The Collector Book One: Mana Leak

by Daniel I. Russell

  “I don’t appreciate people answering back,” Frank said, desperately trying to keep the volume of his voice steady. It wanted to rise and shoot across the void between his mouth and the idiot child. It wanted to knock Sneddon back in a sonic wave, so the boy could feel the instructions vibrate through his bones… “Please, get on with your work.”

  Sneddon looked down at the task and fidgeted with a couple of magnets. “Relax!” he muttered. “Don’t do it…”

  “When you want to go to it…” the rest of the class murmured in unison, all wide eyes and mocking smiles.

  Frank’s chair toppled backwards as he bolted up from his desk, with his fists clenched tight. The throbbing headache flared, like a chisel had lodged into the front of his skull and a sadistic sculptor banged away with a large hammer.

  “If I hear that song one more time in this classroom, you will all be kept behind after school! Do I make myself clear?”

  The three girls on the front row, who had now put most of the motor together, bowed their heads, appearing guilty for the crime they barely committed. Sniggers and hushed comments drifted around the room.

  Sir’s lost it again.

  Did you see his chair fall?

  The Frankie Goes to Hollywood song played in Frank’s head; the song that swept through his classes like a forest fire after one eagle-eyed student had seen his first name on a folder.

  Relax…don’t do it…when you want to go to it…

  His heart raced and his anger bubbled higher.

  “Right, you goddamn-”

  The door to the classroom swung open, and a round face appeared around the light wood. The head of the science department smiled, his round spectacles rising on swelled cheeks.

  “Mr Harper, could I have a quick word?”

  Frank blew out a long and steady breath.

  “Certainly, Mr Quackenbush.”

  Frank bent down and righted the chair, pushing it under his desk. Downing the dregs of his coffee, he locked eyes with the beaming Andrew Sneddon.

  “Maybe it would be best in the store room,” Quackenbush suggested, nodding towards the plain, white door that stood to the side of the black board. “In private, eh?”

  Frank placed the empty mug on his desk and, without saying a word, turned around and slammed the door open. The class exploded into spontaneous conversation behind him. The chorus of Relax! started anew, led by Sneddon.

  The dingy physics store room was lit by a strip of lighting along the middle of the stained ceiling. The curtains, thick and black, had been tightly drawn across the windows. The room smelled of shaven metal and rotten wood, most of the dank odour coming from the aged shelving lining every wall. The shelves contained various sets of apparatus used across the physics curriculum. On one shelf, a miniaturised steam engine sat covered in dust. Another shelf had been overloaded with bulky oscillators, the units that displayed electrical signals, but the kids always thought were heart monitors. An experiment was underway on a rickety table in front of the window; a narrow beam of light from a ray box was being bounced off two facing mirrors. A protractor and a page filled with measurements sat beside it.

  Probably Jim the technician having a play, Frank thought. I hope he remembers to open the curtains and put the equipment away when he’s done.

  Quackenbush closed the door behind him. It blocked out most of the laughs and jeers, and the chorus of that damn song. Quackenbush smiled, like the eternal fat kid trying to win over a bully with chubby charm. Frank noticed his comb-over was exceptionally precise, the few remaining hairs atop his head uniformly spread for maximum cover.

  He must have seen some mighty important people this morning.

  “Frank,” said Quackenbush. “I’m sorry to disturb your class this way.”

  “Don’t worry about it; they were already wasting my time. What can I do for you?”

  “Well, this isn’t really that easy for me to say, Frank…” Quackenbush fingered a coil of wire on a shelf at his side; a nervous sign, like his darting eyes. He looked scared half to death.

  “Bloody hell, man, spit it out. I don’t want to have another rumour start about me by loitering in the storeroom with you! You know what the kids are like, anything to make fun.”

  Quackenbush nodded too eagerly. His cheeks wobbled. “Y-yes, I agree, yes.”

  “Then what is it?” Frank’s voice had started to creep upwards once more.

  For the love of God and the prophets, someone get me a coffee, ground roasted, two sugars.

  “I had some of the governors in this morning, had to find cover for my first period, it’s so hard to find someone who…”

  Frank glanced at his watch and then to the closed door leading back into his classroom. It sounded in uproar, Sneddon’s voice rising above the rest of the class.

  Quackenbush apparently took the hint and continued.

  “Yes, well, there is, like I said, no easy way to say this…”

  Frank stared at the flustering fat man. “Well?”

  Quackenbush looked up and met the cold gaze. With a determined swallow, he pushed his spectacles up his nose.

  “There have been complaints about you, Frank, very serious complaints indeed. The governors are concerned about the pupils in your classes.”

  Frank frowned.

  Governors? Complaints?

  “I’m sorry. I seem to be having trouble understanding you. Complaints? About…me?”

  “Yes, Frank. I’m sorry it has come to this. I blame myself, I saw the signs, and I should have done more for you, I…”

  Frank closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. The sculptor was back with his hammer and chisel. He wasn’t going to leave until his masterpiece of suffering was finished. Frank winced from the pulsing ache.

  “Wait a minute. Signs? What are you going on about?”

  “It happens to the best of us, Frank. The job, the kids, the workload. It’s getting to you.”

  “Rubbish!”

  Seeming to have hit his stride, Quackenbush continued regardless. “There have been complaints from several children regarding your outbursts and the governors take all complaints very seriously. And after the fiasco during the school football match-”

  “That boy should have been in my detention,” Frank spat.

  “There was a time for that!” said Quackenbush. “You dragged him off the field in front of his peers and his family. Do you know what that did to him? He was devastated and hasn’t played since. You could’ve handled the situation better.”

  “Oh, so now we are expected to let the snot-nosed little brats get away with everything? That boy was caught cheating on a test, an important test! And I was supposed to let it be for the sake of a football match?” Frank boomed.

  Quackenbush flinched.

  The class had grown quiet, the occupants probably sitting in silence to catch every word.

  “This is what I am talking about,” said Quackenbush, regaining his composure. “You have a temper. We all know that. You know that! It’s just that lately you really have been losing control. The other members of the department and myself have discussed this and-”

  “How dare you! Sitting in the staff room in your little huddled group talking about me behind my back? Why don’t you all come out and say it? You all think that I’m not up to the job anymore!”

  “Please. Please, try to calm yourself.”

  Frank turned from the portly head of science and leaned against the table. He arched his back and took a long, slow breath.

  That beam of light, he thought, looking down at the apparatus. I can calculate its speed. I can work out how much energy its photons contain. I can reflect it, diffract it, refract it through a prism. If I can control something this universal, how could I have let my own life fall to pieces? When did it start to take control of me?

  “We are concerned about you, that’s all. We don’t want you out and we are not trying to get rid of you. Look, it’s the Easter break in a fortnight. If you would l
ike to take an extended holiday, I’m sure that the rest of the staff and I can cover your classes. We’re worried about you, Frank. You, Anne and the kids. Stuff the governors. This should get them off our backs. You can come back refreshed and raring to go, and we will never discuss any of this again. What do you say?”

  “What do I say?” Frank turned, his body shaking in anger. His lips curled away from his gritted teeth.

  “What do I say? I say fuck you. Fuck you and all the rest of them.” A tremor ran through him. “If you’ll excuse me, I have a class to teach.”

  Frank barged past and swung the door open. It hit the shelf behind. The coil of wire fell to the floor.

  The class sat in a stunned silence as he burst back in.

  “Sneddon!” he screamed. “My office! Dinner time!”

  2.

  Anne pressed the bruise with her finger and moaned from the dull pain that bloomed under her skin. The dark crescent on her side, just below the ribs, had turned the colour of rotten fruit, surrounded by shades of yellow. She pressed the bruise again.

  Anne Harper perched on the side of the bath in her gloomy bathroom. Though a fine day outside, the narrow window allowed only a small amount of light in. Anne enjoyed the dimness. Brighter light would allow for a closer inspection that might reveal more bruises. She dropped her T-shirt back over her chest and belly.

  She cursed herself again for wearing that top: a little pink number, not too revealing. It had slid up her body while she reached into a high cupboard. Charlie noticed the bruising. I walked into the dining table, she had told her son and carried on cooking. He’d made some comment about the table being the wrong height to cause such a bruise. A look darkened his face, such a look of sadness and pity, out of place on the usually cheery face of the ten year old boy. Anne had felt like crying, but had managed to keep the tears inside. A weeping wreck could not prepare a meal for her family.

  On the other side of the bathroom door, the children ran up and down the stairs, tormenting Betsy with a chew toy. The dog was a Tibetan terrier, which to Anne sounded grand and mysterious. Betsy in reality was a huggable ball of black and white hair, whose tongue always lolled out of the side of her mouth.

  Maybe we can treat her to a good long walk later, Anne thought, the weather is great and as soon as Frank gets home from school…

  Frank.

  Please let him have a good day!

  She stood from the side of the bath and turned on the cold tap at the sink. The water ran for a few seconds. She swept her hand underneath and splashed the chilly water onto her face. It refreshed her skin and explained the redness around her eyes. No, Charlie, she would say, I haven’t been crying! I washed my face, that’s all. Must have got some soap in my eye.

  She caught her reflection in the small mirror over the sink and met her own stare. The petite woman looking back appeared too old to be just past thirty. The lines around her eyes were etched too deep, and the hair—once long, full and jet black—showed the first signs of grey.

  He doesn’t mean it, she thought at the woman in the mirror. It’s his temper. He just can’t control his temper. His body reacts, that’s all.

  The woman in the mirror retained her stony and accusing glare.

  He loves me, me and the kids. He doesn’t know what he’s doing. He loves us.

  The reflection seemed unmoved.

  But what about the kids? What if one day, you aren’t there? What if he gets in one of his tempers and Charlie or Bronwyn does something to upset him? What then?

  Anne closed her eyes. She forced away the niggling voice.

  Her body shivered. Tears gathered along the edge of her lower eyelids and swelled, cascading down each cheek. She wept in silence, a knack perfected over many nights lying next to her husband.

  Wasn’t everything her fault? The reason Frank got so mad, why the kids were always asking if everything was okay? During one particularly hard week, the week Frank had stormed onto a football pitch to apprehend a pupil, she’d started to plan her own death. Her hand had rifled through the contents of the medicine cabinet, like a child would run his hand over jars of sweets.

  Razor blades were her front runner for a while; to go out in a red blaze of glory to make up for her timid and mundane existence. She thought against it. The mess would surely get Frank in a rage. Slashing your wrists was a very selfish way to commit suicide. She opted for the pills. An overdose of painkillers, fall asleep…hello oblivion. The voice had crept up again—the annoying, nagging voice she supposed was her conscience. If she swallowed all the painkillers in the house, what about Frank and his headaches? He’d lash out, of course, and without her around…

  The idea of suicide had come and gone within the week.

  Things haven’t been this bad since Katie…

  The memories flew thick and fast, pounding into her. She gripped the sink to keep from falling, swept to the floor by the sudden tidal wave of sounds and images. She almost smelt the hospital and felt the touch of her daughter’s hand…

  No!

  She refused to wander down this corridor again.

  I’m sorry, but the latest test results aren’t good.

  3.

  “I’m sorry, but the test results aren’t good.”

  “What do you mean? They aren’t good?” Frank demanded.

  The doctor glanced down at his notes on the clipboard in his hands. He looked young, in his early thirties at the most. It did nothing to reassure Frank and Anne that Katie was receiving the utmost care; especially Frank. He preferred an old pro, the consultant himself, to be on hand.

  “Her stats have dropped over the last twenty four hours. The next twenty four will be crucial to see if she can get through this.”

  “Thank you, doctor,” Anne said from behind her husband.

  She sat in an uncomfortable plastic chair by her daughter’s bedside, clutching Katie’s small, pale hand. A mountain of pillows supported Katie’s head, and the brilliantly white bed sheets were drawn up beneath her chin. Her arm hung out of the side of the bed.

  The doctor said his goodbyes and left, his white coat billowing out behind him as he walked down the ward, like some medical superhero. Frank joined Anne by the bed, sitting on another chair at the opposite side.

  Katie had never been a strong girl. Having been born premature, it seemed life had already marked her for a tough ride. She was so small when she was born that Frank could fit her into the palm of his hand. Sure, the nurses thought it was cute, but Anne realised their smiles and good natured comments hid their worry. Babies should not be that small, and they had seen enough to know it.

  At age ten, Katie was still the smallest in her class, and Charlie had nearly reached her height, despite being five years her junior. She caught diseases easily: measles, mumps, chicken pox – she’d had them all, and Anne had spent many days just like this, holding her daughter’s hand while the latest infection had run rampant.

  But this? This was far worse than any of those. Katie hung in the destructive grip of leukaemia. It explained why she was so weak, and why her immune system was so low, something that Anne always put down to being an early child.

  The body eating itself, it was a thought that made Anne sick. She imagined a cluster of mutated cells, all disfigured and oozing. The creatures from dozens of fifties’ B-grade movies popped into her head, like The Blob or The Brain from Planet Arous, invading her daughter’s body. She could see it creeping through her daughter, taking a bite from this or a nibble of that.

  She guessed that Frank, ever the physicist, saw it differently. Probably a formula, something like tumour size divided by survival expectancy multiplied by a hundred, would give the amount of shit they were in.

  The worst of it was the chemotherapy. She saw the chemo as a wave of steaming green liquid, like boiling bleach, flowing through her daughter’s veins and arteries, dissolving the beasties on contact. But in her mind’s eye, she also saw Katie’s body dissolve a little too.

  T
he effects of the chemo were more visible than the cancer. Katie’s hair, which had been long enough for her to sit on at one point, was gone; only feathery tufts remained. Her gums were so full of sores that she could barely talk during the rare times that she was awake.

  She wasn’t coping with the raging battle between the cancer and the chemo. She looked like a straw doll, limp and lifeless, not the vibrant daughter that Anne once knew.

  Frank lifted the bed sheet back enough to find Katie’s other hand and gripped it.

  “She’ll make it,” he said. “She’s a fighter.”

  Anne felt the tears coming again.

  “That’s just it, Frank.” She sniffed. “I don’t think she can fight any more.”

  4.

  “Mum!”

  Her daughter’s call snapped her back to reality. Away from the hospital room that stank of disinfectant, Anne returned to the dim bathroom of their home on Penny Crescent, the cold tap still running.

  “Mummy!”

  Anne wiped her eyes.

  “W-what is it, dear?”

  “Mum! Dad’s home!”

  The words hit Anne like the blare of an alarm. She swept her hair back, wiped her face dry and sniffed the drip from her nose.

  “I’ll be right there, babe,” she called through the closed door. She looked into the mirror again. Her eyes were puffy and red.

  God help me if he thinks I’ve been crying – oh shit – Frank’s home, Frank’s home!

  She steadied herself in a long breath. Like her ability to weep in silence, the trick of stopping her tears had also been a harsh lesson over the years. She turned off the tap and, refusing to look into the mirror again, unlocked the bathroom door and stepped onto the landing.

  Betsy caused a din in the living room at the front of the house, a daily tradition. The dog always welcomed the master home with a series of excited barks and whimpers. Anne presumed the children stood with her, waving at their father through the large window.

  With one last readjustment of her hair and a sweep of her hands across her damp cheeks, she started towards the stairs.