An Image of the Moment

by daniel gothard

is the moment ...'

  'You want to know whether Isabel was the mother of your child, don't you?' the balloon's voice, your voice, interrupts any sense of time and place you had started to feel was really occuring; to actively participate in. Sam has disappeared like the extract from a dream, a distinct part of an interweaving process that you are fast becoming used to and expecting, the unusual is now usual and the realities you have lived with have been swept away in such a brief period, and yet it all feels normal. The only part of the new way of things is the lack of any linear thread; although content to sit and watch, you have a deep and growing frustration for the flip between chaos and order; time and space; you knew the future-proof would never be a nicely laid table of pick and choose. You will get what you're given, and sometimes, you know, you will be force-fed the truth for your own good.

  'You'll make all things known as and when there are necessary. You've made that clear,' you say. You want to see more, all of it. Your death in nine years is still a neon sign in your mind, this route of images - and you begin to assume they will be almost completely devoid of moments of happiness or joy, with, perhaps, the exception of the birth of your child.

  The glasses are getting warmer, particularly below your eyebrows. Will your face have changed forever after you have seen all you need to - like Dorian Gray's portrait let loose from the attic: a demented version of who you were, made ugly by the acts of the necessary? Do the sunglasses change your features after each chapter; leaving scars of anguish gradually building until you are unrecognisable? The balloon talked of abhorrence, but not the physical side-effects of Change. You wonder if you could take the shades off for a few minutes; allow your mind to settle and think about what you have seen - attempt to connect the meaning of things.

  'Keep them on. You are too far in now. You do not have a choice about turning back or taking a rest from your future,' the balloon says, reading your thoughts. You smile and shake your head, knowing you will never be a step ahead of yourself; thinking how much you sometimes hate the sound of your own voice.

  'If you go up against these people, they will hunt you down. You know they've got the prime minister in their pocket now. He's issued orders to use deadly force,' your mother says to you. She pours you a cup of tea and puts the sugar bowl next to your mug, even though she knows you haven't taken sugar since you were twelve.

  'The land is toxic, mum. The last fracking accident created a leak in one of the reactors twenty miles away. The scumbags in Whitehall haven't even told the locals that the water isn't safe to drink. They've loaded it with additional chlorine and Prozac to keep the population docile. One of my contacts told me most of the water we drink has some form of chemical numbing agent now. I heard most of the drinking water in London is loaded with Seroxat. Some people have had psychotic episodes just because they're thirsty.'

  You look at your mother's face. She is brimming with worry - slowly spinning her mug of tea and staring at the little brown ripple on the surface. You know she must feel a huge conflict within: maternal protection for her son and the corruption and scorched-earth of her country. She brought you into this world and she doesn't want to stand over your grave and think of you going away before her. But there is a voice telling you that she is the reason you are sitting here today - that she is the revolutionary spirit in the family; the one who has always fought for social justice.

  'All right. I know you think you have to do this, but do you really have an exit strategy, a way out after the detonation?' she asks you, looking into your eyes, imploring you for a clear message of logistical planning, methods and means. You nod and smile and wonder what your exit strategy could ever really be except death. There is a moment of silence in the kitchen; complete silence as if you are in church waiting for a celestial Message of intervention.

  'I should be the one who goes,' she adds. She nods her head defiantly and sips some tea. 'I am going. This was something I started and you've been amazing, taking everything so far, galvanizing support for the cause, but this battle is mine to finish,' she says. She stands and pours herself another mug of tea - galvanizing herself with tannin and caffeine.

  'Bullshit mum. I'm the one who knows how to get there with the team, set up the device and force the detonation process. You don't have enough time to learn everything. You aren't ...'

  'You can show me what I need to know and tell the others I'm taking charge, and that's an end to it.'

  You feel the emotional throat-grip of dread - your mother is being pulled into some dark place, and you want to leap to your feet, dissuade her ...

  'Your mother died in the explosion and the meltdown killed and infected thousands of people,' the balloon says.

  You close your eyes; tears begin to bulge behind your eyelids - you need the glasses now; the privacy of inevitable loss is vital. You knew that would be the end of her. You knew you should have stopped her. You think for a moment that you still can, what you saw is in the future; it's all waiting to happen, or not.

  'You can't stop what is coming. The reason you are seeing all of this is to find the best way to defend yourself and those who follow you,' your voice from the balloon sounds frustrated with your momentary emotional reaction.

  'Listen, you've been to all these places before. You've had time to adjust, grieve and find that way you describe. Try and remember how you felt when these waking nightmares were upon you, fresh, just happening,' you shout at the stranger. You need a human - barely human - face to unload on to. The stranger stares at you. He lets the balloon do the talking.

  'You are seeing only what you need to see. Are you beginning to understand that? Remember that you are the one who created this time and place and this method of communication. Things will come to pass when such an absurd scene as this is commonplace. No one will have full trust in their hearts or minds and silence will be the most treasured thing you have.'

  'You do have trust,' you say; this time looking directly at the balloon. The stranger looks even more wax-like than ever. He is rigid and you briefly look for signs of life. But if you are honest, you don't give a damn about the stranger. You want to see some sunshine and aspiration in the pictures of yourself in the future behind the dark glasses - the corny light at the end of the tunnel. You will take any sliver of hope you can now.

  'Mum says you used to go to a place called a school. Why don't they have schools anymore?' you are asked by a child; you look in to his eyes and know immediately he is your son - the child you have been told of. He is about seven years old, tall and slim. His eyes are as blue as yours and he looks like you at that age.

  You have an overwhelming feeling inside - a clench of love and fear in your gut. This is unlike the other reality-visions where you were in the act of watching and doing in the blink of an eye; you were an observer, a leader and a son yourself. But now you are a father, a protector, someone who would take any pain, death itself, to save this boy. You know this by looking at the child - the best thing you have ever done or achieved is sitting beside you, asking you a question and looking up at you as if you have all the answers to life, the universe and everything.

  'Schools were ... are still around, but only the very rich people go there. The government ... do you remember mum and me talking about the government?'

  Your son nods, smiles and rolls his eyes.

  'Like a million and one times. I'm not stupid, dad,' he says.

  You smile and stroke the back of his head.

  'You are the farthest thing possible from stupid. You're a lot smarter than I was at your age. Anyway, the government decided it didn't have enough money for schools, so it decided to make parents teach their children at home, from the internet, like we do. But it's a terrible idea.'

  'Why is it a terrible idea? I like watching the screen with you and learning about things,' your son says the words with such enthusiasm; you wonder whether he can be freed from the willing cage he has been
born into and which you have let him grow in.

  He is watching the screen as he asks you the question and makes the statement about his young life. You feel a sudden rage building in your forearms. This is exactly what they want - those at the top of the governmental elite; the ones who slowly decided they had had enough of pretending to care about dealing with social problems: the 'scrounging poor' and liberal thinking. First they used the spectre of growing radicalisation: "They're coming to our streets. They're going to kill us all!" And then there wasn't any money left for all the welfare bills - only the most needy would be given a share, but there is no information to be found about who qualifies as 'needy'. And so the day arrived when entire parts of society were sent flying backwards into the nineteenth century - no more compulsory education on offer, rampant poverty, no free health care ...

  Lock Your Door. Look After Your Own. Home Is Where The Safety And The Silent Are is their mantra.

  Your mind wanders. You think, this is the future they planned for: a five or ten year plan perhaps; perhaps longer; perhaps a hundred years or more - where children don't socialise or challenge anything - they grow up to be complicit citizens, scared of anything that might make them seem different