by Tom Becker
“Careful!” His mouth was right against my ear, and I could hear a hint of fear in his voice.
“Thanks.” I told myself that my heart hammering against my ribcage was just because of my slip, but it might have had something to do with his nearness, too.
“Any time.” He held on a moment longer, then shifted to help me down to my window. With him holding me steady, I managed to get my legs through the gap, feeling for the dressing table with my socked feet. “Got it?”
“Think so.” I turned around so I could see him, kneeling over the window above me. His eyes were dark in the thin light, his hair falling over his forehead, and his lips were close. All I needed to do was stretch up on my tiptoes…
He met me halfway, his lips pressing against mine in a swift, soft kiss.
“Merry Christmas, Heather,” he murmured, as he pulled away.
“Merry Christmas,” I whispered back.
He gave me a quick smile, pushing the window closed between us before vanishing from view along the roof.
I sat down on the dressing table.
Well.
That wasn’t how I’d expected this Christmas to go.
It took me a moment to stop replaying my time on the roof in my head and realize that there were new sounds in the house. Floorboards creaking underfoot – someone was moving about down there.
Of course. Father Christmas.
I bit my lip. It was Christmas. Time to turn things around. Decision made, I opened my bedroom door and tiptoed down the attic stairs.
Tamsin turned, eyes wide and present sack in hand. She looked tired and she wasn’t smiling.
I took a breath and smiled at her. “Need a hand? I … I’d like to help.”
When Tamsin smiled back, it was with an expression of relief that looked more real than anything else I’d seen since I arrived. “That would be lovely. Thank you.”
Together we filled Christmas stockings, stacked presents under the tree and I took a large bite out of the carrot Millie had left for Rudolph. Somehow making it look like magic for Millie made it feel magical for me, too. Like Christmas should.
As I straightened one last present before we left, Tamsin paused at the door and looked at me. Not smiling, not pretending, just being.
“I really did want you here for Christmas, you know, Heather,” she said. “Not just for your dad. I wanted you to feel welcome. I know it’s not easy, any of this. But… Well, I’m glad you’re here. That’s all.”
I met her gaze head on. “So am I.”
And for the first time, I was.
When Daddy Comes Home
–
Melvin Burgess
What? Speak slowly. A what? A terrorist? Me? Oh, come on, do I look like a terrorist? But hey, how would you know? I could be in disguise. But look at me – I’m cool, so cool. That’s a dead giveaway. When did you ever see a cool terrorist?
Right, where are we? Let’s see. Control panel… It’s no use shaking your head … what’s your name? What? Oh, the badge. Angela. Well, Angela, I’ve done my research, I know what a control panel looks like. Cooperation, Angela – that’s the name of the game. The quicker I’m done, the quicker you’re gonna be untied and out that chair.
Check list. Laptop, cables. Jar of deadly poison… No, just joking! Don’t panic. You’ll choke. Calm down. It’s not poison, OK? I was joking. Breathe slowly. Big breaths. That’s it. Is the gag too tight? Yes? Let’s see…
No, it never is – you’re lying. I don’t blame you, I would in your position, too. But just bear in mind, you’re being counterproductive here. You just added another few minutes to how long I hold you captive. See? That’s how it works.
Right. Let’s get to it.
On one level, I am a terrorist, I suppose. I mean, you are being terrorized at this very minute, right? But that’s not why I’m here. Any terror caused is purely coincidental. We apologize in advance for any discomfort. There will be no casualties. I’m only here to right a wrong, honest.
I actually come from a very privileged background, would you believe. You’ll know my dad, I expect. Mark Holloway? Of course you do – the papers are full of him just now. The big comeback, eh? MARKIE COMES HOME – The Guardian. RETURN OF THE PRODIGAL – The Telegraph. HERE COMES SANTA – The Sun. Well, what do you expect of The Sun? But the message is the same. After years unfairly cast out in the wilderness, maligned, imprisoned, despised, Mark Holloway is coming home to Downing Street. On Christmas Eve. You have to admire his politicking. Here comes Santa, just like the paper says. The Christmas message. Joy and goodwill to all mankind. A time for giving, a time for receiving. That’s the symbolism. Of course, he’s been pretty quiet about the exact nature of his Christmas gifts to the nation so far. But the feelings of Christmas will come across, I can guarantee that.
Unbelievable, really, when you think that only a few months ago, dear old Dad was rotting in prison. Nobody thinks about that any more. I expect you can barely even remember it, right? The law for cash scandal? Remember that? Millions taken in bribes from big companies to make sure they got the big grants, the low tax breaks and the right laws. Remember? Good, Angela! Well done. How about that sex scandal. No? Those poor girls – forgotten already! Shame. But then anyway, he was framed all along, right? Ah, now you remember.
What a turnaround, eh? Did you see the Queen’s broadcast the other night? Yes? Riding into glory, as the Queen so aptly put it. Parliament dissolved so that she can form a government of national unity with my magnificent dad at the head of it! Unprecedented – but she had no choice, did she? Best man for the job. Only man for the job, when you think about it…
Here we go. Mainframe, hello! I’m in.
I suppose, Angela, the question you must be asking yourself is, how did the son of such a charming man, such a very charming and talented man, end up here in the centre of the National Water Supply Unit, fiddling with the drinking water in such a distinctly terroristic fashion? Odd, to say the least.
Hang on. This is a tricky bit. Need to concentrate. It wouldn’t do for the sensors to pick up that some kind of alien material is coming into the reservoirs now, would it. And … hey! Wow. Good news, Angela. For me anyway. This is some pretty old-fashioned equipment you have. I reckon with a little fiddling I could pour a whole tub load of rabies in here and the good folk of London would wake up foaming at the mouth and biting each other. Sorry! Joking again! Don’t fret, Angela. Really inappropriate. I’m sorry. No disease going in here … promise.
Ah! Hang on a moment. God. Ow. Ow! My head! Concentrating too hard, you see. This better be worth it. Je-sus! You know what they say – the truth hurts. Well, they’re bloody right. Christ. Ah! There, it’s going. Intense, but mercifully brief. And you know what? There’s nothing you can do to stop it once it gets hold. There. Gone. My God, when it gets hold of you though! You think your brain’s being boiled alive.
Where was I? Oh, yes. Checking the input systems.
I bet I know what you’re thinking, Angela. You’re thinking – Mark Holloway! Great politician, lousy family man. Am I right? That’s why I’m here, surely – because he was a bastard at home. Beat up my mum. Abused me and my sister. The old story, eh?
Listen; I can remember my dad reading us a bedtime story every single night when he was PM. Astonishing, eh? There he was, running an entire country – never cut down on his time with us. War in the Middle East? Sorry, it’ll have to wait, my kids are halfway through Diary of a Wimpy Kid. Chinese President over for vital trade talks and then dinner at Buck House? Great! But I’ll just have to nip home in between courses for chapter three of Harry Potter and the Flying Pigs, or whatever.
He even managed it when he was abroad. How about that? What a man. No, not Skype. In the flesh. Must have got the RAF to jet him home just so he could read us a story. All the way from Australia and back in a single night, sometimes. Now that’s what you call a dad, right?
What’s that, Angela? Almost too good to be true, you say? But I remem
ber it, I tell you! Clear as day! It’s all in here, in my head. How could that be, if it never actually happened?
Yeah – my dad. Never let us down once in all those years. Not like our mum. What a cow she was! Do you remember that? It was all over the press at the time. Of course you remember that! Poor old Markie. I know he always said it wasn’t her fault – typical of the man to be so generous, eh? Mental illness is a terrible thing. Fact is, though, she was a right cow long before her mind went. No, Angela – it’s no use arguing with me. I remember. I was there. I know.
Right, right. I’m doing well, on time. Now for a little reprogramming…
I could go into more detail if you wanted me to. I remember it all so vividly. Like a film playing in my head. Dad, the loving, caring, responsible parent. Mum, the selfish waster. The affairs she had! I can remember actually walking in on her once, when she was banging some bloke – God knows who he was – and she offered to pay me £20 not to tell Dad. How about that? Me, me, me all the time with Mum, it was. All the good times were with our lovely, lovely dad.
Christmas, for instance. Ah, Christmas! Everyone likes Christmas. Do you like Christmas, Angela? You would not believe the Christmases we had when I was a kid. Of course, Mum always got drunk and started a row, if she was there at all, that is. But that didn’t matter because Dad was there. Never mind the Queen. Never mind the pan-Asian alliance asking his advice. Never mind riots in Manchester. Always be home for Christmas with the kids, that was his motto.
It wasn’t just me and my sister either. We had other kids round. Barnardo’s. Homeless kids, abandoned kids, immigrant kids. They didn’t know what hit them! Heaps of gifts. Feasts, fun and games. They were the most Christmassy Christmases anyone ever had.
Dad knew all about Christmas, I can tell you.
The Christmas fairy. Do you know about the Christmas fairy? Every year, Christmas Eve, the Christmas fairy appears, bobbing up and down in front of the door to the conservatory. The little kids are amazed! It’s magic! Of course, she’s just a handkerchief, rolled up and hung on a piece of thread running down the door and up my dad’s trouser leg to his pocket. He’s jiggling her up and down with his finger – but the kids don’t know that. They believe it – every single time. Up and down, up and down, up and down.
Then Dad bends an ear to her and listens carefully… “What’s that, Christmas Fairy? Santa’s on his way, you say? Really? And … he’s coming here now? Oh, did you hear that, children? Santa’s coming to visit tonight!”
Then there’s sleigh bells upstairs and a few minutes later the door bursts open – and there he is! Santa himself. My dad as well, of course, dressed in all the gear – red suit, big beard, bearing gifts and mince pies, laughing and joshing and chatting away to the Christmas fairy and her minder and being – well! Just being wonderful. I used to love those memories. Still do. Even though I know now that it’s all really just a great bag of shit.
Did you spot what happened there, Angela? How Dad was Santa, but at the same time, in the same room, there he was jiggling about with the Christmas fairy and chatting to Santa! Like he was in two places at once. Gives a whole different meaning to talking to yourself, eh? But hey! That’s old Markie Holloway, miracle worker. Two places at once? No problem! Let’s make it three. All you have to do is ask…
Right, I’ve rerun the software. Now a little code… This is fun, isn’t it, Angela? Oh … come on. Please don’t start crying. I can’t stand it when girls cry. I’m such a softie. Here, look. Wiping your tears away, see? Being kind and considerate. Being gentle.
You’re blaming yourself, aren’t you? I thought so. I’m good on psychology. Look, it’s not your fault! I had to get past several guards and all sorts of alarms and stuff – that’s not even your job! I know, I know, it’s hard to just sit here and watch me getting up to no good…
Except it kinda depends on your point of view, doesn’t it? As far as I’m concerned, I’m actually doing a lot of people a great big favour here.
Have to hurry. Need to get this done before your co-workers arrive, eh?
I expect you’re wondering what this is all about, Angela. Well, I’ll tell you. It’s the truth. That’s it. What’s true, what’s not true. And how can you ever tell in the first place? If we lose track of the truth, what are we? Or perhaps you’re one of those people who don’t care about the truth? Oh dear, panicked shaking of the head. Don’t worry – you’re entitled to your own opinions, I won’t hold it against you. But the truth, Angela – the truth happens to be very important to me. I take it very personally indeed. You see, I happen to know that there are certain areas in which you and a great many other people in this country have been misinformed. And that won’t do, it won’t do at all. So I’m just … well, I’m just putting things right.
That’s what’s in the bottle, Angela. Truth. Dangerous stuff, truth. But it’s going in the water supply, nothing you can do about that. Tomorrow morning, the nation will be supping it up in their morning cuppas.
Nanomeems. Heard of them? No? Something on the news a while ago, maybe? Never mind. Been around for a few years now. See, it’s cloudy. That’s because it’s full of those teeny-tiny, itsy-witsy nanomeems. Billions of them. Literally billions. Water doesn’t hurt them. Boiling can’t touch ’em. Not even that miracle of nature, the human immune system, can get rid of them. Once you ingest ’em, you got ’em for life. They migrate directly to the brain and then … well, they just sit and wait, sit and wait, until a prearranged cue sets ’em off. Could be anything. A sound. A sight. Mark Holloway in a Santa Claus costume, perhaps? How about that?
And then – off they go! Burrowing their way into the brain tissue. They migrate to the synapses and start work, closing down a few million or so here, opening up some more over there. Think of them as tiny memories, if you will, sitting in your brain, waiting to come to life. Because that’s all memory really is. In some ways that’s what we are – our minds, our personalities, even our feelings. Synapses. Some open, some closed. That’s it. This little group is your memory of your auntie Mary. This group colours the way you feel about Uncle Simon that time he threw up at your birthday party. This group over here is the memory of your dad hitting your mum. For example. Get it, Angela? See where I’m going with this? Hmm?
There’s a school of thought that states we are all no more or less than the sum of our memories. What do you reckon? True or false? Debate. Our entire history, our philosophy, our past, ourselves – it’s all about memory in one form or another, isn’t it. So tell me; if you can’t remember something, how do you know if it ever happened? Because other people remember it, I hear you say? Correct! Good, Angela! Ah, but here’s another thing. What if everyone forgets? Well, in that case, it might as well have not happened at all. Unless – what’s that, Angela? Unless the information is written down or recorded in some way? Correct again! Good girl. Top of the class.
OK, let me ask you another one. What if everyone misremembers? What then? Suppose everyone remembers how Mark Holloway went to prison for fraud and various unnamed sexual misdemeanours? Hmm? But … kind of only just. And … it was a pretty minor thing, after all. OK, it’s the PM getting sent to jail for fraud, but hey! These things happen, don’t they? And instead of remembering what a complete fucking shit he was, they remember, say – that he was a bit of a lad. Those girls were just trying to make money out of the poor bloke and they were probably lying about their age anyway. That money he got – it was a mistake! And then, hey! It turned out he was framed all along anyway! How about that?
I see you shrug. Conspiracy theory, you say. Crazy guy getting convinced about crazy stuff. People change their minds all the time, so what? True, true, very true. So we changed our minds about my dad. Or else, someone changed them for us… Now who could that be, I wonder?
See how simple it is? A few synapses firing up here, a few more not firing there and hey presto! Everything changes. Markie Holloway turns overnight from zero to hero. Except – the truth is sti
ll the truth, isn’t it, whether anyone remembers it or not. A lie is still a lie. Memory might be fallible, but the past – that never changes. Ever.
What’s the time? Damn, got to get a move on. You are clever, Angela. Trying to delay me with all this chatter. Not much to do now…
Right, that’s the sensor systems sorted. Next, the reboot. Oh, Angela, there you go again. Tears for souvenirs! Tell the truth, you weren’t expecting that I knew about the reboot, were you? Oh dear. You do feel terribly responsible, don’t you? There’s you, nice girl, first job out of uni and suddenly here you are drugged, gagged, tied up and forced to watch some loony terrorist trying to destroy everything you hold dear. How very trying for you.
OK, let’s get this system ready to accept the new input.
I was seven when Mum finally went mad. Must have been one of those unstable sorts, eh? Explains her selfish behaviour in some ways. She started getting all mixed up. Confused. That was the first sign, but it all happened very quickly after that. Within a few days she was remembering things that had never happened, forgetting things that had. False Memory Syndrome, they said. Next thing, her brains just scrambled. Bang. Almost overnight. I can remember how terrified she looked that morning. It was me who found her, weeping in the bathroom, poor thing. Couldn’t speak, couldn’t remember anything. She still knew who I was at that point, though. Held me to her and stroked my face and made these horrible, guttural noises. And me? I screamed and screamed for someone to come and get her off me. I find it very hard to forgive myself for that.
Two days later, my little sister. Same thing. Memories all scrambled up. Didn’t know today from yesterday, Mum from Dad, up from down. Now, what are the chances of that happening, eh?
Yeah. I don’t see them very often any more. They’re in an institution. Doped up to the eyeballs. I can’t bear it, to be honest. I mean…
*