Submersion

  ‘I suggest we take the boat a little further north-east and moor somewhere for a couple of days,’ Jessie said, but it wasn’t a suggestion, just a confirmation of what he intended. ‘Then, we time it just right and return home. I’ll see Monty on my own, so you won’t need to lie to the big man. I’ll tell him we found three more buildings – one of them burnt out and two others relatively empty – all of which I can vouch for. If we wants to come out and see for himself, he can – it’s close enough to the truth, if a little too close. But he won’t. It’s not his style. And then I promise never to drag you into this kind of work again. So, do we have a deal?’

  I nodded, slowly. I didn’t have any better ideas. Besides, my ride home was dependent upon Jessie, so it paid to comply. Taking my slow nod as a contract sealer, Jessie got the boat moving again and we headed north-east through the dense, dank suffocation of water, trees and night that enveloped us.

  Four nights later, we returned home. I stayed at Jessie’s, whilst he settled things with Monty Harrison. He still intended to sail dangerously close to the truth when retelling his tale to his gangster boss, an approach which made sense, given that Monty appeared to recognise bullshit for what it was. The cover of darkness must have well and truly shielded Jessie when he’d duped Monty into thinking we were in the right laboratory.

  Jessie left me clear instructions not to come after him. If he didn’t return after a day or so, I was simply to take over the business. There was work and people lined up to do it. So, in the event of his prolonged absence, I was simply to make a few calls and keep his enterprise afloat until he did return.

  As I waited, his telephone rang a few times – I later discovered it was Agnes, though she believed it wasn’t answered as there was water on his line – but I just let it ring. I needed some space to think, and with Jessie absent, I took full advantage. I needed to get my head around everything that had happened and how everything was continuing to happen. From Elinor’s suspicious disappearance through to our discovery and destruction of the mass grave of dogs, we were jumping from one dark mystery to another. There were other smaller dramas along the way – Agnes’ conviction that the authorities were snatching children again, like in the old days, Papa Harold’s hermit murmurings, and the muffled tape recording we had found in the train graveyard that Old Man Merlin – as Billy called him – was trying analyse. In my head, it was all adding up, but I wasn’t sure of the outcome. It was definitely a sum, but not a simple one. And now Monty Harrison was involved – I couldn’t think of another bed partner I’d least like to have.

  ‘Just hope your judgement was sound on this one,’ I muttered to an absent Jessie, awaiting his return, just as a dramatic rattle of his front door knocker made me jump in my skin.

  Enjoying the therapy of solitude, I ignored whoever it was. They didn’t repeat the frantic rapping, so I guessed it wasn’t that important.

  It was late when Jessie returned, after midnight. Too late to head back to Agnes’, though I was starting to feel very guilty that I hadn’t informed her of our return. It was four days since I’d left her in bed, telling her I was off to get Jessie and then to visit Monty Harrison. She would be frantic with fear by now.

  ‘Will she still be awake?’ Jessie asked, searching the far reaches of the cupboard under his kitchen sink. He pulled out a bottle of something that made my eyes pop with pleasure at the surprise. ‘So, will she still be awake?’ he repeated, smiling at the look on my face. I shook my head. ‘Then stay till morning. Right, grab two glasses from the shelf behind you, we’re celebrating.’

  I hadn’t tasted Southern Comfort in a long time and I devoured it sip by sip. By the look of the faded label, this was a long treasured bottle that Jessie had hoarded, bringing it out only on rare occasions. I felt nothing less than pure undiluted joy as the thick, slightly sickly whiskey burnt the back of my throat.

  ‘So, you passed the interrogation and came out unscathed?’

  We were sat in his living area, on the two seats he’d retrieved from a car that served as his soft furnishings.

  ‘Oh yes, sailed close enough to the truth to be convincing. Didn’t fail on a single question from him or his mobster men.’ Jessie chuckled at his last comment.

  ‘Any word about the fire?’

  Jessie shook his head.

  ‘He didn’t mention anything. But its miles out. It might not even have been detected. And, if it has been, it’s not necessarily going to be reported to Monty.’

  ‘What if he has men on the inside?’

  Jessie raised an eyebrow, mocking my paranoia.

  ‘He might,’ I defended, softly.

  ‘Then he wouldn’t have sent us back to check it out, would he?’

  There was some sense in what Jessie proposed, so I let it drop and enjoyed the spirits he was generously sharing – the alcoholic one from his cupboard, and the positive one he had returned with from Monty’s lair.

  However, with the morning came doubts – doubts that began when we were about to leave and we discovered something floating in the flooded stairwell that led to the inhabitable ground floor. Something that was bobbing against the top of original staircase.

  It was a package – bloated with water and covered in brown parcel paper and thick tape. As Jessie reached out for it, my imagination sent me in search of sinister explanations – I saw Jessie unwrap the sodden article to reveal the head of a loved one. But it was nothing like that at all.

  As Jessie held it, water instantly poured out of it, reducing its capacity and shape.

  ‘It’s mainly wrapping,’ Jessie explained, as he felt the object, before ripping away the wet packaging. ‘Looks like someone pushed it through the old letter box on the front door,’ he guessed, indicating the first floor exit point with a nod. I thought of the frantic knocking on the door the night before, which I had ignored. Could it be connected? ‘There’s something in the middle. Something hard.’

  It was a tape – an old video tape. And it had one word on it - in thick, blurred ink - that made both of us wonder if we had celebrated a false victory the night before. That distorted word was security.

  ‘Didn’t fail on a single question, eh?’ I said, echoing Jessie’s assertion from the night before.

  ‘Let’s find out what’s on it first,’ Jessie suggested, ignoring my question and continuing ahead – out the front door and onto his speed boat.

  We were at the Cadley residence in three easy minutes. The old man let us in, then took the video tape and examined it.

  ‘Looks like the water’s got in it. Plus, I’m not sure I’ve got the right machine.’ He smiled, as a puzzled look appeared on our faces. ‘It’s not any old VHS, you know. This is a Betamax, rarer. Leave it with me. I’ll play about with it. I’ll be in touch.’

  That was our signal to leave and I wondered how long the old man would keep us suspended in our anxious state of unknown. It was exactly a week, and it was Agnes who answered the door to him when he called at her house.

  ‘That tape you gave me, I’ve finally got it working,’ he said, once he’d hassled himself out of his outdoor clothing, cursing as he stripped.

  ‘What tape?’ Agnes asked, and I realised I had a similar question on my lips. Did he mean the one we found in Elinor’s bag at the train graveyard, or the video tape from a few days before? I quickly realised he meant the latter, as he handed me a clumsy plastic oblong, slightly smaller than the recording I had given him just days earlier.

  ‘Took a lot of work and fiddling about, but I’ll spare you the science.’

  ‘Anything on it?’ I asked and noted that, despite her ignorance on the matter, Agnes was as eager to know, too. I threw her a look to assure her I’d explain everything later.

  ‘Yes,’ old Merlin replied, matter of fact. ‘You. You are on it. You and Jessie. But you’ll need to come to the house if you want to see it.’

  I called Jessie and within ten minutes we were all in the old man’s house, in his back room that was
filled with all types of television screens.

  ‘I’m afraid they’re all wired up to the video, so it’ll play on several screens at once,’ he explained, as he pushed the tape into a video player. ‘And the quality isn’t perfect. Like I suspected, the water got to it. Plus I had to transfer it over to another tape that played in this machine. Doable,’ he added, grinning, as he enjoyed sharing his skills with us, ‘but tricky and imperfect. Right.’ On this final word, he pressed play on the machine and we watched ourselves on a dozen or more screens simultaneously.

  It was shot from a distance, but there was no denying what could be seen in motion picture monochrome: Jessie and I, coming in and out of the front of that laboratory, filling up his boat with looted scientific artefacts.

  I thought of the single word that had been inked on the original tape: security. Certainly not ours, that was for sure.

  ‘What do you want me to do with it?’ the old man asked.

  ‘Destroy it,’ Jessie replied and the old man nodded, no questions to be asked.

  ‘And what are you going to do?’ This came from Agnes.

  ‘Nothing,’ Jessie replied, without a second to think. ‘We do nothing. Whoever this is, let them come forward, let them confront us, but until then, we do nothing.’

  I wasn’t sure if Jessie’s obvious refusal to accept this for what it was – a message from Monty that this was far from over – was for Agnes’ benefit (if we didn’t mention Monty, then maybe he wasn’t involved) or whether it was a sign that it was time to stick our heads in the water. Whatever his motivation, he was right.

  There was nothing we could do.

  We simply had to wait for whoever and his mighty mob to come forward and let us know exactly what he wanted from us next.

  PLAY

  ‘Tell me a story. A dark one, a bit scary! I want to have nightmares!’

  ‘Have I told you about the Chamber of Doors?’

  ‘No, no you haven’t.’

  ‘The worst form of torture imaginable, the Chamber of Doors is the place that drains you of all hope, sucks out your very soul. And it’s a cruel, clever, slow torture. Are you sure you want to hear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘In the chamber you walk through an endless succession of doors - as one in front opens, the one behind you closes. On and on you go. And up ahead, enticing you forward each time, is the one thing you desire more than anything else. But every time you move forward, it moves further away. And so the cycle continues. You move forward and your hopes and dreams elude you no matter how hard you push yourself, how fast you move to catch them up.’

  ‘Couldn’t you turn back?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But what if you did?’

  ‘You can’t. Once in the Chamber, there is no turning back.’

  ‘No escape at all?’

  ‘No. Just the perpetual road ahead. To nowhere...’

  PAUSE

  8. Billy

  The story of my father – just like Mother’s working for Monty Harrison – is a secret I am supposed to keep to myself. And, just like Mother’s employment details, I’m not entirely sure why it’s a secret, and on the occasions I’ve enquired, Mother’s response has been short of explanation and sharp of tone.

  ‘So, where is your dad?’ Tilly Harrison asked me one day on our way into school.

  We hadn’t been able to meet up at the train graveyard since the evening I snuck out – Mother had been keeping a vigilant eye on me. She had even recruited Grandad Ronan to give me a stern talking too – a measure that proved just how desperate she was to keep me from danger. It made me think about Tilly’s tales of children being taken again. Even if they weren’t true, something was definitely stirring away.

  Yet, mine and Tilly’s friendship had continued to blossom all the same – on the speedboat journey to and from school and during break and lunch times. She had even called me on the telephone a few times – not that I was aware at the time, as Mother had simply told her I wasn’t available. Stay away from that child! she told me. Yes Mother, I promised, in a tone that was almost pushing it, but she let it go and I continued to meet up with Tilly unbeknown to her. Just stop ringing, I instructed my new friend and she promised.

  ‘So, what about your dad?’ Tilly asked again, when I’d not responded the first time.

  It was a lunchtime at school. We were outside, sitting on the dry, cold grass, flattening small bumps into it with our squatted weight. No one else was within earshot, but I was still hesitant to tell her. The only other person I had spoken to about this was Old Man Merlin, and that was under pressure from him. Even my closest friends and family – Elinor, Tristan – never asked about my father, as if they had been warned off. (Which they probably had, knowing Mother.)

  ‘Why don’t you talk about it?’

  By her third question, I felt compelled to offer Tilly some form of explanation.

  ‘He left a long time again,’ I said, looking about us, checking if anyone was likely to take any interest. ‘I was about five. I don’t remember him that well. But I do remember Mother’s crying. Endless, like he had died.’ I paused, before adding an impulsive: ‘And something else.’

  In the end, the urge had been too great to resist. And, with those three words – And something else – I had committed myself to Tilly.

  I felt the strong need to deliver something worthwhile. Following her lame, half-finished story regarding children being taken from schools, I wanted to show her just how great storytelling should be. I had been taught by the master after all – my good friend Tristan Jones. Further, whilst I didn’t remember my father particularly well, I did remember the odd circumstances of his leaving.

  ‘What?’ Tilly asked, almost gasping with excitement at the prospect of what I was about to disclose.

  I shuffled a little closer, dragging my bottom along the cold, grassy earth, intensifying the moment. The school grounds were a perfect location for telling tales. With the grand, red-bricked Cathedral-like building behind us and the dead, grey waters surrounding us, threatening to suck us under if we veered too close to the edge of our safe, green mound, the atmosphere for a dark tale was naturally created. And, suddenly confident in my ability, I began.

  ‘The night he left, something unexpected occurred…’

  No one ever talked freely about my father. My mother – that goes without saying. If he is mentioned, she goes tight-lipped and tearful. She doesn’t actually shed a tear – that’s all done with; I suspect there are none left to spill. But her eyes glaze, so you sense what’s being held back. The others don’t mention him, either. Aunt Agnes, Great-Aunt Penny, Great-Uncle Jimmy, Grandad Ronan; even my story-teller friend, Tristan, fails to weave him into the dense fabric of his tapestries.

  I have asked in the past and the response is varied in its delivery.

  ‘It’s not my place.’ Aunt Agnes.

  ‘You don’t want to be dwelling on things like that. Now, off you go!’ Great-Aunt Penny.

  ‘That’s one for your mother.’ Grandad Ronan.

  ‘I didn’t really know him,’ Tristan. This was true, I guess – Tristan had only been around a matter of weeks when my father left. But I imagined he still knew things. After all, Tristan knew everything.

  What I did have is my memory. Well, the memory of a five-year-old boy, listening from the shadows, remembering whispers and glimpses and colouring in the rest with my imagination.

  Some things I remembered very clearly, though – some things were captured like photos in my head, an indisputable library of evidence.

  The gift he brought home for us that day and placed on the kitchen table, and the laughter that peeled around the room as a consequence.

  The row that happened; the crying and shouting.

  The slamming of the door when he left.

  And the inexplicable thing that occurred – the secret I shared with Old Man Merlin.

  Mother’s clear instruction the following morning.

  I w
as certain of my memory. Certain, as if it was a play I had rehearsed time and time again, or a storybook with pictures. It was still very vivid to me. And yet, sometimes I doubted it. See, there are moments of complete happiness in the memory; happiness that had since vanished from our lives. Happiness it was hard to believe ever existed. And yet, that was what I recalled.

  A great deal of fuss, drama and secrecy was made about the item Father brought home and placed on the table. The fuss and drama was all for me, and a little for Mother – I can still see her face, every aspect of it smiling. I’m sure she was smiling, although she does it so rarely now that I can’t help but wonder about that memory of mine. The secrecy was a necessity. What he brought home, it wasn’t strictly allowed.

  ‘You mustn’t tell anyone, Billy!’

  He placed a large, square box in the centre of the table and paused, grinning, mainly looking at me, glancing briefly over to Mother.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

  I nodded and he folded back the four flaps that created the lid of the box. Delving beneath a fuss of shredded paper, he pulled the item out and held it up, as if heralding the item’s arrival.

  ‘There you go. What a beauty!’ he announced, gleeful, relishing the moment and our reactions too. ‘What do you think, Billy?’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, disappointed at the large brown, hairy item he revealed.

  ‘Fruit!’ Father announced, enjoying my reaction, as my face shriveled in further disgust.

  ‘Do I have to eat it?’ I asked, my dislike remaining.

  ‘It’s very different on the inside. Its exterior is deceptive, like a defence mechanism. Inside, it’s a very different creature.’

  ‘But you said it was a fruit.’

  ‘It is, Billy. A beautiful, white fruit. You just have to crack it open.’

  ‘Can we crack it now?’ I asked.

  I recalled Mother laughing; another memory photograph. Her laughter; like a treasure in the deep chest of my mind. It had since faded, like a cheap proof, and I strained to recall it perfectly. But it was still there, lingering, like a hope not quite lost.