Experiment With Destiny

by Carr, Stephen

  “Do you believe in angels?” he asked. She beamed at him, eyes twinkling.

  Once inside she led him to a chair in the hallway and sat him down. She removed her coat, scarf and gloves, hanging them over the wooden banister alongside the stairs. In the brightness of the hall light he could see her properly. She was very pretty, so much prettier than anyone he’d seen on the wastelands, even Rachel. He could not guess her age, but her dark hair concealed traces of grey and her striking features were emphasised by soft wrinkles at the edges. Her deep brown eyes betrayed a hint of melancholy. Her clothing was immaculate, and he realised how shabby he must look in comparison. As she leaned down to help him remove his coat he saw the faintest wince pass by her expression and he knew, though he could not smell it himself, that his old stale body reeked in the freshness of her home. Malcolm felt ashamed.

  “I’m sorry,” he said quietly, tears welling. He sensed she knew why he was apologising. She continued to lift the stained, tattered coat from him.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, letting it fall to the floor once he was free of it.

  “Malcolm,” he said. “Jones,” he added suddenly, and it sounded strange…so long since he’d uttered it, as if it was the name of some mythical being. “Malcolm Jones.”

  “Well Malcolm,” she reached out her hand. “Let’s get you cleaned up and maybe you’ll feel a bit better…and we need to see just how bad that is!” He followed the line of her eyes. A dark crimson stain marked the layers of clothing crusted to his ribs and he knew at once his beating had opened the old wound left by the last one. “I’m Kathryn, by the way.”

  *

  After running him a bath Kathryn left him to undress before returning with bandages, a sponge and a bottle of antiseptic.

  “No need for shyness,” she assured as his hands wrapped around his groin. “Nothing I’ve not seen before!” Nevertheless he kept his hands there as she poured antiseptic on the sponge. “This might sting!” Malcolm cried out in agony as the liquid burned at his ripped flesh, forgetting the need to cover his modesty. Then, remembering again, he tried to sit stoically as she mopped away the blood. “Sorry,” she offered. “You know you really need stitches for that…but I guess a trip to the hospital is out of the question…no medical insurance and all that.” He said nothing, trying to remember the conventions of his former life so long ago. “After you’ve bathed I’ll try some superglue or something, and a very tight bandage. Apparently it was invented to patch up soldiers on the battlefield…I’m sure I’ve got some somewhere.”

  Kathryn left and returned a few minutes later with a hand-knitted patchwork blanket. “When you’re done, just pull the plug and drain the water and come downstairs in this. I’ll put your clothes to soak overnight and then wash them for you in the morning. I couldn’t find anything of mine in your size I’m afraid.” Malcolm simply smiled. There was nothing he could say and he felt overwhelmed. “Shout if you need anything.” And she was gone.

  He sat upright for a moment, feeling like a king. If only Ma and Harry could see him now…and Rachel… A wave of sadness washed over him and he reclined back into the warm water, flinching as it lapped his open wound. He remembered why he was here, and the uncertainty that lay ahead. This could not last forever and he could not over-stay his welcome…but for now he would enjoy the moment.

  “Thank you God,” he said aloud.

  When he returned downstairs, having carefully let out the water and wiped as much of the blood and grime from the bathtub as he could, she fed him tinned chicken soup with a couple of slices of crusty bread, soft to the touch and thickly spread with butter.

  “I don’t suppose you eat too well at…home,” she explained. “So I thought you shouldn’t have anything too rich or it might make you ill. A little butter shouldn’t do you any harm though.” He thanked her and tucked in gratefully, hardly pausing between spoonfuls as he scooped them to his lips. Ma would have been green with envy at this feast. He thought of her, and of Harry, who were doubtless tucked up in their blankets for the night having made do with what there was. He wondered how Ma would cope if he didn’t make it back. For all his talk of Harry looking after her, he knew the old soldier wasn’t fit enough to go all the way to the market place to bring back food.

  Remembering them made him feel so clean…cleanliness and manners, he recalled. Finishing the warming soup, he immediately regretted the haste in which he’d eaten it. Out there, with Ma and Harry, you had to wolf down your food or something might be along any moment to steal it or prevent you having it. Here, he had all the time in the world. He looked up and caught her eyes. She’d been watching him eat.

  “Sorry…I just realised…I must seem an animal to you…no better than a dog.”

  “No,” Kathryn shook her head. “It is us…we are the ones who should be ashamed of ourselves. We’re…barbaric…treating our fellow humans as less than human, treating you worse than our animals, simply because you fell on hard times. You have nothing to be ashamed about.”

  She offered him some more and, tempted as he was, he felt so full. It was the biggest meal he could remember eating…since… Instead, he accepted a hot tea and her invitation to warm himself beside the radiator in her front room, huddled in his antique looking blanket. She put some music on then left him to make the tea.

  “How long have you lived in the wastelands?” she asked when she returned. “You seem like an educated man and, forgive me, but too old to have been born out there.” Malcolm cupped his hands around the tea, feeling the warmth spreading to his bones. Beneath his naked thighs he could feel the fibre of the carpet and, all around him, the caress of the blanket. He could quickly become accustomed again to such comforts and had no yearning to return to the cold, hard darkness and hunger he knew too well.

  “I can’t be sure,” he said. “It seems like forever…time is…meaningless, out there. It’s years…but how many, I don’t know. I went to school, then college…but not that well educated really…not university. Probably as well…I can’t really remember any of what I learned now. Such a waste!”

  “And how did you…end up…I mean I’ve heard of some who give up on the rat race and choose to live outside of…well…” Malcolm had begun to sip his tea and almost choked.

  “Nobody chooses to live as we do!” he growled. “It is not a choice any sane person makes. We are, most of us, outcasts…rejects…and the rest are offspring of the unwanted. None of us want to be there, I can assure you!” Kathryn was blushing, visibly upset.

  “I’m sorry, please forgive me! So insensitive of me! I should have known…of course I should…but the media put such nonsense about…well, the government really…but of course it’s just…rubbish…to make us feel better about ourselves.”

  “No, it’s me who should apologise. I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. How were you to know the truth if the television machines feed you lies? What way is this to repay your kindness?” He put down his mug. “You must forgive me as I forget my manners. Out there, you forget…how to behave, properly…with civility.”

  He gathered his thoughts. Where he’d come from it was easier if you didn’t remember the life you’d left behind, made it more bearable. Now he must try to piece it together, so she would know the truth. The ‘Good Book’ said the truth would set people free…

  “Before the wastelands I was a…site manager…construction. My…father…he was a miner…but he lost his job when they closed down the last working mine in South Wales. Too many accidents, they said, too much risk. He used his…redundancy to pay off his…house…loan, and for my college education. But he died before I’d finished…qualified. Mum died soon after…from grief.” It was flooding back, though it must have been years since he’d said any of this aloud. “I was made, really, other than suddenly finding myself on my own. After I finished college I got a job in building and construction and worked contracts for this company and that…working my way up to become a site manager. My last contract
was building the Community Monorail Shuttle. I did my back in an accident on site. I was blamed for not following health and safety…even though I was following established site practice. Lost my job…couldn’t get another…with a dismissal and a dodgy back, not even labouring. The I had to re…I had to…”

  “Re-mortgage?” she offered.

  “Yes, I think that’s the word…lend more money…and then they took the house off me. I was married by then, with a baby daughter. Na…” he fought to speak her name. “She left and took Tina…my wife, Natasha…left me.” He felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he remembered them, and the pain. He picked up his mug and sipped. “I lost everything…and somehow…slipped from this world…to the…other.” It seemed strange to refer to the wastelands as that. He was acclimatising too easily here.

  “And there was nothing anybody could do to help you? Did you try the social security loans?”

  “I tried everything…absolutely everything. But when they take away your address and your bank account, when they close you down and delete you from the books…” He sighed. “I slept rough, even stole food…for a while…and then the police got hold of me one night and gave me a beating…my first…and dumped me on the edge of town, telling me to get out. And that was it. I couldn’t sink any further.” There was a long silence and he became aware that she was staring at him, with tears in her eyes.

  “My God! I’m so sorry! It’s just…shocking!” She shook her head. “Like I said…barbaric. How can we possibly call ourselves civilised? Is there really no way back? I mean…I could help you…put you up here and try and find you a job…something…just until you’re back on your feet? I mean, it probably wouldn’t be much of a job but…”

  “There is no way back. I’m deleted. I don’t exist. I have no identity. Malcolm Jones ceased to be a person way back. Even if you could afford to look after me…it would only be a matter of time before I was caught…the random stop-checks…and you’d cease to exist too, as your punishment. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy!”

  They talked into the night. Malcolm told her about life on the wastelands; about Ma, Harry and about Rachel and the boy. She sobbed when he described the events in the market place, where he’d lost them both. He didn’t tell her that was why he’d come back, risking his life, and she didn’t presume to ask. He wondered if she’d guessed. Instead she talked about her own life, her growing disillusionment with it all and the gnawing loneliness he could see in her dark eyes. She talked about her husband, her divorce and her regret at not being able to have children…medical reasons. Kathryn talked about the job she hated…administration for a small, unremarkable business, tedious work with no prospects for progression, but at least it paid the bills, she said…then apologised for her insensitivity.

  Night became morning and Malcolm found himself growing weary. His side, freshly glued and tightly bound, was throbbing. She gave him some pills and suggested he tried to sleep, apologising that her spare room was inaccessibly full of ‘junk’ and he’d have to bunk down on the lounge floor. He smirked, declining her offer to fetch down the mattress from the spare room and reminding her it would be so luxurious to sleep on carpet instead of damp cardboard. A mattress would be too soft for him now.

  “Goodnight Malcolm Jones,” she said poignantly before climbing the stairs to her own bed. And before he could dwell on the surreal impossibility of his situation, he was fast asleep and dreaming of flickering campfires.

  *

  XVIII

  MALCOLM awoke feeling queasy. It was light outside, the day obvious in the gaps between the wall and the curtains. The house was quiet. He lay on the floor for a while, enjoying the comfort of the soft carpet beneath his back and the warmth of the blankets. At ‘home’, his bones would have been aching with the cold and the hardness of the floor. Lying there, he noticed a clock on one of the bookcase shelves. Its digital display read 11:55 and he realised it had been so long since he was last aware of time. What did 11:55 even mean? He watched the last digit become a ‘6’. Twelve, he remembered, was significant. Something happened at twelve…yes…noon, they called it, mid-day. But which day? What month? And he could not even begin to guess the year. What did it matter? Time was for the citizens…it served no purpose in the wastelands. He was barely able to tell which season it was any more. Winter…well…that was easy, obvious, but there appeared to be less distinction these days between the other three. They all seemed to merge into a milder version of winter.

  His thoughts returned to Kathryn, the woman who had rescued him last night – despite knowing he was a non citizen. Was she still asleep upstairs? Was it a work day? Had she gone to her office and left him here alone…trusting? He tried to sit up, the bandages tugging at his side and making his nausea worse. His gut twisted and his mouth began to fill with saliva. He pushed himself quickly to his feet, pain jarring every sinew and muscle. He knew he could not be sick here in her lounge. A moment later he found the kitchen and only just reached the steel basin in time. As the sickness passed, he stared down into the sink, now swimming with last night’s chicken soup. Then he noticed the deep red stain mingling at its edges…blood.

  Malcolm frowned. He was used to vomiting. Hygiene was not first priority in the wastelands and even though Ma gave everything he brought back from the empty market place a good boil before they ate it there were occasions where it had made them ill. But he could not remember ever bringing up blood.

  He let the tap run and watched the water wash away his bloodied, part-digested meal, then checked his bandages. They were still relatively clear with no sign of fresh bleeding. How much damage had the youths inflicted while he’d lain beneath their blows on the floor? When the sink was clear he reached out and splashed the water over his face then turned off the tap.

  He returned to the lounge and wrapped himself around within the patchwork blanket and began to consider his surroundings. Her furnishings, décor and ornaments were modest and unassuming, and – like the blanket – had the feel of antiquity about them. There was almost nothing that reflected the new world; gadgets and technologies that even he recalled before it had cast him out. He wondered if Kathryn felt out of place…or out of time, and perhaps that was why she felt so strongly about the way non citizens were treated?

  Malcolm remembered his reason for being here. How were they treating the boy? Was he even still alive? How could he hope to affect an escape, even if he did find him? He remembered his own rescue, and the gun Kathryn had shown him. She’d used it to save his life and maybe…just maybe he could use it to save the boy’s? Where did she keep it? Did she carry it with her all the time…or perhaps…?

  He walked from the lounge to the foot of the stairs and stood listening. The house was still, no sound of movement. His heart pounding noisily, he began to climb, grimacing with every creak. At the top he found himself on a small landing with three doors, all firmly closed. He remembered the one to the right was the bathroom and guessed the other two must be bedrooms…one hers and the other the spare room she’d mentioned last night. He tried the first, holding his breath in case she was still at home, asleep behind the door. The room was dark, with heavy curtains drawn, but as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he knew it was the spare room, piled high with boxes, piles of clothes and sundry items. Malcolm closed the door again, knowing the gun would not be in there.

  He tried the other door and knew at once this was her room. He could smell the perfume and remembered green fields of spring flowers long ago. Her bed was neatly made and everything was in its right place. And he swooned with the recollection of a home with a woman’s touch…that soft, gentle femininity. Malcolm was suddenly aware that he was a stranger, almost naked, intruding into the most intimate part of Kathryn’s home…the home of the woman who had rescued him, bathed him and tended to his wounds then fed him, trusting him alone…here…with her belongings. He shouldn’t be here…but the gun…?

  There was a rattling noise downstairs in the hallway, a
sound that took him instantly back to childhood and memories of being up to mischief home alone when his parents arrived unexpectedly and turned the key in the lock, prompting blind panic. He pulled the door to on her beautiful, intimate world as quickly and quietly as he could and then stepped into the bathroom. No sooner had he closed the door behind him, he heard the front door open.

  “Malcolm?” he heard her call. “Are you awake? Is that you up there?”

  “Yes…I’m…” he shouted, “…I’m in the…loo.”

  There was a moment of hesitation. “Oh, sure…okay. Don’t forget to flush…and wash your hands! I’ll get the kettle on.”

  When he returned downstairs, making sure he remembered to flush and wash as she’d asked, she was in the middle of making tea. He made sure the blanket was guarding his modesty and against her blushes. She glanced up with a broad smile that warmed his heart and gave him a pang of guilt.

  “I’m so glad you slept well,” she said, stirring in the milk. “You must have really needed it. You were out cold…didn’t even stir when I came down and clattered around in the kitchen for a bit and then went out. I thought it best to leave you…sleeping helps the healing.” She gestured toward the area of his wound with the spoon. “You didn’t mind, did you?”

  “No! No, of course I didn’t…I…just hope…you didn’t mind having to leave me here…in your home…”

  “Not at all. I trust you.” Kathryn winked at him and he felt his insides jump, a sensation he’d not felt since…he couldn’t remember when. How he used to long for companionship, remembering how things were so far back, with Natasha, before… It was not like that with Ma…not close, and sensual…not feelings like this. “Besides, where were you going to go without your clothes?”

  “My clothes! Of course…I…” Malcolm glanced around, his eyes searching, remembering she’d said she would soak them and wash them. “Where…?”