Pain Cages

by Kane, Paul

  The ring again, tying her to Ed. To a past she didn’t want to be reminded about, a present she hated, and a future she wished she could change.

  As she was being wheeled to an ambulance, Katherine made out a figure in the distance. “Fraser!” The effort was tremendous, but she called out again. The boy, who was with a fair-haired man, came running over as fast as he could.

  “Mummy… Mummy,” he shouted. He buried his head in her side and she held him with her free arm. Fraser looked up at his mother, and for the first time in as long as she could remember, her son wasn’t frowning.

  The man he’d been with walked over to them and said hello. “That’s a very brave boy you’ve got there.”

  “Are you… did you get him out?”

  The stubbled man confirmed that he did.

  “Thank you, thank you!”

  “This is thanks enough. I’m just glad to see… Nobody should be alone at his age.”

  Will turned to him and asked a question that Mary couldn’t hear. She saw the man drop his eyes and shake his head. Will let go of her hand.

  And she knew then that her husband was gone. Ed, the father of her child. The man she’d wished away so casually only moments ago. Jesus, she’d hardly spared him a thought.

  The man bent down next to Fraser and said, “You go with your mum now, big man. Look after her.”

  The paramedics continued to wheel Mary away, Fraser by her side now. She risked one look back at Will, standing there watching them go. There were tears in her eyes as Katherine Pryce took her son’s hand and held it tightly.

  One of the greatest things about the Sagittarian personality is that they are eternally optimistic.

  Whether it was the blood she’d lost, she didn’t know, but Tracy Simmons felt woozy when the paramedic bent down next to her.

  “Hello, Tracy,” he said in his deep voice. It sounded like the most natural thing in the world for him to say. She didn’t question the fact that he knew her name––Scott or maybe even Belinda had told him; that’s what the rational part of her mind was telling her. The other part was insisting that he’d always known it, always been destined to say it. Her name seemed to trip off his tongue so easily.

  “I’m Russ. Russell Prince. Here, let’s just take a look at you.”

  Russ: his face hovered in front of her like something out of a dream, this handsome… prince.

  She felt his latex-covered hands lifting her jumper, touching her; they were strong but gentle. She recoiled a little when he hit a sore spot and cursed herself for doing so.

  “Sorry, did that hurt?”

  “Ticklish,” she said.

  Russ grinned. “Live wire, eh? I like that. Don’t worry, Tracy, it looks worse than it probably is. I’m going to just put some padding on your cuts, then we’ll whisk you off to hospital to check out those bruises on your abdomen.”

  “So…” She coughed and he held her steady. It was almost worth enduring the pain for. “I’m… I’m going to live then?”

  “You’d better,” he told her, and winked.

  Compatibility Match––Pisces and Aries: This couple will have a spark straight away, an instant attraction that may well develop given time. If this relationship is to work, however, the Arien needs to understand the Piscean’s romantic wishy-washy ways and hold back on their lustful nature a little. If this can be achieved, and with give and take on both sides, a successful, lasting match might well be the result. They are first and last signs of the zodiac––the beginning and the end.

  The end and the beginning.

  Taken from the Daily Record:

  ‘… authorities have described the train crash as one of the worst in recent years, ranking alongside Hatfield, Selby and Potters Bar. A report will begin on the cause of the accident as soon as possible. It left 15 people dead and dozens more injured, some severely.

  In an incredible twist, police have confirmed that the killer of five women, including Victoria Styles, was on board the passenger train when it collided with a de-railed freight train coming in the opposite direction. It is believed that the murderer, who can’t be identified yet for legal reasons, was in the process of assaulting yet another woman––Miss Mary Dowling––when the crash occurred. Miss Dowling was on her way to audition for the regional heats of TV’s “Quest for a Star”. A police spokesman has neither confirmed nor denied rumors that the killer subsequently took his own life.

  Even more bizarrely, perhaps, emergency services found a bag on board the doomed train containing considerable amounts of money. Nobody has come forward to claim this yet, so if you have any information regarding it please call the accident helpline on the number printed below. If the money goes unclaimed it will be added to the victim support fund set up by rail employee and charity worker Belinda Gould and Mr. Scott Edmonds, who has been hailed as a local hero for his brave actions on the scene.’

  Taken from the Astrological Handbook, published by Beholder Press.

  We hope you’ve enjoyed reading this book and that it has given you some insight into the world of astrology and star signs. Remember, the signs of life are all around us. They are strangers, they are friends, our lovers, our enemies. They see us through the good times as well as the bad. And only by knowing more about them can we ever hope to discover what the future has in store for us.

  From all at the Astrological Handbook, for now, happy horoscopes!

  * * *

  THE LAZARUS CONDITION

  Prologue

  ‘And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go… ’

  John 11.44

  No one paid any attention as the dead man walked down the street.

  A familiar street to him, with children playing football on the grass verge, wives gossiping on the corner next to the shop. He took in all the streetlamps, never having noticed them, really noticed them before. Now he was scrutinizing everything, from the pebble-dashing of the council houses to the rickety nature of the peeling fences––which could so easily have been resurrected with a lick of paint.

  Given new life.

  He paused to look up at the sky, seeing the birds there catching the mild breeze, returned from their winter migration now that spring was here. They’d been drawn to sunnier climes, just as he was being drawn to this place, pulled as surely as if he was made of metal and someone was holding a gigantic magnet. He continued up the street, passing more people as he went: a man walking with a stick, newspaper jammed under his arm; a young woman pushing a buggy with a screaming kid in the seat; a postman making deliveries to each of the houses. None of them looked closely enough to truly see him. None of them ever looked too closely at anything, they just went about the business of their mundane lives, worrying about bills––the same ones the postman was shoving through letterboxes that very morning––about the weather, about their families.

  He was almost there. The house he was looking for was just across the road. He stared at the overgrown hedge and front garden: once neat and trim with a pond in the middle and gnomes fishing with tiny rods. What had happened to those? He couldn’t remember. In the great scheme of things did it really matter? Things came, things went. It was how it was.

  He made to cross over the road, almost stepping into the path of an oncoming car. He pulled back just as the driver blared his horn, shouting through the open window: “What the hell’s wrong with you? You tryin’ to get yourself killed?”

  The dead man watched him drive to the end of the road and follow the curve around. Those words went around and around in his mind: “Get yourself killed… Get yourself killed…” He closed his eyes, images flashing across his field of vision below the lids:

  A flash of red, of light. Hands clutching at something, tight, white knuckles and a ring on the third finger of the left hand. A pair of eyes, dulled but open in shock. A––

  He snapped his eyes open, flinching
when he felt the hand on his arm. “Are… are you all right?” asked an Indian woman standing beside him. He searched her features but found nothing recognizable. Again he just stared, not saying a thing. In the end the woman let him be, not knowing what else to do. As she walked on up the street, she looked over her shoulder just once.

  Turning, he checked for traffic this time, and crossed the road to the house.

  He studied the small semi, the windows gaping back at him in disbelief. He put a hand out for the gate, which was hanging off by the hinges. It creaked heavily as he moved it aside, the latch long-since vanished. The path was overgrown too, each carefully laid slab now raised slightly at the side by the sheer amount of weeds pushing up from beneath, like a healthy tooth dislodged by its crooked neighbor. He trod the path slowly, dead flowers on either side, leading him to the front door, its mottled glass set inside a faded varnished frame.

  Raising a hand he prepared to knock on the door. He hesitated. Why, he had no idea. This was what he was meant to do, he felt sure of it. And yet…

  He shook his head and rapped twice on the wood. The wait was excruciating. He gave it a few minutes, then knocked again, cocking his ear at the same time. He heard movement from within, a voice calling, “All right, all right. I’m coming.”

  The door opened a crack and someone peered out. It was difficult to see clearly as it was dark inside the hall, but then the door opened more fully. It wasn’t because the gray haired woman standing there was willingly allowing him entrance; it was more that she was in a state of severe shock.

  She put a quivering hand to her mouth, eyes wide and filling with moisture. “Matt… Matthew?” The old woman made to take a step towards him, but her already unstable legs gave out. “No… no it can’t be.” He covered the distance between them in an instant, hands there to catch her as she fell back into the house. Her eyes rolled up into her head and she began gasping for air.

  “It’s okay, I’ve got you,” he said, experimentally talking again. He half-carried her into the house, then closed the door on the outside world. He tapped her face gently with his fingers. “It’s me, Mum,” he told her. “It’s really me.”

  But she fainted again––the result of seeing her dead son standing on the doorstep after seven long years.

  One

  Mrs. Irene Daley woke from her nightmare to find herself on the couch.

  She’d had the most awful dream. In it she’d been watching the television, The Breakfast Show had just finished and she was about to turn off a report on the troubles abroad––the commentator stating that they were on the verge of yet another ‘conflict.’ Then there had been a knock at the door. She hadn’t heard it at first due to the explosions on the TV, but when the knock came again she’d switched off the set with the remote then got up to answer it, her back aching as she lifted herself out of the high seat chair.

  Whoever it was they were persistent. Might be the postman? she’d mused as she turned into the hallway. But why would he knock? No one ever sent her any packages, not even her own family. She was lucky if she got any mail at all that wasn’t simply junk. She’d called out that she was coming, and she could see the shadowy shape through the misted glass at the door. Irene even considered putting on the chain, but it was the middle of the morning not ten o’clock at night. Nobody would be trying to break into her home this early on in the day, surely. She decided to meet the potential threat half way, only open the door a tiny bit. That way she could shut it again quickly if need be, but she could also see who was so eager to get her attention.

  When she opened the door she thought her eyes were playing tricks. Through the gap she looked out at a face she hadn’t seen in over half a decade. A face she’d adored more than anything in this world, last seen under a very different set of circumstances. Her boy; her Matthew…

  But that couldn’t be. It only happened in dreams, in nightmares. So when she’d collapsed in the hall and everything had gone black, it only lent more weight to the argument that it was all in her head. That she’d made it all up because yes, even after this length of time, she still missed him so, so much.

  She’d heard him say something, but by that time darkness already had her. And now that she was rising from that deep pit of despair and pain she was even more convinced the events that put her there were a product of her imagination.

  Irene resolved to open her eyes, get up, and pop the kettle on––to try and put this whole episode out of her mind. But that was going to be incredibly difficult, because as she turned her head and looked at the chair facing the couch, she saw him again. He was sitting there with his hands clasped, staring at her. No, that wasn’t strictly true; his eyes weren’t so much staring as burrowing into her. She turned away again, quickly, not able to meet his gaze, nor accept what must be the truth. That Matthew was in the room with her, right now. Unless she was still dreaming? Could that be it? Irene pinched the loose skin on the back of her hand, nipping it tightly and hoping the pain would deliver her back to the world she knew. Back to sanity.

  She didn’t fully turn, but caught him still sitting there in the periphery of her vision.

  Seconds passed like hours, until finally she knew she had to speak. “Who… who are you?” Irene asked. “What do you want?”

  “I…” he began, and she felt compelled to look at him now as he shook his head. “I’m your son.” The man said it so certainly that for a moment she almost believed him. For one thing he was saying the words in her son’s voice.

  “No… no you’re not. You can’t be.”

  He nodded. “But I am.”

  Irene sat up against the cushions, where he’d placed her, and brought her legs around with a slight crack of the bones. “You look like him––”

  “I am him,” he interrupted.

  “You have his face, but…”

  Oh sweet Lord did he have her son’s face. It was exactly the same, every line, the dimple in his chin, the crowsfeet that were beginning at the corners of his eyes even though he was barely into his thirties. Those hazel eyes were the same too, and the way his hair made him look like he’d just got out of bed in spite of trying to brush it flat. All the same, all the same. And those clothes… were the shirt and trousers part of the suit they’d buried him in, or just very, very similar?

  “Why won’t you believe me?” It was a simple enough question and yet staggeringly complex. “You know, deep down, that I’m telling the truth.”

  Irene could feel tears starting to form in her eyes. “You’re…” she managed before she began to cry. The tiny beads of water crawled down her cheeks, running into the rivulets created by her wrinkles and breaking up. “You’re… you’re…” She couldn’t get the word out, and when it did eventually slip free it came only as a whisper. “Dead.”

  He frowned, saying nothing. What could he say? If he was her son, as he so vehemently claimed, how could he deny that? Yet here he was, in the ‘flesh,’ in her living room––that was a good one, living room––sitting in the armchair he always used to occupy when he visited. “I can’t explain it,” he finally offered. “But I know who I am, and I know that I love you, Mu––”

  Irene held up her hand. “Don’t. Please don’t.”

  He got up, putting his hands in his pockets. Walking over to the window, he pulled aside the net curtains and peered out. Then he looked down at the photo in the frame on the windowsill. He lifted it up.

  “Put that down,” said Irene.

  He held it out instead to illustrate his point. It was a photo taken at least ten years ago, of Matthew with his arm around his mother. “Look,” he said. “This is me… this is me here with you.”

  “No,” said Irene again. She was crying freely now.

  There was a noise at the back door and they both turned. A shadow appeared in the hallway, small and dark, followed by another: this one very much alive. The jet-black cat froze when it reached the doorway, the swinging and creaking of the cat-flap still carrying into th
e living room.

  Irene was half standing, looking from the cat to the man holding the picture.

  “Tolly?” he said.

  The cat had something in its mouth. It looked like a toy at first, but when the animal dropped it onto the hall carpet they could both see it was a sparrow the cat had stalked and caught, just like it always loved to do. The feline––named after Tolstoy, because of its long tail––was now locked in a battle of gazes with him. He took a step towards the creature and its fur stood on end, hackles rising. On some level it could sense there was something wrong. Was this really the man it used to curl up to, making itself comfortable in his lap while pressing its feet into his thighs as if making a nest?

  One more step and the cat hissed, spinning around and shooting off in the direction it had come, leaving its prey behind. The man stood and looked across at Irene. She knew exactly how the cat felt––didn’t want him coming anywhere near her.

  “Mum,” he said.

  “Don’t call me that!”

  “It’s who you are,” he insisted. “You’re my mother.”

  “I was Matthew’s mother. I… I don’t even know what you are.”

  He looked wounded.

  Perhaps she was losing her mind. Was that it? Were these the first signs of Alzheimer’s? Or a brain aneurysm? Was she conjuring up this whole scene because she wanted to see Matthew so badly, at this time of year especially? Was this all her doing? Irene shook her head. No, this was real; the man in front of her was real. And she had to figure out some way of dealing with it before she really did go insane.

  “I’m Matthew. I’m not an hallucination,” he told her, seemingly reading her mind.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” Irene said.

  “I’m not a ghost either,” was his reply. “I’m solid, as solid as I was in this photograph. See?” He reached over and grabbed her arm and she nearly fell back onto the couch in an effort to escape him. But there was no force in that grip; it was merely to illustrate his point. “I carried you back in here, remember?”