by Dane Cobain
He smelled of sweat and cologne, and gin still marred his breath. The lovers communicated in whispers and signals until they were sitting beside each other in the moonlight. No introduction was necessary.
“Are you ready?” asked Montgomery.
Sarah didn’t reply – she was biting her fingernails so fiercely that they bled.
Montgomery took a deep breath of fresh air and sighed. “Sarah, are you sure you want to do this?”
In the darkness, the baby started to cry, and Sarah tried her best to comfort it. She loosened the dull straps of the second-hand perambulator and held the child in her arms.
“You know,” she began, speaking softly to the night as Montgomery strained to listen. “It’s hard to look after a baby that you’re giving away.”
The child fell silent, and she wrapped it up in a blanket.
“I’ll bet,” he replied, examining her vague shadow as it rippled across the moonlit grass. “But it’s almost over.”
“Yes, I suppose it is. It’s been a tough week.”
Instinctively, Montgomery wrapped his arms around her shoulders, pulling her closer and sheltering her from the persistent wind. She didn’t pull away.
“Do you think it would have worked? If things were different?” he asked.
“John, I don’t even want to think about it. What’s done is done. We’re here, and it’s now. We don’t live in a fairytale.” She stood up suddenly and pushed his arm away from her.
“So you don’t have feelings for me?”
She was silent for a long time before she answered. “Even if I did, I wouldn’t want to talk about it.”
“Is it because you’re scared of what might happen or because you’re scared of what I’ll think?” He moved to stand beside her, touching her cheek with a gentle hand.
She shivered, and the moonlight illuminated the goosebumps on her delicate arms. “I just don’t know what it would lead to. You don’t understand, I have a responsibility to do what’s best for our son. Why torment ourselves over what could have been? It didn’t happen and that’s why we’re here.”
Montgomery was so close that he could smell the bitter aroma of her flesh, disguised by the perfume that she wore. That was new – when they fell in love, she wasn’t allowed to wear it.
“Then let’s live in the now and forget about the future. I love you,” he whispered.
Sarah tensed up and pulled away from him. The child had stopped crying, and she placed it gently back in the perambulator.
“That’s no longer relevant, John. We can’t do this, because I’ll only drag you down with me.” She sighed, and she kissed his cheek with a softness that he didn’t know she possessed. “It’s just the way things are.”
“But couldn’t we just...”
“No!” she snapped. “It’s over, John. Come on, we have to go.”
Montgomery wisely stayed silent.
Pretending not to see her salty tears, he grabbed her arm as she steered the baby through the park. Once they were back out in the open, they pretended not to know each other. Everything was back to normal.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN: JUST ANOTHER DAY AT THE OFFICE
Monday November 23rd, 2009
JONES WAS BORED, and boredom was a commodity. He was usually on edge from hard work and caffeine, but he’d been stuck in the office all day, dealing with a backlog of paperwork and watching the cold wind whistle along the pavement. Now it was late, and the office hummed with electricity, revealed by the silence of absent employees.
The telephone rang, and he bent to answer it, but it cut out as his hand touched the receiver. He reached for the handset, dialled 1471 and listened to the automated reply – an internal call from Collins in the managerial suite. He called back, but there was no answer.
He sank back in his seat as a document flashed up on the computer screen. Jones couldn’t focus. He’d rather be busy and interested than free to let his mind wander. Collins’ office was on the floor above him, it couldn’t hurt to visit him in person. Jones scowled at the monitor – now the idea was in his head, he didn’t have a choice.
He picked up his lukewarm cup of coffee and walked casually along the corridor, picturing his dinner and reminding himself he was a lucky man. The stairs creaked in the usual place, and Jones paused to take a sip. The building was almost empty, and he enjoyed a brief second of calm solitude on the staircase. Then he saw the lights.
At first, he thought there was a fire, but the yellowish glow looked more like a faulty television set. He moved hypnotically towards it, skulking like a burglar in a swanky suit. He could hear a dozen distant voices, cold and unemotional, and he held his breath as he approached. He wanted to know what was happening. Inching closer, Jones listened in. Something was wrong – he knew it. A crowd was talking, conversing in perfect harmony. It could have been beautiful, but terror took hold of all his senses.
“Tom Collins, we know that you are a liar, a rogue, and a thief. What do you have to say for yourself?”
“I...” Collins sputtered.
Jones heard grotesque desperation and fear of the unknown. The glow filtered through the open door and out into the corridor – it felt unnatural and out of place.
“I don’t know what you want me to do,” Collins pleaded.
“Justify yourself,” the voice replied.
Jones leaned closer.
“I had to do something,” Collins begged. “My wife lost her job, my children were hungry. I was a failure. What’s the harm in embezzlement? It’s the company that loses.”
“Theft is a sin. And you cannot lie to us. You have no children, and you have not seen your wife for six years.”
Jones shivered and dialled the emergency services from his mobile phone.
“You can’t blame me for trying,” Collins was saying.
“Hello? Listen closely.” Jones was through to the operator, explaining the situation in a whisper and praying that he would be heard as he paused for breath and ordered his thoughts. “I need armed police and an ambulance to 17B Corporation Street, do you hear me?”
Something heavy hit the floor in the next room, and the conversation stopped abruptly. There was a tension in the air that Jones couldn’t miss, and he strained his ears and forgot about the telephone. The silence was complete; he couldn’t even hear his own rapid heartbeat.
“Hello? Sir?” The operator’s tinny voice broke the deafening nothingness, but it was immediately drowned out by a terrible roar of pain and the crackle of burning fat.
The smell filled Jones’ nostrils until he remembered nothing else, until vomit leaked from his throat across the hardwood floor. The noise faded into nothingness, and the thunderous rumble of the intruders’ voices began.
“You cannot hurt us. You will live to regret your assault on the divine workers. Then, you will die to forget it,” the voices threatened.
“Sir? Are you there?” The telephone hung uselessly at Jones’ side, and the operator spoke to the palm of his hand.
Jones remembered and brought the mobile to his ear, whispering, “I’m going to have to call you back. Send those cars!”
Another scream echoed along the corridor, and Jones slid his mobile back into his pocket. He wasn’t a brave man, but he had a conscience.
Retracing his steps, he ran towards the nearest fire extinguisher and picked it up, wielding it clumsily. He ran back down the corridor and mustered the little courage that he had, before leaping into the room to confront the mysterious assailants.
Robert Jones only needed a second to take in the scene – Collins lying in the corner of the room, still shrieking in pain. Three metres away from him, a computer terminal lay smashed on the floor, the metal case bent and warped. Surrounding the squealing Collins in a semi-circle, pinning him to the corner, a trio of naked men stood with their arms outstretched towards him.
Jones was struck by a sudden realisation – the creatures’ flesh was blurred and translucent. They turned their terrifying count
enances towards him; a split-second later, a blinding flash shrouded the world in light, and Jones threw his arms across his eyes. When he removed them, he saw little through the haze of ugly spots that the flash had left behind. Collins’ tormentors were gone.
“Damn,” he cursed, rubbing his eyes like a tired child. “Are you all right, Collins?”
“No,” Collins moaned, clutching his badly burned chest with a half-cooked arm. “I think I’m dying.”
“You’ll be fine.” On cue, the distant wail of a police siren leaked through the walls of the building, and Jones looked doubtfully at his colleague. “What happened?”
“Did you see them?” Collins begged as his eyes rolled back into his sockets.
“I did,” Jones replied. “Stay with me, buddy. I think you’re going into shock. Listen, the police are on their way, and we’re going to get you to a hospital. But eventually, someone’s going to ask what happened.”
Collins groaned and caressed his wounds.
“Tell them the truth.”
Jones frowned, then winced as the sirens reached a painful crescendo. It was going to be a long night for both of them, and it wasn’t over yet. He stayed by Collins’ side until the paramedics arrived.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN: THE ORPHANAGE
Sunday November 18th, 1962
MR. OATES drank another glass of whiskey and watched as the children shuffled past in their second-hand clothes. They came from all corners of the capital, sharing nothing but a deep dislike of the system that raised them. Oates was spending his evening in the study with a bottle and the radio, watching juvenile mischief through the open doorway. With a bleak sigh of boredom, he put his head in his hands and tried to think.
When he woke from his drink-fuelled slumber, the hearth held cold ashes and the record player idled beside him. One of the younger boys peered around the doorframe, malevolence etched into his hardened face. Oates climbed unsteadily to his feet, an impressive figure of authority once his posture caught up with his aching brain. The youth ran down the corridor and joined the crowd of milling orphans, and Oates cursed and closed the door. Ten seconds later, he was back in his chair. Twenty seconds later, there was another knock at the door.
“What is it?” he demanded, prowling over to the door and swinging it open in a fury. “Well, what do you want?”
“There’s something you need to see.”
Oates sobered up immediately. It was Edward Jones, the longest-standing orphan and one of the few boys the old man respected. Secretly, Oates admired Edward’s stoicism and unrelenting optimism. At seventeen, Edward was unlikely to find a family.
“What is it?” Oates repeated.
“You’d better take a look, sir. You might not believe me.”
“What do you mean?” They took a left and crossed the great hall towards the lawn until the old man suddenly stopped. “I’m not going any further until you tell me what this is all about.”
Edward hesitated. “I’ll tell you, but we have to keep moving.”
“Why?”
“There’s a baby, sir. Listen, I’m going to tell the truth. I was out past curfew again. It was on the doorstep when I got home.”
Oates sighed, deeply. “Again, boy? And what’s this about a baby?”
“We’re almost there,” Edward said, gesturing to the heavy wooden doors. “If you could do the honours?”
Grudgingly, Oates reached into his deep pockets and pulled out a heavy iron key-ring. Holding it up to the dim bulb, he identified the correct key and unlocked the door with a satisfying click.
The young man led the way to an ivy-covered bench in the courtyard. Oates pushed past and followed his gaze to the moving bundle of rags upon it.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he muttered, stooping to pick it up.
The child looked like it was barely a week old. Oates ordered Edward to summon a doctor immediately. He took the child to his study and laid it carefully on the desk. Throughout the ordeal, the baby stayed silent, but it began to cry when Oates bent towards the fire. Cursing, he called down the corridor for help, but nobody came. As a figure of authority, he was despised. The child was still screaming when Edward returned with the doctor, nearly ten minutes later.
“I presume that this is the patient?” The old medic donned his age-worn spectacles and, after a nod from Oates, began to inspect the child. “Another one abandoned, I suppose?”
“Yes,” said Edward, before the master had a chance to speak. “I found him outside.”
The baby still screamed for the parents who abandoned it, and Oates’ head throbbed with the beginnings of a hangover.
“You know what this means?” the doctor asked, reaching into his kit-bag for a stethoscope. “Why don’t you tell him, Oates? The old tradition.”
“I hardly think it applies,” he said, sourly.
“I hardly think it doesn’t.”
“What tradition?” asked Edward, and the two men turned to look at him. His youthful eyes were on fire with curiosity as he leant eagerly towards them.
Oates gave in with a sigh. “Unwritten rules can always be broken. Traditionally, the duty of naming a foundling falls to the master of this institution, which is me. Tradition,” he growled, “dictates that the child takes the surname of the person who found him, which is you.”
“Well,” interrupted the doctor, finishing his examination and picking up the child with the practiced agility of a professional. “He seems perfectly fine to me, but he’s tired. Do you have the facilities to look after him? Your youngest is four, correct?”
“Five. But I suppose we don’t have a choice. This is going to create a lot of paperwork and make my life far more difficult, you know?”
“It wasn’t me who left him on your doorstep,” the doctor said, carrying the baby towards Oates. “Would you mind?”
Oates scowled, but he took the child demurely.
“So, have you decided what to call him?” the doctor asked.
“Jones,” said Jones.
Oates glanced carelessly around the room, taking in his bookshelf – two copies of the King James Bible and one of Treasure Island. James Jones would never work, so that left only one other choice.
“Robert Jones,” he said, with nonchalant finality.
“It’s settled.” The doctor left the room without a backwards glance, leaving Oates and Edward together. Their eyes met and they shared an uncomfortable moment of silence.
“What do we do now?” Oates asked.
“You mean you don’t know?”
***
“Did you see that?” The figures were shrouded in darkness, and their eyes glittered in the starlight.
“I did. He’s safe.”
“Oh, John. Do you think he’ll be all right?”
“I can’t answer that. But he’s in good hands, so let us have faith. The orphanage will be tough, but it should make a man of the boy. Let us pray to that.”
They bowed their heads in a silent plea to the god that blessed them with their beautiful curse. All was silent except for the roar of the traffic and the rustling of the bushes.
Sarah sighed and reached for her lover’s hand. “Do you ever think we might be wrong?”
“What do you mean?” Montgomery asked.
“There’s so much hatred in the world. What’s it all for? He has a divine plan, I know. But why isn’t it a little… nicer?”
Montgomery had doubts of his own, and he didn’t know how to answer. Instead, he pulled her close and tried to protect her from the winter wind.
At last, he spoke. “Everything happens for a reason.”
In the darkness, she shivered. “And you believe that? Then you’re a bigger fool than I am.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN: GET WELL SOON
Friday November 27th, 2009
“I JUST DON’T KNOW what I saw,” Jones scowled, as he sat with Montgomery in the rectory, sipping supermarket-brand coffee from chipped mugs. “What do you think I should do? Do you believe me?�
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The priest stared intently and nodded his head. “I do. This makes things more interesting.”
“It does?”
“I had an unexpected visit from a friend of mine,” Montgomery explained, thinking back to the day that Niall sought refuge amongst the pews. “He told a similar story to yours, although I didn’t believe him then.”
“So why do you believe him now?”
“Because I believe you. Niall is an unfortunate soul, suffering from too many addictions. You’d find it difficult to believe him, too. He looked sincere, but what should you rely on? Hundreds of years of scientific fact or the biased eyes of a drunk?”
“I suppose you need to take things on faith in your line of work.”
The old man laughed and finished his drink. “You’re probably right. Well, you wanted my advice and I’ll give it to you. I believe you, but the police won’t. You need to visit Collins in the hospital. The police will have spoken to him already, but I doubt he told them what happened. You must go and hear the truth from him.”
“You know,” said Jones. “I’ll never understand how you read people.”
“It’s my job. Visit Collins in the hospital and find out what he saw.”
“Why would he tell me and not the police?” Jones asked.
“Because you saw it, too. He’ll talk because you’ll listen. It’s not the kind of thing that you can talk to just anyone about. One more cup of coffee?”
“No thanks,” Jones said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s my lunch break. We’ve been relocated, and so we all bring in a laptop and sit around a table. They’ve even got bars over the windows. It’s like working in a prison!”
“You have to suffer for your art.”
“That’s hardly relevant. I make spreadsheets and write proposals. That’s not art. If you start to think of art as work, you’ll never make a work of art. Will you come with me to see Collins? Not as a priest, but as a friend?”