Freefall

by Roderick Gordon

  “Is this a dream? Am I dreaming?” Will asked him.

  “Quite possibly,” Tam answered, sliding his hand up his face and then to the top of his head, where he began to scratch vigorously. “Reckon I’ve got those lice again,” he chuckled. “Little bleeders.”

  “I am dreaming,” Will decided, and twisted himself around on the step so he was directly facing the apparition.

  “Tell me what I should be doing, Uncle Tam. You have to tell me.”

  “You’ve got yourself in a pickle, my boy, haven’t you?” Tam said.

  Will frowned, remembering there was something vitally important he had to say to his uncle. “Cal … I’m so sorry about Cal … there was —”

  “Nothing you could do,” Tam interrupted as he took out his pipe and began to fill the bowl with tobacco. “I know that, Will, I know that. You only just made it out by the skin of your teeth yourself.”

  “But what can I do about Elliott?” Will asked as the big man scraped a match against his thumbnail and it burst into flame, lighting his face for an instant. “She’s really sick and I feel so helpless. What should I do?”

  “I wish I could be of assistance, Will, but I don’t know this place.” Tam took a moment to survey the cavern as he chewed on the stem of his pipe. “I can’t give you any maps to show you the way this time. Just choose a course of action — you’ll know when it’s right — and stick to it.”

  “Please, Tam,” Will begged the shadowy outline. “I need more than that.”

  Tam puffed out a hazy cloud of smoke that seemed to hang in the air forever, imbued with the constant cycle of different colors the plants were emitting. “Listen to your heart,” he said, as the cloud finally dispersed.

  “What does that mean?” Will demanded, profoundly disappointed with the response. “That doesn’t help me at all!”

  Tam merely exhaled an even bigger cloud of smoke, which completely enveloped him.

  “What are you doing out here?” Martha asked.

  “Huh?” Will gasped, jerking his head around.

  “I heard voices,” she said, looking out over the garden from the top of the porch.

  “I couldn’t sleep so I checked on Elliott, then came out here for some fresh air,” Will explained.

  “You didn’t check on Elliott. I was with her — I would have seen you come in. Are you all right, Will?” she asked, concerned.

  Will didn’t answer, turning back to where Tam had been sitting. He was surprised to see Bartleby there instead, watching him alertly. “Must have dozed off,” he mumbled, getting up and passing Martha as he went inside the shack, shaking his head.

  When Will took his turn with Elliott later that day, she seemed to be even more restless than usual, her head tossing from side to side as she tensed all her limbs. Every so often her eyes flickered open for a few seconds. It frightened Will — he had no idea what it meant or what he should be doing. As he tried to soothe her by talking to her, her eyes seemed to look at him, but he knew she wasn’t seeing him — they were lifeless and red-rimmed, and not like her eyes at all.

  She began to babble and froth at the mouth, her movements becoming frantic. Then she screamed, and her whole body convulsed and locked up as if an electric current was running through it. Shouting for help, Will tried to straighten her out on the bed, but she was rigid, her back arching and her legs so tautly clenched that she was thrusting herself up from the mattress. He caught a glimpse of her face. It was no longer flushed as it had been ever since the fever set in, but completely drained of color. Deathly white.

  “Help, anybody! Come quick!” he screamed.

  Chester and Martha rushed in at the same time — they had clearly both been asleep.

  Martha reacted to the situation immediately. She picked up the bowl of water and threw it over Elliott, then thrust the empty bowl at Chester, telling him to go and refill it. As Chester rushed off, she joined Will in trying to straighten out the girl’s body.

  “What is it? Why’s she doing this?” Will said, so beside himself with worry that his voice was quaking.

  “It’s because of her temperature. It should pass,” Martha told him. She was checking Elliott’s mouth — the girl’s teeth were clenched tightly shut. “Got to watch out she hasn’t bitten her tongue,” Martha said.

  “Look … look at her eyes,” Will gasped. They had rolled up into her head so that only the whites showed.

  “It’ll pass,” Martha assured him again.

  Chester thundered back in with a full bowl of water and Martha drenched the girl a second time. Elliott’s body slowly relaxed, until she was completely still and the color had returned to her face.

  “Poor Elliott,” Will mumbled. “That was just awful.”

  “She was fitting. It’s because she’s been too hot for too long,” Martha said. “It’s affecting her brain.”

  Will and Chester exchanged glances.

  “Isn’t there anything we can do to stop it?” Chester asked.

  “I’m afraid not. And it’s likely to get worse,” Martha replied. “Exactly the same happened with Nathaniel.”

  Mrs. Burrows had just left her apartment when she noticed two surly-looking youths hanging around by the railings in the middle of the town square.

  Both had their hoods up and were wearing identical sky-blue camouflage baseball caps with oversized peaks, so it was difficult for her to make out their faces. But then one of them, the bigger of the two, who had a cigarette cupped in his hand, raised it to his mouth for a drag, and Mrs. Burrows caught a glimpse of his features.

  She slowed, then crossed the road toward them.

  “I know you, don’t I?” she said, frowning.

  “Don’t think so, lady,” the bigger boy replied, his manner gruff as he slung his cigarette into the gutter. Tucking his head down low, he began to swagger off with his confederate in tow.

  “I do know you. You and Will had a set-to a couple of years ago, when he used his shovel. I had to come in and talk to the headmaster, and you were there, too, with your parents. You’re Spike or Spider or something like that, aren’t you?”

  The boy stopped on the spot, twisting his head around to regard Mrs. Burrows. “Spider? What sort of name’s that?” he spat. He curled the side of his mouth in what was probably intended to be an insolent sneer, but it looked more like he was about to sneeze. “The name’s Speed, lady, Speed.” Then, as what Mrs. Burrows had said registered, he frowned and began to study her with more interest. “Will … Will Burrows. You’re Will’s mum?”

  “That’s right,” she confirmed.

  Speed exchanged a glance with his companion, Bloggsy, then strolled back toward her. “I thought you’d been put away somewhere,” he said insensitively.

  “I was. Went through a rough patch, but I’m through it now.”

  “My stepdad got all tweaky, too — know what I’m saying? — depression and all that, only me mum chucked him out. He was getting a bit rough with me and me bro,” Speed said, clenching and unclenching a fist.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Mrs. Burrows said.

  Speed ran his eyes over Mrs. Burrows again, lingering on her new sneakers. “Wicked,” he said, obviously impressed with them. “You’re looking sharp, Mrs. B. Been workin’ out?”

  She nodded.

  “You back here for Will, am I right?” he asked. “Lookin’ for him?”

  “Yes, I’m just on my way to yet another briefing from the police. They won’t have anything new to say — all the usual excuses. It’s like dealing with the Keystone Cops.”

  Speed shook his head empathically. “What are they gonna tell you? Nobody talks to them. They’re the last to know what’s going down.”

  Speed seemed on the point of saying something more, then shut his mouth.

  “You haven’t seen him, have you?” Mrs. Burrows asked. “There were a couple of unconfirmed sightings of him around here before Christmas.”

  “I…,” he started, then seemed to change h
is mind. “Smoke?” he offered. In a flash Bloggsy was there with an open pack of Marlboros. Mrs. Burrows took one, and Speed lit it for her before he lit his own.

  Mrs. Burrows drew hard on her cigarette. “Listen, anything you tell me, it’ll stay between you and me,” she promised. “No police.”

  “No police,” Speed repeated. He looked up and down the street, then leaned in toward her, dropping his voice to a confidential whisper. “November time, he was back here in Highfield with a younger kid —”

  “Mini-Me … and that monster pit bull,” Bloggsy chimed in.

  Speed gave him a harsh look and he immediately fell silent.

  “— a younger kid who looked just like him, and, yeah, he also had a seriously massive canine with him. They were on their way to the Tube when me and Bloggsy bumped into them. Y’know, Will and me were never mates, so we didn’t exactly stop to chat.”

  “So you only saw him the once?”

  “Yes,” Speed confirmed. “Word on the street is he’s got some really heavy geezers on his case and he’s gone to ground, but he’s coming back soon to sort them out. And we say respect to him for that.”

  “Respect,” echoed Bloggsy.

  “And if you do find Will, you tell him from me,” Speed said, stabbing the air with his cigarette to emphasize what he was saying, “that we didn’t always see eye to eye, but that was then. If he wants help, he knows where he can come.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks,” Mrs. Burrows said, watching as they both ambled away, hands in pockets.

  And through the window in the rear door of an old and battered van parked up in the square, Mrs. Burrows herself was being watched. Drake increased the magnification on his monocular, zooming in so he could see her face more clearly. “Careful who you talk to, Celia. You never can tell,” he said under his breath. “Not until it’s too late.”

  Mrs. Burrows took a thoughtful drag from her cigarette, then studied it in her hand.

  “You’re not going to finish that,” Drake predicted. “Reminds you too much of your sister Jean. You’re not like her.”

  Mrs. Burrows raised the cigarette to her lips, but seemed to think better of it. With a shake of her head, she carefully dropped it down a drain at the curbside, then began to move off.

  “Good woman,” Drake said. He put away his monocular and got ready to follow her.

  Everything had lost its meaning for Will. Playing chess was out of the question — he couldn’t begin to concentrate on it — and he realized he hadn’t as much as opened his journal for weeks. He could hardly bring himself to eat the food Martha put out for him. He was finding it difficult to sleep — every time he lay down, he felt as if his head was going to burst. And every time he was with Chester, the unspoken question hung between them. Should we go? Should we go?

  As for Elliott, he wondered at what point the cutoff came, the point at which she would be too ill to be moved. Watching her in the throes of a fit like that had been the last straw. He felt so powerless to do anything to help her.

  He’d begun to ask himself whether he and Chester should leave Elliott at the shack with Martha and set out by themselves, but he couldn’t see how that would work. What if they were successful and came across something or someone, but couldn’t find their way back to the shack again? Or what if they found help but it was too far away, and they didn’t arrive back in time to help her? Or what if, by some stroke of luck, they found a route out of the Pore — would they take it, then come back down again? No, Will decided, the only way it would work was if they took Elliott with them.

  But he couldn’t bring himself to tell Chester it was time — and he wasn’t sure how Chester would react if he did.

  The only part of his old routine he clung to was rummaging through the trunks of salvaged items.

  Now, as he wandered around to the rear of the shack with Bartleby lolloping along at his side, Rebecca called out to him.

  “How’s Elliott? Any better?”

  Will glanced at Rebecca’s hut, seeing her face through the open doorway. “No, she’s —” he began to answer, then caught himself. He’d been so preoccupied with his concerns that he’d forgotten who was addressing him. “Don’t talk to me,” he scowled. “It’s none of your business!”

  Entering the outbuilding, he stood before the trunks and chests in one of the corners that he hadn’t yet investigated. He sighed, thinking that he didn’t have many more to go before he’d finish the whole lot. Clambering up on a few trunks so he could reach the top of the corner pile, he stretched across and took hold of a wooden casket. He lifted it down, placing it on the small patch of ground in the middle of the hut he kept clear for sorting the items. As he knelt before the casket and swung the lid up, Rebecca deigned to speak to him again.

  “Are you looking for something, Will?” she said.

  Will stopped what he was doing and stood up, wondering if Rebecca could see him through chinks in the sidewall of her hut. The construction of the log store in which Martha had put the twin was the same as all the other outbuildings; ancient timber planks had been nailed to thick beams, but these planks were so warped and worm-eaten that he guessed the twin had found a crack to watch him through. How very like Rebecca. Always snooping. His resentment built. This was the one place he could get away from it all and lose himself in the task of sorting through the trunks. The last thing he wanted to do was get into a conversation with the Styx girl.

  “Just leave me alone, will you?” he snapped.

  As he knelt down before the box again and turfed out some pieces of lead sheeting, he came across a small plastic container. Inside was what appeared to be a set of relatively modern graphic pens — the type that draftsmen or cartographers use. There were five in the container, all with different nib sizes. He twisted the lid off one and tried it on his palm. The ink had long since dried out, and he immediately wondered if Martha had anything he might be able to use instead. “Finders keepers,” he said as he put the set aside. Just then Rebecca called out again.

  “Whatever you’re looking for, I guess it must be important if both you and Martha are hunting for it.”

  “I told you to sh —” he started, but didn’t finish the sentence. Getting up, he left his hut and strode over to where Rebecca was shackled. “What did you just say?” he demanded brusquely.

  “Well, Martha’s been in there, too, rooting around. I thought —”

  “Nah,” Will said, shaking his head. “Martha’s not interested in that old stuff — it’s been there for ages.” He began to walk away. “You’re mistaken.”

  “No, Will, I’m not,” Rebecca insisted. “I swear she’s been in there … oh, three or four times … moving things around and even chucking some of it away.”

  Will hesitated, turning his head to the twin. “Chucking it away?” he repeated. “What sort of things?”

  “I couldn’t see exactly what it was, but I did hear clinking.”

  “Really,” Will said, thinking it was strange Martha hadn’t mentioned anything to him about it. He gave a small shrug, telling himself that it all belonged to her, anyway, so she could do what she wanted with it, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Where did she take these clinking things?”

  “Up past Bartleby. I definitely saw her digging there, and she threw something into the hole.”

  Will glanced to where Bartleby was rolling on his back, making a series of satisfied piglike grunts. He’d taken so many dust baths in the same spot that there was a large impression in the soil.

  “Past Bartleby,” Will said thoughtfully.

  “Yes. I assumed she was giving you a hand with whatever you’re doing.”

  “Sure, that’s right — she’s been giving me a hand,” Will mumbled, trying to pretend to Rebecca that what she was saying wasn’t news to him. But as he ambled back toward his hut again, he knew he had to take a look for himself. He continued straight past it and toward the wriggling cat, trying to be as casual as he could because he suspected R
ebecca’s prying eyes were still on him.

  “Keep going — it’s a bit farther,” Rebecca shouted helpfully, confirming his suspicions.

  “Good grief, what am I doing?” Will grumbled under his breath, annoyed that he was allowing himself to pay any heed to what she’d said. Nevertheless, Will kept going, passing Bartleby, whose head perked up as he saw him there.

  Reaching the area Rebecca had indicated, Will stepped slowly around the bare ground, inspecting the surface. It felt firm underfoot, but then his heel sank into a loose patch. He immediately dropped into a squat and began to scoop away the soil. It had been dug recently and it wasn’t difficult for him to re-excavate the hole.

  Will noticed that Bartleby was watching him intently, head to one side. “Just looking for my favorite bone,” Will joked to the cat. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Bartleby himself had dug the hole, and Will was just as prepared for the discovery of a half-chewed rodent or something equally disgusting at the bottom.

  He’d reached more than a foot and was leaning into the hole when he spotted what looked like small, light-colored beads in the dirt. At first he just assumed they were insect eggs or seeds, but as he looked at them more closely, he found they were, in fact, pills. He carefully picked them out of the soil, identifying three distinct kinds: Two types were white, but different in size, and the third was pink. Each of the three types had different letters pressed into them, although they didn’t spell out full words.

  Then, as he dug down a little deeper, he heard something rattle.

  “What have we here?” he said to Bartleby as he came across three glass bottles. They were each about two inches long, and their tops, screw-on metal caps, had been removed, but he also found these in the soil at the very bottom of the hole. He emptied one of the bottles of dirt and, locating the right cap for it, replaced it. It reminded him of the sort of bottle his parents kept in the bathroom cabinet — prescription drugs that nobody ever bothered to throw away.

  Making snuffling noises, Bartleby stuck his nose into the hole as Will tried to read the printed label on the bottle. There was a long word on the label, with several letters that weren’t in the English alphabet. Despite the fact that Will couldn’t understand what it said, he had the strongest sense that the bottle had originated from the surface. Then he noticed a date at the bottom of the label.