorry to see Alan go, but understood that he was a grown man who was simply doing what he thought was best for him. Alan gave his two weeks notice at Macdougal Street Books, and used his last paycheck to buy two plane tickets to 'frisco. Before he left 209 West Fourth Street for good, though, Alan just had to find out one thing.
"Alice, do you think that if I stayed here long enough... that anything could happen between
the two of us?" Alan posed this question to her privately, in the kitchen, the day before he was
scheduled to leave the city with Genevieve. Alice thought the matter over, and smiled softly.
"Well, I do think you are an attractive man, Alan. And I admire your intelligence, and your
strength. I just might want to get to know you better if you continued living here, maybe even in
a physical way." She took a deep breath. "But what would hold me back is something a psychic told me, last year. She told me that I was destined to be with an older man who works as a teacher. She says that this relationship I will have is meant to last forever, that I will marry and have three children with him." There was an awkward silence, which Alice broke by clearing her throat. Alan went to get some fresh milk from the fridge. He drank a glass of it as he finished his chat with Alice.
"In a way I'm relieved to hear that, Alice. I mean, if you're holding out for 'Mister Right', and I can't be him as I'm not a teacher... That sorta frees me to be with Jen. I don't have to spend my days with her wondering if I made the right decision. That is, choosing her... over you." Alan went to the sink, and ran a bit of water into the empty glass.
"We will all miss you around here, Alan. Including me. I hope you know that."
"I will miss you all, too. And let me just say that this guy - this teacher you end up marrying
and starting a family with... will be one helluva lucky guy." Alan was just as surprised as she
was to hear such a strong sentiment coming from him. Alice told him that she appreciated his
honesty, and wanted only the best for him. They embraced, then went off to their separate rooms.
Alan's last night in New York was a bittersweet affair, celebrated by everyone in the Hawson House. (Jen was a welcome if late arrival; she was a bit tired from the farewell party her parents had thrown for her earlier, at their place.) Susan baked pumpkin pie (Alan's favorite dessert), and served vanilla ice cream as well. Carl hand-made a "Good luck Alan!" banner on a big white strip of cloth, on which everyone drew silly cartoons and wrote sentimental farewells slogans, not unlike the signings in a school yearbook.
Twenty-four hours later, Alan Kerrill and Genevieve Colt were moving their combined
belongings into a one-bedroom apartment in a lovely residential area of San Francisco. It was a beautifully sunny day outside, the pleasant weather matching the happy demeanor of the two young lovers who had just claimed this city as their own.
***************** EPILOGUE **************************
May 8, 1972
Dear Bill and Susan:
This letter finds me and my wife Jen in good health. San Francisco is one happening place!
It's warm and sunny here just about every day. Jen is still looking after the little moppets of The Growing Flowers Day Care Center. My independent bookstore ' Alan's Treasures ' is steadily making a profit, month after month. We should be able to finish paying off our bank loan within the next five years or so. I love being my own boss! :-)
Thank you for including the latest snapshot of you and the rest of the gang at Hawson House.
That little boy Tyler is growing up so fast! We have enclosed a picture of our baby daughter,
Johanna Marie. She just turned six weeks old, last Sunday. We named her after two Dylan
songs - Jen and I were listening to Blonde on Blonde when she was concieved. It's a good thing we weren't listening to Iron Butterfly, that night. We would hate to have to name our kid
"In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida"! :-)
We sent a present to my cousin Danny and his pretty wife Marie, to celebrate their second
wedding anniversary. Danny hinted in his last letter to me that two of them are trying to start a
family, too. They have our very best wishes, as I'm sure you can guess. The sooner Johanna
Marie gets a little cousin, the happier we will be! :-)
It's great news about Alice getting a recording contract. Maybe she will meet her dream guy
soon, too! As for Carl, Jen and I aren't quite sure what to make of the news that he is shacking
up with that restaurant manager. I had kind of suspected that Carl might be gay, when I was
living with you guys. Without knowing this man that he is so taken with, it's hard to say for sure
if he is making the right decision or not. But Carl is a grown-up, he has to decide what is best
for himself.
From what you are telling us about your brother Greg, he doesn't sound very grown-up at all.
It's a shame he had to get involved with drugs. Gen and I really feel for Linda, she must be torn up inside about his problem. If you ask me, acid is one bad scene, man. I never did it myself.
These days, I am pretty much clean. I gave up smoking grass when my doctor told me that it
might hurt my sperm count. I suppose I could have started up again, after our baby came
along. But I realized that I didn't actually miss pot all that much. My head is much clearer
without it. Jen followed my lead, and she gave up pot at the same time that I did. Jen and I
are so in love with each other, and our beautiful baby girl, we really don't need to chase these
artificial highs for the rest of our lives. At least, that is how she and I see it.
Listen, if you or any of the gang are ever out by the Bay area, be sure to stop by. We've got
a futon couch that you could use. We could even put a couple of sleeping bags on the floor, in
a pinch. We can stay up all night and talk about old times, drink some herbal tea, dish Nixon,
or whatever we feel like. It would be a blast!
Much love,
Alan
Alan folded the handwritten letter neatly into thirds, and put it in an envelope. He wrote down Bill's address on the envelope, and put a stamp on it. He left the letter on the kitchen table, so he would remember to mail it to the Hawson House. It was only about eight o'clock at night, but he was tired from a full day of work and family responsibilities. He sat down in the big upholstered chair in the living room. Jen silently crept out of the baby's room, and made her way towards her husband of two years.
"She just fell asleep!" she whispered, as she sat down on Alan's lap. Her long blonde hair fell onto his shoulders. "I put her down in the crib, and she was out like a light!" Alan was relieved that putting their daughter down to sleep wasn't too much of a hassle, tonight. There were a few nights over the past few weeks that Johanna Marie had some crying spells, before finally nodding off. But tonight was different. Alan patted his wife's forearm, his fingertips softly brushing against the very fine hairs lining it.
"You are such a good mother, Jen," he told her. Jen was touched by his compliment. She
ran her fingers across his chest.
"I wouldn't be a mother at all, if not for you, my love!" she melted in Alan's strong arms, and
kissed him until her lips ached.
"I love you, Jen... I love you so much, baby!" he cooed in her ear.
"You are my man, Alan - I want us to be together forever!" she told him, looking into his eyes.
As Alan kissed and embraced his lovely wife, he reflected inwardly how his journey in life was now largely complete. Just like Sal Paradise and Dean Moriarty, he had traveled all the way across the country, in search of an elusive happiness and purpose in life. He had fond memories of life back at West Fourth Street, even felt the occasional pang of longing to be back at Hawson House, smoking a joint and laughing over a shared joke with his cousin Danny and the rest of the gang. But this was where he truly belonged - with his wife and child, in a nice cozy love nest for just the three of them. Bill and Susan and the rest of them would surely understand. So would Dylan. So, for that matter, would Kerouac and Ginsberg and Burroughs and all the rest of those brilliant, ahead-of-their-time Beats, some of whose immortal literature was stocked in Alan's bookstore. In his own unique way, Alan was one of them; he was one of them, too.