by M. G. Harris
I check my watch. “It’s a bit early. . .” How can I pass up the chance to fly over Oxford in a Muwan and be dropped off near school. . .? “But all right. Yeah! I’ll go wake up my friend Emmy. . .”
Benicio starts up the anti-gravity engine, locks his piloting visor in place.
“That dream about your father,” he says. “Your latest blog post, ‘Blue in Green’. . .”
OK, here it comes. . . That’s a post I really didn’t mean to be read.
He pauses. “Quite a revealing dream, Josh. You should maybe talk to a psychotherapist. I think you’re having some trouble handling your father’s death.”
“Well, yeah!” I’m indignant. “I don’t even know how he died . . . chased by the NRO in their own Muwans, I know, but . . . after they captured him, who killed him . . . and why?”
Benicio sounds sympathetic. “I’m sorry, buddy. That’s gotta be tough.”
The Muwan rises with barely a whisper and floats out over the city. The golden stone of the college towers seems tantalizingly close as we drift across the city centre. As we approach the east end of the city, I see the high, doughnut-shaped main building of my school. Benicio dips into the clouds for cover. Then the Muwan drops like a stone to land in the shady park next door.
“You’re mad!” I tell him. “We’re right in the middle of a built-up area! Loads of people could have seen us!”
Benicio opens up the cockpit and watches me climb out.
“Trust me, nothing’s gonna happen. In about three minutes, I’ll be hundreds of miles away. There’ll be a story in your local paper. Maybe a fuzzy video or photo taken with a mobile phone. Probably not even that. And no one will believe it.”
He’s dreaming. A flying craft the size of a fighter plane just dropped me off in a public city park! The story has to be bigger than that.
But Benicio seems pretty confident. “Trust me, coz. I’ve done this many times. And I’m guessing – so have our friends in the NRO.”
As the window closes, Benicio takes one last look around. “You’re a lucky guy to live here. I sure hope you realize what you’ve got.”
“Ek Naab isn’t exactly a dump.”
“Small horizons, my friend. Sometimes I think it would be nice to live in the outside world.”
With that, the window seals. Benicio grins, does a mock salute, then raises the Muwan slowly over the trees.
And with a sudden whoosh of air being sucked upwards, he’s gone.
I tighten the scarf, zip my jacket, check my watch. It’s only six a.m. Still buzzing from the rush, I walk out of the park.
Practically floating.
BLOG ENTRY: BLUE IN GREEN
I’ve had the dream every night this week. By now I’m pretty exhausted. Here’s how it goes.
On a hot, sunny day, I’m taking a stroll. I don’t recognize the street, but something tells me that I should. Then I realize what’s so strange – there are no cars. I’m walking, then I notice I’m barefoot. The tarmac is warm, feels good on the soles of my feet. The sky is a deep powder blue. Not a cloud in sight. Every garden I pass is filled with rosemary and lavender – the air is thick with the smell. I notice grapevines and fig trees, all plump green leaves. I’m just beginning to wonder where I’m going when I see my house. That’s the first time it hits me that I’m on my own street.
The door to my house is open, swinging gently on the latch. There’s no one in sight. It feels eerie – there’s always someone hanging around in this neighbourhood. Today it’s just me.
The door blows open, inviting me in. Faintly, I hear music playing. Miles Davis – a tune from Kind of Blue.
And my heart picks up a beat.
I wander into the kitchen. It’s all been cleared, no food in sight. The fridge door too – none of the usual papers or my fading artwork from year five.
There’s just one postcard.
There’s a noise behind me. I swirl around and nearly faint. He walks through the kitchen door. It’s him – my dad.
He’s so tall, so alive. Tanned, a picture of health, wearing his usual check shirt and cords, dark hair slicked back with gel. Watching him standing casually in our kitchen, as though he’d just dropped in from college, I can hardly breathe.
Dad doesn’t look at me, just reaches for the fridge door.
“Hey, son. Do you ever feel like you forgot something? A little thing? I do it all the time; overlook things. Detail, that’s the name of the game. But then, you’ve already begun.”
That’s all he says. He pours himself a glass of milk.
Maybe I finally manage to mumble something, I can’t remember. Whatever I say, he gives me a quizzical look. “Where’ve I been? Well, yeah. Been meaning to talk to you about that.”
He takes my arm. “Listen, son, your mother and I, we’ve had some problems. This is how it goes between grown-ups sometimes. You know?”
I shake his hand away, frozen. “I don’t know.” Mouth dry, I tell him, “I thought you were dead.”
Dad looks disappointed. “It wasn’t my idea.”
“What?!”
“The whole death thing. Not my idea.”
He shakes his head now, looking annoyed.
“Then whose?”
“Your mother’s.”
“And you agreed?”
He pauses, hands on hips. “Yeah.”
I stagger, lean back on the kitchen worktop for support.
“You and Mum . . . decided to make me think you were dead?”
“She decided.”
“What?!”
He says nothing for a while, just stares at me as though wondering what to do next. “I guess so, son. Like I said, I’m sorry. I was in Mexico.”
Now I’m starting to feel furious, betrayed.
“You were in Mexico? Why didn’t you call? One lousy phone call? You left me thinking you died?”
His eyes fill with sorrow. I’m totally confused, not to say upset. What kind of parents would deceive their child like that? And how the heck did he engineer that plane crash?
Then (always then), the dream ends; I wake up.
The first few times, it feels so real that I wake up in actual tears, sobbing.
Then in some weird way, I start to enjoy it. Somehow, it’s like seeing my dad alive again. Even though we keep playing out the same little scene, it feels real. I sense myself in his presence again. That’s way better than nothing. I go to sleep and I’m hoping it’s going to happen again, the dream.
My recurring dream is something I don’t want to think about. Just remembering that Montoyo and Benicio know about it makes me cringe.
Get some therapy?
It’s the last thing I want to talk about. That’s why I was blogging . . . so much easier when there’s no face-to-face reaction.
And the dream is definitely not something I can discuss with Mum.
Things were better between Mum and me when we came back from Mexico, but only for a while. It didn’t take long to work out that she’d been taking extra-special care not to upset me. I really scared everyone, going missing in Mexico like that. Every so often I can almost see the question forming itself on her lips.
What on earth happened to you?
And yet – Mum never, never dares to ask. Not seriously; not in a way that might mean I’d actually tell her the truth.
Mum recovered a fair bit when she found out that Camila was Dad’s long-lost daughter, that Dad’s murder wasn’t connected to any funny business with a woman. We had some nice conversations about Camila and the afternoon that I spent with her. (Unbelievable to think it was only that. . .) A couple of times I got a bit down and Mum would comfort me.
But deep down we both know that we’re still in the dark about what happened to Dad.
Maybe Mum made a secret pact, a vow or something, because ever since I came back from Mexico, she’s started going to church regularly. Every Sunday, and at least once in the week. I’ve caught her with rosary beads too. She’s asked me to go
with her, many times. I always make excuses.
We’re coming up to our first Christmas without Dad. I can sense the stress piling on.
“Let’s do Christmas in a restaurant this year,” she says one morning, just a little too brightly.
“Nah . . . don’t fancy that.”
“Then let’s make a thing of it. Go to a hotel, splash out a bit.”
“A hotel, where?”
“The Cotswolds somewhere. You pick.”
“OK,” I say. “Bibury. That hotel where we had tea that time.”
Mum’s face drops. “Not Bibury.”
Of course she doesn’t want to go back to that hotel in Bibury; it was Dad’s favourite. If the point of going away for Christmas is to avoid thinking about Dad, then Bibury is sure to spoil her plan.
But I don’t want to avoid thinking about Dad. So, I put my foot down. “If it’s not that hotel in Bibury, then I’m not going. I’d rather stay here – at least we’ve got good telly.”
Mum just blanches. A few months ago I’d have got a rollicking for talking to her like that. Somehow, not now. What’s changed? Is it Mum, or me?
I can see this argument coming back to haunt me one of these days.
In the meantime, Mum has another go at getting me interested in “culture”. Culture! I’m still trying to get a grip on what happened in Ek Naab and all this Mayan heritage it turns out I have. . . Now Mum wants me to go to museums and concerts. She’s terrified of going anywhere alone, that’s what it is. How can I refuse?
Today, however, Mum hits upon a winning strategy, a way to ensure I’m not just dragged along in a sulk. She invites Ollie to join us.
Mum’s put her finger right on my weak point.
Ollie had to go away with her family for a few weeks after we returned from Mexico. And I didn’t see too much of Tyler either. So I’ve been hanging out with a girl from school called Emmy. We have one of those on-off friendships. Big friends in primary school; then we ignored each other for three years. Now, I can’t even remember why we fell out. She’s one of those girls who like to watch boys at the skatepark. And like all girls, she talks a lot. Which suits me fine – saves me the trouble.
Tyler, though – that’s a tricky issue. We were never what you’d call close friends – we only really met at capoeira. Mexico didn’t help. Tyler is still mad at me for the fact that he and Ollie wound up being interrogated by those NRO guys. He’s even angrier that weeks and even months later I’m still tight as a clam on the subject of what really happened.
I stick with the UFO abduction story. Well, I think he sees right through that.
I need Tyler, though, that’s the thing. He’s the best capoeira player in our age range, and I need the practice. We’ve even had our official “baptisms” now – ceremonies where you get a corda and an apelido – a colour-coded belt and a capoeira nickname.
Tyler’s apelido is “Eddy G” after the capoeira fighter from the video game Tekken. And I’m “Mariposa” – butterfly. After my favourite capoeira move, mariposa, the “butterfly twist”. I’m always practising. It’s pretty darn tricky.
I’d never have guessed that capoeira could get me out of so much trouble. Even better, I’m beginning to see a real potential for learning to protect myself. For that, I have to practise it as a contact sport and not just acrobatics. At my capoeira school, they’ll never allow that.
So, Tyler and I get together once in a while, and we agree – for a few minutes only – to really go for it.
That’s how I can tell he’s mad at me; I have the bruises to prove it.
Mum called Ollie about this concert Mum’s keen on. Of course, Ollie said yes.
I haven’t gone out of my way to avoid Tyler, but Ollie? I’ve been avoiding her.
She’s a girl – doesn’t like having her questions ignored or dodged. And the girl is gorgeous. Obviously, if she wants me to talk, then I’m going to have a hard time resisting. The only solution I’ve come up with is to seem very, very busy.
It was working, too, until Mum booked us all to go to this concert.
The performer, a Chilean tenor named Rodrigo del Pozo, is an old friend of Dad’s from college or something. I remember him from when I was a little kid. His daughter and I used to play together before they moved back to Chile. I never heard his singing, though, which Mum and Dad always said was really special. Mum insists that we go to his concert. He’s a mate of Dad’s, so I guess that’s fair.
We meet in Turl Street outside the college. People in scarves scamper between the music, art and gift shops, putting in some Christmas shopping. Hefty, wrought-iron street lamps give the streets an orange glow. The sandstone college buildings look even more golden by night. I love Oxford like this.
Ollie wears the North Oxford preppy fashion. Don’t ask me where they find out the rules, but somehow these girls all dress the same. Ruffled short skirts, cute little tops, tailored velveteen jackets and pashminas; that sort of thing.
She gives me a big haven’t-seen-you-for-ages-and-I’ve-missed-you hug.
Inside the college chapel, burning candles give the room a solemn, wintry feel. Ollie and I sit a little way behind Mum. The band – there’s only three of them – play old instruments; lutes and those cello-like things. I guess I was about ten years old last time Rodrigo was here. Now I realize that he’s only a few centimetres taller than me. There are a few flecks of grey in his hair; apart from that he doesn’t seem much older, but then he’s got a sort of youthful face.
Rodrigo and a pretty, raven-haired soprano sing these romantic-sounding songs in Spanish and Italian. Not my scene at all, but after a few songs I’m actually starting to quite like it.
In fact, after a few songs, I realize that the music is having a strange effect on me. The songs sound medieval, and before long I’m reminded of banquets in castles, horseback quests through forests and beautiful elves. I steal a glance at Ollie, and I’m more than a little surprised to find her staring straight back. We hold each other’s gaze for a full ten seconds – it feels like eternity. She takes hold of my hand. I freeze; I simply have no idea what to do.
Ollie leans in close and whispers into my ear, “I keep imagining myself as Arwen from Lord of the Rings.” When she pulls back, I see she’s smiling.
She’s given me the line, though, hasn’t she?
“So who am I – Aragorn? Legolas? Don’t say Frodo. . .”
That wins another smile. I squeeze her hand and try to lean back casually into the hard, uncomfortable pew. But inside my chest, there’s thunder. I can’t take my mind off the warm, slender fingers holding mine. Not for a single second.
After the concert, Mum wants to wait for Rodrigo. He’s delighted to see us both and gives Mum a big hug when they first meet. He also hugs me for ages, saying, “You’re doing a good job, Josh.”
Mum suggests an Indian meal, which seems to excite Rodrigo. His eyes light up. “Fantastic – let’s go!”
Over dinner, we hear about Rodrigo and his family and how they’re settling back into life in Chile after all those years in Oxford.
Mum doesn’t mention my adventure in Mexico. It’s become our embarrassing little secret.
My son ran off to Mexico with a couple of friends when I was in the mental hospital, and then he ran away from them too, went missing for a few days and claims to have been abducted by UFOs.
It certainly beats the usual story: My son had a raucous house party while I was out of town.
“I was completely amazed to hear about Andres,” Rodrigo says, sipping his Cobra beer, shaking his head in wonder and dismay. “And to think that I actually saw him just before! That gave me a really weird feeling.”
We all stop eating and slowly look up, staring at Rodrigo.
Mum speaks first. “You were in Mexico in March?”
Rodrigo smiles, puzzled. “No, I mean I saw him whilst he was still in England.”
“Rodrigo,” says Mum, almost whispering, “he was in Mexico for weeks before the
plane crash.”
“You’re sure it was him?” I ask. “Not just someone who looked like him?”
Rodrigo shrugs, bemused. “Well, definitely; I spoke to him!”
It’s as though a switch flips within me. Instinctively I know that Rodrigo’s on to something. “What day?” I insist. “Can you remember the exact date?”
Rodrigo sips his beer again. The sudden tension around our table seems to get to him. “It was June sixteenth. Yes, had to be. Quite early in the morning. I had a concert that evening, and your dad said what a shame it was that he couldn’t be there.”