Taken Away

by Celine Kiernan

  . . . let this work, Hail Mary Mother of God pray for us now and at the hour of our dea—

  I flopped onto my belly and groped, wide-eyed, for what I suddenly realised had been a rope. James had thrown me a rope! Without my hands to protect my ears, the silence tried to liquefy my brain – a head-melting thudDUM, thudDUM. I was just about to slap my hands back into place and roll into a ball once more when my fingers brushed the frayed end of the rope and James’s thoughts replaced the agony.

  . . . look up! Why don’t you look up? YES! Hold on, boy! Our Father who art in heaven hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come . . .

  James’s frantic recitation of the ‘Our Father’ continued in my head as I was pulled in jerky fits and starts to the threshold of the grey and then dragged over into the sulphurous calm of the trench.

  I stayed curled in a ball, the rope coiled around my arms, my head cradled in my hands. James fell onto his knees beside me, and he wrapped me in too tight a hug. His thoughts were all a jumble in my head, and they blended into a frenzied kind of buzz.

  . . . is that what it’s like? Don’t let me die, don’t, I never want to die if that’s what it’s like. Is he still alive? Can he breathe? Oh. Is that what it’s like, though? Forever? God help us. Our Father who art . . .

  And his praying started again, which was a relief because the monotonous incantation was much better than his panic.

  ‘James,’ I croaked. He didn’t seem to notice, because he just kept rocking me and panting shivery little sobs into my shoulder. ‘James!’ I insisted, batting at his shoulder. ‘Leggo.’

  He released me, and I pushed the rest of the way out of his arms, gulping in air. ‘Squashing me!’ I managed at last.

  He hugged his knees to his chest and gave the grey a long, haunted sideways glance.

  ‘That’s not what dying’s like, James. I know, ’cause Laurence showed me.’

  He gaped at me, horrified. Can you read my thoughts?

  I nodded. Started off when you threw that rope.

  He looked down at the innocent coil at his feet and kicked it away with a look of alarm that almost made me laugh. I sat up and waited for my head to settle a little, then glanced at him again.

  ‘It’s nice,’ I promised. ‘Once you’ve crossed over. It’s peaceful and nice. Laurence was happy, even though he’d been terrified the moment before.’

  James frowned at me without comprehension.

  ‘I was Laurence,’ I explained. ‘In a dream. I was him when he died.’

  He drew away from me in sympathy and horror, and I put my hand on his arm, because there were tears in his eyes. It was okay, James. Once he’d died. It was really nice. There’s no need to be afraid. And, saying it, I realised the same thing went for Dom; Dom would have gone there, too. I thought about that for a moment; Dom would be in heaven. He’d have gone to that gentle place, the place Laurence had lost. I wasn’t sure what to do with this thought, but it comforted me.

  ‘What’s that, then?’ James whispered, jerking a thumb in the direction of the murky shadow-wall. I looked into its strange depths and licked my lips.

  I think that’s what it’s like to be a ghost. Comprehension dawned on him, and he turned to peer into the grey. We sat like that for a moment, watching the shadows race and flow in that silent, hammering void, both of us thinking the same thing.

  ‘Fran stayed there all that time, looking for Lorry,’ whispered James.

  And Lorry got lost, looking for Fran.

  ‘We need to rescue them,’ I said, looking into James’s eyes. I knew he felt the same way.

  A SHINING BRIDGE

  IT WAS VERY strange and comforting to know that no matter how far I walked, I could turn and find James ten feet behind me. We did a few tentative experiments, and discovered three things for certain: firstly, the person in the grey couldn’t just walk back through the door – they had to be dragged unresisting across the threshold; secondly, only one of us could be there at a time – well, this was an assumption on our part, and there was no way we would risk testing it again because one shot of that door sealing itself shut was enough for both of us; and thirdly, neither of us could stand being in the grey for very long.

  Hard as it was to keep track of time, we figured the longest either of us had lasted was fifteen minutes before we flopped to the ground with our hands clasped to our ears, our eyes turned beseechingly to the door. How Lorry and Francis had survived for so long in that awful place was a mystery to me; but I no longer wondered why both of them were a little cracked in the head.

  The landscape within the grey never changed; no figures came out of the fog; no sounds reached us, no message more definite than that palpitating sense of horror. It was a mindless forward slog, with no end. We were getting nowhere. What did Laurence want from us?

  We were soon too tired to talk, and even the buzz of our thoughts through the telegraph wire of the rope became nothing but an exhausted drizzle of sound. I had no idea what my thoughts sounded like to James, but I hoped they gave him comfort, because when it was my turn out in the grey his unending rounds of ‘Hail Mary’ and ‘Our Father’ and ‘Glory Be’ kept me going.

  During my turns in the relative tranquillity of the trench, holding the lifeline as James trudged on, I tried to think things through. I thought, in a dim, unfocused kind of way, about Lorry and Francis and their seventy-year hunt through the grey. Two terrified ghosts, desperate to find each other. I thought of James and myself, anchored by our living bodies to the world: ghosts but not ghosts, trying to do the same.

  Ghosts, but not ghosts.

  I tried to catch this thought – to make sense of it – but James’s thoughts kept drumming away in my head, soothing me, lulling me, making it hard to think. I felt like my brain was wrapped in cottonwool, like I was sleepwalking on a treadmill, slogging on with no purpose. Getting nowhere.

  My eyes snapped open and my hands tightened around the rough coils of the rope. I stared at James’s toiling back. We were like sleepwalkers; we really were. We were keeping each other too calm and too protected. Connected by the rope, we found the grey horrible, almost unbearable. Without the rope, it was shattering; it was a deadly, shattering torture. But it was focused. It was real.

  We were real.

  I suddenly understood. We were keeping each other safe out there, but we were also keeping each other dim. We were trudging along, shadows in the shadows, when we should have been out there shouting – the only living souls in the world of the dead, screaming our heads off, glowing like torches, making ourselves known.

  I swallowed. I couldn’t ask James to do that. He hadn’t asked for any of this. I was the one who’d taken the sleeping pills. I was the one who’d started this bloody dream. He’d just fallen asleep, poor bastard, and now here he was, keeping me safe, taking my place.

  James, I thought. Stop.

  He lurched to a halt, hunched and wary. What is it? Even his thoughts were a whisper. What do you see?

  It’s okay. I don’t see anything. I just want you to come back.

  He ducked his head around to look at me, his face distorted with the effort of staying in that place. Are you alright?

  I’m fine.

  I can stay a good bit longer. I think I’m getting used to it.

  I had to smile at that. I could feel just how not used to it he was. I know you can. But I have an idea. I need to go out there now.

  Our eyes met, and he frowned. I wasn’t sure how well he could read me; my thoughts were such a jumble when compared to his orderly prayers. Hopefully they made no sense to him.

  It’s alright, Mr Hueston, I’m not going to do anything stupid.

  He looked away for a moment, into the distorted non-depths. I could see him jerking, shifting his weight under the unending assault of the air. For a moment he lifted his hands from his ears, and I knew then that he had some small inkling of what I was at. He let the grey rush in at him. He opened himself to it.

  His jaw tightened
immediately and his eyes narrowed. I tried to keep my own thoughts low and unobtrusive. His pain burnt up the rope to me, and I ground my teeth at the electric strength of it. He barely lasted a minute before ducking his head and slapping his hands back into place.

  Jesuuus Chriiist.

  You . . . you okay, Mr Hueston?

  He didn’t answer, just kept cursing in that painful whisper. Jesuuuus. Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

  Mr Hueston?

  I’m . . . I’m fine.

  Did you hear anything?

  But he didn’t answer me. He just dropped to the ground like a broken doll and curled around the pain, waiting for me to pull him in. He didn’t even grip the rope the way we’d both got into the habit of; he just let the slack tighten against the loop that was knotted around his shoulder and lay like a dead weight as I heaved him over the threshold.

  I knelt down beside him and put my hand on his shoulder. He flopped onto his back, gaping like a fish. ‘Mr Hueston? Mr Hueston? You okay?’

  He closed his eyes and nodded, put his hand on my arm, squeezed reassuringly, and sat up.

  ‘No,’ he said, his eyes still shut tight.

  ‘Huh?’

  No. You’re not doing it.’ ‘

  He began to stand, and I shook off his hand and got to my feet at the same time. When he finally let go of his head and raised his eyes to mine, I had already backed to the threshold, my face set like stone. His expression fell at the sight of me. He lowered his hands as if in slow motion.

  Boy?’ he whispered, looking me up and down. ‘What . . . ?’ ‘

  I looked down, expecting to see Lorry’s grubby uniform, his dusty army boots. But instead I saw my new brown cords, my runners, my cream poloneck jumper. It was with dreamlike astonishment that I held my own two hands in front of my face. My own hands, not Lorry’s! I looked back at James. He was still the same, still young Shamie, and I knew now that it was because of Lorry. That’s how Lorry saw him, and that’s how James would remain as long as he was here in Lorry’s dream-place. But me, I was myself again. I was acting for myself.

  ‘What did you hear out there?’ I asked, gentle now, because I knew that James was going to let me go.

  ‘Lorry,’ he said quietly. ‘I heard Lorry. Screaming my name. And the artillery shells – the bloody Jack Johnsons – trying to drown him out as usual. But it was him. And I felt him. Here!’ He thumped his chest and there were tears in his eyes again, shivering but not falling, on the curve of his bottom lid. ‘It were as though I only lost him yesterday. The pain . . . the pain of it . . . ’

  ‘Like a hole blown through you,’ I whispered, and he nodded.

  We’ve been doing this all wrong, James. We’ve been thinking like people. But we’re not just people here, are we? We’re living ghosts. We’re living memories. We’re the bridge between then and now – the signal that will guide them home.

  What are you going to do?

  I shrugged. ‘I’m just going to wait,’ I said. ‘Wait and see what happens. I think we’ve tried too hard, Mr Hueston. I think . . . I think I’m just going to stand still and shout.’

  He looked out at the grey. But it’s awful out there.

  I think it’s much worse than we’ve been letting ourselves feel. I held up the rope. This has been sheltering us from it, I think. I think it unfocuses us.

  James’s eyes widened in comprehension, and he reached for me. I stepped into the grey before he could touch me, and he became a shimmering watcher once more. The grey pressed around me. My grief for Dom swamped me in a crippling tide and I bent, my hands pressed to my temples. Through squinted eyes, I saw James flounder as he dealt with his terror. Then he took a deep breath, and seemed to pull himself together. He stooped and picked up the rope.

  I’m with you, son, he thought. I’m with you.

  It took me a moment to recover enough to lift my head and force my hands away from my ears. James’s face fell as I lifted the loop of rope from my shoulders.

  What are you doing? NO!

  It’s alright, I thought, as I laid the coil on the ground. Don’t worry.

  Just before I let go, I heard him shout, You’re burning! You’re burning like fire!

  AN UNEXPECTED FIND

  I FORCED MYSELF TO stand upright against the hammering air and knotted my fists in the fabric of my jumper, trying to keep my feet as the grey battered and shoved me. I would not plug my ears. I would not grab the rope. I would not beg James to drag me to safety.

  I heard it at once – loud and clear now that I’d opened myself to listen – a series of vast, dull BOOMs moving through the fog. This was Lorry’s sound, the big artillery shells that James called Jack Johnsons. Though coming from very far away, each BOOM shook the ground, slamming through the soles of my boots and through my chest, right to the top of my head. There was a random feel to them, as though they were wandering around out there, searching, and I knew it was Lorry, looking for me. It was his way of calling.

  I wondered if I gave off my own sound, some signal for him to follow through this cloying void?

  I figured I should try. I AM HERE, I thought. I’M OVER HERE.

  The grey seemed to inhale. There was a long moment of listening. It made me want to hide.

  Instead, I gathered myself and put more force into it. OVER HERE! I’M HERE!

  The moment Lorry finally worked out where I was, I felt it. I felt it like a punch to my chest. My body did a series of strange wrenching jerks – pop, pop, pow – and particles of me shot off into the grey like sparks. Oh God, it hurt. It hurt like nettles. It hurt like electric shock. I was a sparkler; I was a Catherine wheel, sending molecules of light and power out into the grey. I had become a beacon: the mortal boy blazing bright in the colourless world of ghosts. I had become Lorry’s guide.

  The sound of shelling began to advance through the fog.

  I slit my eyes open. It was hard to concentrate, because with every approaching BOOM of artillery shell, a surge of power would whip out from my feet, snapping my spine straight. A wave of light would pulse from me each time, and I could see that the grey was shifting; pulling back. Each wave of light was stronger than the one before, and each one pushed the grey further from me, leaving behind . . . solidity, definition, reality.

  Lorry and I were building a space, a clear space in the grey – a place where we could meet.

  BOOM! Another shell went off, another pulse of light coursed through me, and I was standing on a circle of floorboards, the grey a blank tube of mist around me.

  BOOM again, and Lorry was so close now. So close. He had nearly found me; I had nearly guided him to me. But it hurt so badly. I wanted it to stop.

  BOOM. My head dropped back and my mouth opened wide. BOOM. A swarm of buzzing sparks shot from my mouth. I was a column of fire. I was a pillar of pain. Still I kept calling with all my might, I am here. I am here. I am here.

  BOOM. BOOM. BOOM! The explosions were unending now, and I was a fountain of agonised light. I was losing myself. I was getting hollow. I was pushing out. The geyser of sparks shooting from my mouth was emptying me of everything. I was so close to being gone.

  Around me now were walls, windows, a door – a room constructed from me, made accessible by me, by the energy Lorry was taking from me. A ceiling, a dressing table, a battered bunk all came into view.

  But I was unravelling. I was slipping between. I was becoming space. I screamed, terrified now that I could never stop; that Lorry would never stop; that I would be gone.

  STOP, I screamed. STOP! PLEASE!

  Silence. Everything ceased.

  I staggered as if I’d been running, though I’d never taken one step.

  I still burned – a cold, iron fire hissing out into the void – but all around me, everything had changed. The grey had gone, and I was looking down at two crumbled figures huddled against the wall of a colourless room. I was looking down at myself, Dom’s body cradled in my arms, his head tucked into my neck. We were a sprawl of legs and a
rms on the floor of our bedroom. Our dark curls tumbled together, our identical faces snowy white and expressionless in the moonlight.

  A young man exploded from the wall beside our bodies. Passing through the brick and plaster as if it were mist, he tumbled backwards as if he’d been kicked, and rolled in a flurry of army coat and flying limbs across the floor to come to a halt under the window. He was on his feet almost immediately, glaring back at the blank wall. Then he ran, disappearing into the featureless surface once more.

  LORRY! I thought. I lifted my hand to pull him back and, as if my attention were a spotlight turned up to full blast, the wall blared a sudden, blinding white. The reflected brilliance hurt my eyes, and I turned my head away, squinting.

  That was me, I thought. I did that, just by concentrating on it.

  Lorry returned instantly, struggling backwards and falling again as he broke through the threshold of the wall. He was dragging someone with him. A boy! The boy struggled and flailed, as if terrified. As I watched, he broke away from Lorry and scrambled on all fours back towards the wall. Lorry lurched to his knees. The white light emanating from me made cardboard cutouts of them both as their struggling shadows darted and flared across the blinding walls. They were nothing but stark highlights and blackness, and I could make out no details, just the warring outline of their shapes.

  FRANCIS, I screamed, certain the boy was him. STOP! IT’S US!

  Panic flared from the boy. It crackled outwards like static electricity, charging the air with a dancing radiance that hurt my skin and raised the hair on my arms and head.

  IT’S OKAY, FRANCIS! REMEMBER? IT’S US!

  The boy scrabbled away, his desperation increasing as he dived, once again, for the wall. Lorry flung himself forward, grabbing the boy’s foot. He pulled Francis towards him, earning a kick in the face that snapped his head back. He retaliated with an elbow to the stomach that winded the boy and allowed Lorry to drag him in and hold him tight.

  Then Lorry turned to me, pleading, determined. He could hardly open his eyes against my flaring brilliance, but he twisted his body, pulling the struggling boy around and offered him to me. The boy flung up his hands and ducked his head, blinded and terrified by my searing light. I stepped forward and, as I reached, I saw the matted curls, the slanting cheekbones, the wide-spaced eyes of my own face.