by H. G. Parry
“There is not going to be a new world,” Millie said. She said it as firmly as she could. “Not if I can help it.”
She somehow was not surprised when it was Uriah Heep who spoke in reply. “But you see, Miss Radcliffe-Dix,” he said apologetically, “you can’t.”
Charles Sutherland, age eight
Extract from diary (yellow sun on cover)
I only did it to try to get Rob to play with me. Rob never plays with me anymore, now that he’s in high school; he says he’s too old for imaginary games. I try to be too old for imaginary games, too, and sometimes I succeed, but I miss being pirates in the old tree by the creek. I like the way the tree branches swing low to enclose us in leaves, and the hills slope up around us so the rest of the world doesn’t exist. And I like how the wind creaks the branches and turns them into masts, and the leaves rustle into sails, and the grass swishes into waves and salt spray, for miles and miles and miles. This is all just pretend, of course. I thought perhaps if it wasn’t all pretend—if I could make some of it real—then Rob might like it better. So I read Treasure Island, as deeply as I could. And unfortunately, the most real part of that book is Long John Silver.
And unfortunately, Rob wasn’t there to help me catch him.
And unfortunately, Mum was.
She came into the room, took one look at Long John Silver, and yelled at me to put him back right now. He didn’t want to go back, and I didn’t know the book well enough, which was my fault. When I did get him back, I felt so tired and dizzy and sick that when Mum turned to me, I lost my temper. Well, I’m not sure if it was my temper I lost or something else, because I was furious but I was crying too. Something burst and spilled out. I lost that, whatever it was.
I said it wasn’t fair. It’s not fair I have to put everybody back all the time. They don’t want to go back, and I don’t want to put them back; it hurts and it’s mean and it’s not fair.
She said don’t bring them out at all, and then you won’t have to.
I said they want to be real, and I want them to be real, so why shouldn’t I? I don’t hide that I can read or write well; even when I want to, you say doing your best is important. So why isn’t this important too? And why doesn’t Rob ever have to hide himself?
She said because life’s not fair.
I was angry because she wasn’t taking me seriously, and worse because I knew I didn’t deserve to be taken seriously. I could hear myself sounding like a child. But I also thought I was right. So I ran to my room, and jumped on my bed, and buried my face in my pillow so deep the tears and the whirling in my head didn’t matter. I wanted to slam the door, like Rob did last week, but I didn’t dare.
After a while Mum followed me. She wasn’t angry anymore. She sat me up, and gave me a hug, and some chocolate biscuits from the tin in the kitchen.
I said, “I’m sorry.”
She said, “It’s okay,” and did that thing where she sort of smooths my hair back from my forehead. I know I should be too old for that, too, but it felt nice. I hate fighting. Rob fights with our parents sometimes, especially lately. I hardly ever do. I hardly ever cry either. This was all very anomalous.
Then she said, “When I was four years old, I brought something out of a book. I think maybe that’s where you get it from, your ability. I gave it to you, without meaning to. And I’m so sorry for that.”
I sort of forgot how terrible I felt, because I never knew that. It was interesting. I said, “Is it everyone in our family? Can we all do it?”
“No,” she said. “Just me, and now you. I only did it once.”
“What happened?”
She said, “My own mother told me to hide it away, and to never do it again. She told me if people found out, they would take me away and hurt me. She was scared for me. She made me scared too. I know what it’s like to hide something, Charley. I don’t want you to be scared, ever, but I want you to be safe. Because I love you and your brother more than anything, and I never want any harm to come to you. Do you understand that?”
I nodded.
She smoothed my hair back again and kissed me on the forehead, and told me not to tell anybody else what she had told me, not even Rob or my father. I nodded again, because she had said she was scared of people finding out, and I didn’t want her to be scared either.
Now I’m writing this before Rob gets home from rugby practice and Dad gets home from work. I can feel the gap inside me where whatever it was I lost used to be. It’s not like a gap where a loose tooth was. It’s more like a spot on the lawn where a weed’s been yanked up. Bare and tender and ready for something else to take root, only I don’t know what that something is.
The trouble is, I was right too. It’s not fair. It feels good to write it, even if it doesn’t change it. It’s not fair. It’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not fair it’s not FAIR.
It’s.
Not.
Fair.
I know that life isn’t.
But stories are. Or if they’re not fair, they’re not fair with purpose.
I wish I could tell better where stories end and life begins.
XX
The drive to the hospital had taken fifteen minutes, even flooring the accelerator, and in that time it became undeniable that Charley was extremely sick. His face was bone white and drenched in perspiration, his breathing was coming shallow and rapid, and by the last set of traffic lights, his shivering had deepened to near convulsions and then abruptly stopped, which was worse. I couldn’t pretend he could hear me anymore. He was obviously somewhere very far away.
Lydia had phoned ahead from the back seat on the way, and I was both reassured and scared by how quickly the medics wheeled him out of sight.
“Can you tell us anything about his medical history?” a red-haired woman asked me briskly, and I had to bite back a laugh. I had after all read it very recently. The trouble was, as I’d ascertained, none of it was at all helpful.
“He was born dead,” I offered in the end, and they looked at me as though I were mentally deficient.
That was the last Lydia and I heard before we were swept into a waiting room on the floor above. It was a small room, with a single window overlooking the gray, windblown streets. An elderly couple sat on a sofa clutching hands, a pale woman in track pants lay stretched out across three seats, and a broken vending machine took up space in a corner. The air was thick with other people’s anxiety, and my own.
Like most people, I hate hospitals, but until now it had been a theoretical hatred. Nobody I’d known had spent any substantial time in one, so thankfully neither had I. I knew now that I hated the antiseptic smell, the overbright corridors, the artificial heat, the buzz of fear and sickness that permeated the walls. Charley had spent even less time in hospitals than I had—he wasn’t even born in one—and he would hate it even more than I did. It was the exact opposite of everything his cluttered, Victoriana-saturated, book-infested life was. It was definitely a million miles from the Street, which had cobblestones and probably the plague.
If the Street was still standing. We’d left at a bad moment. For all I knew, it had erupted into civil war.
I must have looked pretty grim, because Lydia frowned at me.
“You’re not one of those people who faints in hospitals, are you?” she asked. “I’ve got a cousin who does that.”
“No,” I said, although actually I wasn’t sure. “No, I’m pretty sure my brother holds the copyright on fainting in our family.”
She gave me a critical look. “Why don’t you step outside and get some air? They’re probably doing tests and things now—it’ll take a while. I’ll get you if there’s any news. And you can phone your parents. They’ll want to know this is happening, right?”
That thought wasn’t making me feel any better. They would kill both of us if they found out what was actually happening. But Lydia was right, I did need to call them. I also needed to call Millie.
The gray, windy afternoon outside was l
ike a welcome dash of cold water on my face. For a moment, I just closed my eyes and let it revive me. My cheek stung, near my left eye, and I remembered that it had been cut in the rubble chasing the Jabberwock. I was probably covered with dust too. Lydia hadn’t mentioned it, but there was no way she hadn’t noticed. There was going to be trouble when things settled.
When things settled. Right now, things seemed to be roaring about me in a hurricane. I supposed they had to settle soon, but I was scared of where they would land, and what shape they would be in when they did. Things that happened because of Charley’s abilities had always been something of a dream before. They happened, we dealt with them, and then I went back to reality. This was painfully real now. There were forms to fill out and everything.
And the summoner was poised to make a move. According to Victor Frankenstein. God, how did I get here?
Millie wasn’t answering her phone. I knew she wasn’t likely to do so for a while. She’d be in the Street, outside cell phone reception, and she would likely be busy there for some time. I phoned twice anyway, frustration bubbling hotter each time. It wasn’t just that I needed to know what was happening with her, or she needed to know what was happening with Charley. I wanted to blame her. I wanted to tell her this was all her fault. He was all right before he found her and that bloody street. Why couldn’t she have left us both alone?
I needed to tell her it was all her fault. I needed to tell her that before I rang my parents, because once I rang them, I would know it was mine.
Her phone went to voicemail. I had to give up. I couldn’t unburden my anger on a voicemail. It wouldn’t take it.
My father answered on the third ring.
“Hello, Rob,” he said. “We were just about to call you. Is everything all right?”
I had to swallow hard before I spoke. “Not really.”
They reacted to the news that Charley was in the hospital better than I had feared. Dad was notoriously uncomfortable around illness, and Mum was fiercely protective of Charley. I had expected to have to try to calm them down. In fact, once their initial shock was over, their instinct was to try to calm me instead.
“It’s going to be fine, Rob,” Dad said. “Really. Your brother’s much tougher than he looks.”
“That wouldn’t be difficult,” I said, on reflex. But I thought of his face aglow as he had banished the Jabberwock to unreality.
“Do they have any idea what’s caused it?” Mum asked.
I braced myself. “They don’t,” I said. “I do.”
I don’t think I explained very well. Words tend to trip over themselves when my brother is concerned, and language certainly wasn’t quite built to explain the Street. Or perhaps it’s more accurate to say that my language wasn’t.
“How can there be a street filled with fictional characters?” Dad said. “Where do they come from? Wouldn’t Charley have to read them out?”
“They’re from all over the place—but the Street, it turns out, was read out by another person. A summoner, they call them. Another summoner. And it looks like—well, it’s turned into some kind of war.”
“A war between whom?” Mum said slowly. Mum, who was possibly a summoner herself. “Is that how he ended up in the hospital?”
“Not directly. I think he’s just been doing far too much reading. But… he’s in danger. I should have told you earlier, I know, and I should have stopped him…”
“What do the doctors say?” Dad interrupted. “How is he?”
I had to pause to take a breath. “I don’t know. They’ve just taken him in. Lydia’s waiting while I phone you—she’d have come out if there was any news. She thought you’d want to know as soon as possible.”
“She was right,” Dad said. “Never mind the rest of it for now. We’ll get in the car and come as fast as we can. Phone us on the cell if anything happens between now and then, won’t you?”
I nodded tightly, then remembered they couldn’t see me. “Of course. Look, I’m sure he’ll be fine.”
“Of course he will,” Dad said. I knew, seventy kilometers away, that he and Mum were exchanging those wordless glances they perfected over our childhoods. “You get back to your brother. We’ll be right there.”
I hadn’t even made it back into reception before I was stopped by Victor Frankenstein. His skin was ghost white in the hospital lighting, behind the freckles.
“Is it true?” he demanded. I caught the faint scent of disinfectant as he gripped my arm. “Is Charles Sutherland here?”
“I’m not in the mood, Victor,” I said, which effectively answered his question. His eyes gleamed. I shook him off, too sick with guilt and worry to rally more than mild irritation. My phone was still in my hand. My parents’ shock was still painfully sharp in my mind. They would be here in an hour, and I would have to face them in person. My brother could be dead by then. I had no time for fictional people. “Look, leave him alone. He can’t help you with your little quest into the nature of fictional life at the moment. Though I’m sure if he were awake, he’d love to. He has no idea when to stop chasing knowledge either. The two of you would get on perfectly.”
“I’m certain we would. That wasn’t what I meant. I simply meant to watch him closely, especially if he’s not in a position to watch out for himself. I started to wonder why his records were already on file with us, given that you expected them to need to be requested from overseas. We hadn’t treated him, after all. I went to follow it up this morning.”
“Are things slow in the mortuary today?”
He ignored me, which was a fair response. “Someone else had requested them only weeks ago. The request came from the university’s School of Medicine, according to the computer. They have offices in the building, and a branch of the health center operates from there. But I would stake a good deal that they weren’t the ones who received the records. Anyone from within the university could have made that request, assuming a certain degree of duplicity.”
My brain started to catch on to his words. I frowned. “Did they request my mother’s as well?”
“There’s no sign of that. Should they have?”
If they were looking for a summoner, then yes. The fact that they hadn’t meant either they didn’t know about her, or they didn’t care. “But why? What’s in them?”
“Beyond what I’ve told you, I’ve seen nothing. I have no explanation for it. But things are starting to move.”
“Don’t I know it. The Street was attacked, did you know that?”
He shook his head. “Then things are moving even faster than I thought.”
“Where are these files?” I asked. “I need to look at them again.”
His laptop was in the mortuary, of course. Frankenstein swiped me through the glass doors that separated the private section of the hospital from the public, and I followed him, ignoring the curious glances of white-coated hospital staff as we passed through. I ignored, too, the probable contents of the massive steel fridge doors that lined the room Frankenstein ushered me into, and the purpose of the gurney that lay waiting, draped with a maroon blanket, in the center of the room. At least the gurney was empty.
“We should be left alone in here for a little while,” Frankenstein said. He swung his long limbs up onto the empty gurney, and snatched up the laptop from beside him. I stood over his shoulder, trying not to touch anything. The air was chill. “There are no autopsies scheduled this afternoon, and I’m supposed to be taking a break. I don’t take many—they won’t come looking for me. Here’s the file.”
There wasn’t much to see: I had read it, after all, only an hour or two ago. A lot had changed since then. The file wasn’t one of them—though, I supposed, it was now growing out of date as we spoke.
“They had given up trying to revive him,” Frankenstein said. His long fingers scrolled down the touch screen. “Really, I don’t see how he’s alive at all.”
I saw the section he indicated. But now, perhaps because I was still thinking about Mum
, I was struck by something else.
“They recommended he go to the hospital for an overnight observation,” I said. “And it says that our mother refused his admission. He was checked up on the following day at home instead.”
“And found to be perfectly healthy,” Frankenstein said.
I shook my head. “No. I mean… why would any parent, Mum included, refuse to have their newborn child admitted to the hospital when they had nearly died? If it were my child—God, I’d insist on it. So would Lydia.”
“People can be superstitious about hospitals.”
“Not our parents. Not usually.”
I was four years old then. It had never occurred to me, then or in the years since, how odd it was that my fragile, dark-eyed little brother who had barely survived his entry into the world was waiting for me when I came home a few hours later. Now I wondered how I could have failed to ask. Mum had always been protective about his abilities—she was reluctant to take him to the doctor at times as a child, because they tended to have books in waiting rooms, and Charley with a raging fever and a copy of Dr. Seuss was a lethal combination. But that didn’t make sense when he was a few hours old. We didn’t know there was anything to protect him from.
At least, Dad and I didn’t. My words caught up to me.
“She knew,” I said. “Even back then, she knew. But how?”
“Perhaps you were right.” Frankenstein was a disconcerting companion to have at a moment like this. His interest was too piercing, to the point where it became painful. “Perhaps she was indeed a summoner, and she suspected he had inherited the gift.”