The Flooding

by Sean Hancock

  “Yes,” I snap. “Tell me.”

  He gives me a funny look, part concerned, part annoyed, before saying, “Finding you. How weird is that?”

  “You’re sure she meant me?”

  “Totally . . . even said your name. Only it was different, foreign sounding, Sam something . . . I can’t remember exactly, but it was definitely you, 100 percent.”

  “What did you tell her?” blinking now, things going blurry . . .

  “I told her you were with me, but she wanted details. Before I could carry on, this pantherlike creature appeared out of nowhere, only it looked like it was made of smoke or vapor or something. It attacked her. I was so scared I woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep afterward.”

  Trying desperately to suppress the buildup of pain and pressure inside my skull, I say, “Describe what she looked like.”

  “Why, what’s going on?”

  “Just do it,” I say. “Now.”

  He says, “You’re acting crazy again,” followed by, “short, dark hair, high cheekbones, full lips . . . She had this light around her as well, like an aura I guess, and these incredible eyes . . .”

  “What color were they?” I ask. “Her eyes, I mean,” praying he says green or brown, anything but . . .

  “Indigo.”

  My last thought, following an epic explosion of pain in my head, is: I’m going to pass out, which is exactly what I do.

  What’s on my face? I wonder, feeling heavy and lethargic.

  I open my eyes, but light pours through like boiling water, and I retreat into darkness again.

  I’m lying flat. I try sitting up and fail. Something is holding me down.

  Am I dreaming? Has Meta found me? Is this the Long Sleep?

  “What’s going on?” I say, but it’s difficult to talk with this thing on my face.

  I’m sensing people around, lots of noise and bumps and motion, and hear Tammuz say, “She’s moving.”

  This is followed by a girl saying, “Hello, Sam, you’re all right, sweetheart; everything’s okay. My name is Stephanie, and I’m a student paramedic. You’re in an ambulance on the way to hospital.”

  I had another seizure, I think, remembering Tammuz’s dream, feeling frightened and exposed now, like an injured mouse being pawed and prodded by a cat.

  What game is Meta playing?

  I half open my eyes, adjusting to the light, and see Stephanie looming over me, her youthful features coming into focus. Even though there’s a strap across my chest and another at thigh level, I’m able to bend my right arm at the elbow, my hand exploring my face now. The student paramedic tells me to leave the oxygen mask on; it’s helping me breathe. She explains that I’ve suffered a seizure, but I’m much better now, and she adds, “Your boyfriend’s here, so you’ve nothing to worry about.”

  “We’re just friends,” Tammuz says.

  I lift my head. He’s in a foldout chair down by the rear of the vehicle. I give him a tired wave. Stephanie, who’s wearing green and looks to be early twenties, is closest, and I can sense somebody else in the corner behind, most likely the senior paramedic in charge.

  I take the oxygen mask off and say, “I can breathe fine . . . need to loosen these straps; they’re too tight.”

  “I’ll sort that,” Stephanie says, getting to it, explaining the straps were so I wouldn’t hurt myself on the journey, especially as I was having a seizure. Then the girl is asking questions, wanting to know my medical history and if something like this has happened before, what medication I’m on, and if it’s okay to take a blood sugar reading.

  Thinking on my feet, I say, “Yeah, fine, do what you have to.” I tell her I’ve had epilepsy since childhood but that I stopped taking my prescription recently as I was suffering side effects. I tell her I can’t remember what the pills were called, but yes, I will see my GP, definitely, don’t worry, I’m fine, honestly, feeling much better now.

  I have to go through the same routine at the hospital with the doctor (who runs more tests). She lectures me about what a bad idea it was to stop my medication, instructing that if the side effects are a problem, I should consult my GP about other options.

  I say thanks, apologize for the trouble, and ask if I can go now. After more questions and another lecture, she eventually says okay, and on the way out I grab Tammuz, who’s sitting by a vending machine, looking ridiculous in his faded jogging pants, T-shirt, and brown leather shoes, which he must have thrown on at the last minute. I realize I don’t look much better drowning in his jumper and wearing the paper slippers the hospital provided, my legs bare and exposed.

  “Let’s go,” I say, following the Way Out signs along the wide blue corridor, the air infused with antiseptic and death. I feel a lot better knowing the seizure helped clear out some of the negative energy I was carrying.

  Tammuz falls in beside me. “What’d the doctor say?”

  “That the two of us look like idiots.”

  He doesn’t understand that I’m joking. “Really?”

  I glance at his shoes. “You especially. He said it was depressing for the other patients.”

  He follows my gaze, his brain eventually catching up. “Next time I’ll call my stylist instead of an ambulance.”

  We skirt around an overweight man pushing a trolley full of medical equipment. “You shouldn’t have called anyone; I was fine.”

  “You were fine?” Tammuz says, losing patience and raising his voice. The two of us press against the wall now, letting a large family past. A very old woman is at the center. “I’ll remember that next time you’re foaming at the mouth and shaking like crazy, eyes popping out of your fucking head.”

  The old woman, who looks frail and unwell, cuts Tammuz a disapproving look, so he lowers his voice. He asks me what’s really going on, saying he knew someone at school with epilepsy, but his fits were nothing like mine. He adds, “I thought you were dying.”

  There’s a line of taxis outside, and before long, we’re on our way back to Archway. I tell Tammuz not to worry because that’s the last seizure of mine he’ll ever see.

  “You going back to Exeter?”

  The black cab smells of cheap leather and stale perfume.

  “Your place first, then Highbury to see your friend, then yes, I’m going home.”

  Tammuz throws his head back and laughs. “There’s no way I’m helping you”—he glances over his shoulder at the driver, whispering now—“score drugs . . . not in your condition. What if you die or something? You can forget it.”

  I can see he’s deadly serious, which means I have to change his mind. I look out the window, making myself sad, waiting for tears to form before saying, “If I tell you something, you have to promise not to go on about it and ask loads of questions, understood?”

  The energy in the taxi softens. “Yeah, of course, tell me what’s going on.”

  I make as if I can’t get the words out, then say, “I’m sick. I mean, really sick. I’ve been treating myself with ayahuasca for a while now; it’s the only thing that works. But the person I was getting it from disappeared two months ago, and since then, my seizures have been getting worse. That’s why I’m here, and that’s why I need your help. If I don’t start treating myself soon, the damage to my brain could be irreversible. That’s why I need you to introduce me to your friend. After that, I promise you’ll never have to see me again.”

  Tammuz looks shocked. “I’m so sorry, Sam . . . what’s . . . um, what’s . . .”

  “What’s wrong with me?” I say. “It’s a neurological thing, really rare, more chance winning the lottery, lucky me, huh?”

  He looks down at his feet. “What about your doctor? There must be something they can give you.”

  The question annoys me, though it shouldn’t. I’m just so tense right now.

  “You think I’d be going to all this trouble if there was a pill I could take? You think I’m stupid? You know what? Forget it, not your problem, I’ll just grab my stuff and go.”
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br />   Immediately, he comes to sit beside me. “I’m sorry, okay? No wonder you’ve been acting crazy.” He smiles. “Of course I’ll help, whatever you need.”

  I wipe away tears and tell him he doesn’t have to; I’ve gotten him in enough trouble and I’ll work it out. He puts a hand on my shoulder and says, “We’ll work it out,” which is when I know everything’s back on track. To make certain, I lean in and kiss him on the lips, just a peck. I see in his eyes how much he wants me and know I shouldn’t give that power up easily.

  Tammuz is a good person, and I feel bad manipulating him, but Ashkai’s life is on the line.

  And Meta’s not the only one who can play dirty.

  TWELVE

  Tammuz says, “This guy we’re going to see, he’s unpredictable. Let me do the talking.” Then, after a pause, “Even if he starts losing his shit. That’s just what he’s like. Don’t do anything stupid, is what I’m saying. I know how to handle him.”

  “What’s he got to lose his shit about?” I ask.

  “He’s high-strung. And he drinks vodka like it’s water.”

  “What’s he got to be stressed about?”

  “Everything.”

  I roll my eyes and sigh. “Just spit it out.”

  He says, “You never let anything go, do you? I sort of owe him money, only I don’t, depends how you look at it.”

  “How can you sort of owe him money?”

  “When I got busted, the drugs they found were Viktor’s. That’s his name.”

  “How much was the stuff worth?”

  “A grand, £1,500, maybe, but I kept my mouth shut and went to prison, so we’re quits far as I’m concerned.”

  “How’d you get involved with someone like that?”

  “By going out with his daughter.”

  “When?”

  “School. I was fifteen.”

  “Was it serious?”

  He starts fidgeting. “At the time . . . feels so long ago now.”

  It’s a quarter past one in the afternoon, and we’re on a bus to Highbury, on the top deck with nobody in earshot. The sky is thick with clouds, and my bag is between my legs, as I plan on disappearing very soon. I want to put distance between Tammuz and me so he’s out of harm’s way, although Viktor might have other ideas . . .

  “What was her name?”

  Tammuz, sitting on the seat in front of me but angled round in my direction, says, “Dina,” with a hint of sadness in his voice.

  Is that jealousy I feel?

  Whatever it is, I ignore it. “When’d you see her last?”

  “Three, four years, something like that.”

  “Why’d you break up?”

  “We didn’t. Viktor sent her back to Russia to live with his sister. He thought I was a bad influence, which is hilarious coming from him.”

  “What happened?” I ask, remembering (once again) how I journeyed across that vast land in 1824. My name was Inga then, a scrawny serf, and I was searching for Ashkai. Over the course of a year, traveling thousands of miles, I survived subzero temperatures, starvation, illness, and attacks from other travelers who wanted what little I had. But I fought and endured, and my search was successful. I take heart from that, as Tammuz says, “We were caught smoking a spliff at school; that’s all, big deal. Crazy bastard sent her home the same week. I haven’t seen her since. I was devastated, so I confronted him about it, wanted to show I was serious about his daughter, thought he might respect me. Biggest mistake I ever made.”

  “Why?”

  “He threatened me, said I was lucky to be alive, but I stood my ground, told him to go for it, that all I cared about was Dina. Then, he asked how he could trust someone who gave his daughter drugs, and I said I’d do anything to prove myself. He said, ‘Okay, well, come work for me then, that way I’ll see what kind of man you really are.’”

  “Doing what?”

  “Running errands, delivering packages, stuff like that. He’s got loads of businesses, restaurants and dry cleaners mainly, and I was going between them a lot. I quickly realized he was dodgy, but I was losing it. My e-mails to Dina were going unanswered, and her phone was dead. Dumb, I know, but things were bad at home, and I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  “With your dad?”

  “I prefer to call him Judas, but yeah; he went ballistic after the spliff thing and stopped my allowance, said he wasn’t going to fund my habit. I told him to keep his stupid money, promised myself I’d never ask him for anything ever again.”

  “And Viktor was paying you?”

  Tammuz nods. “Very well.”

  “What was in the packages?”

  “Not a clue, didn’t look, especially after what he said he’d do to me if I did.

  But it was never about that. He was just feeling me out.”

  “For what?”

  “Turns out, his main business was drugs, and he wanted me to sell weed at school. He’d been playing me from the start.”

  “But why? It sounds so small-time.”

  Tammuz laughs. “You didn’t go to my school. Everyone was loaded and posh and destined for big-time, well-paid jobs. Viktor was thinking long term, but I didn’t care. I was popular; I had money; and when you’re sixteen, seventeen, that’s all that matters.”

  “The article I read . . . it wasn’t just weed they caught you with, was it?”

  “That’s because people started asking for harder stuff after a while, coke, ecstasy, mushrooms, so I spoke to Viktor, and he made sure I had everything I needed. By then, I thought I was untouchable.”

  “What about Dina?”

  “He let me speak to her on the phone a few times, but after a while, it started hurting less. There were other girls as well . . . they probably only liked me for the drugs, but I didn’t care. I still thought about Dina, but I got so caught up in everything, a year flew by”—he clicks his fingers—“just like that.”

  “Then, something happened that scared the crap out of me, so I spoke to Viktor, told him I wouldn’t be able to work for him anymore, even introduced him to someone who could take my place.

  “Viktor said it didn’t work like that, but I insisted. He told me to sell what I had and that he’d think about it, but two days later, the police raided my parents’ house, found my stash, and sent me to prison for a year. I was out after six months with good behavior, but by then, Mum and Dad had broken up. Judas tried to blame me for destroying the family, even though I knew for a fact he’d been screwing my Mum’s best friend for years.”

  “Sounds like a real dick,” I say, wondering if Viktor was the one who handed Tammuz over to the police. The timing, the fact that Tammuz was no longer useful, messing around with the guy’s daughter . . .

  Tammuz says, “Complete and utter, but that’s life, huh? Can’t choose your family. I moped around, feeling sorry for myself for ages, but Mum helped snap me out of it, said I had to prove the bastard wrong, show him I wasn’t a loser. She even dragged me down to college last year so I’d enroll.”

  “Why didn’t you move to Devon with her, start over?”

  “This is our stop,” he says, standing. “Because it’s the most boring place on Earth.” Looking over a shoulder, he adds, “Sorry, no offense . . .”

  We’re on the lower deck when the bus stops. As we’re getting off, I say, “Still not talking to your dad?”

  “No, and I never will,” he says, turning left. Specks of rain tickle my face. “Mum got half his cash, and he got a new family; everyone’s a winner. Good riddance, you ask me.”

  Even though he’s putting on a brave face, it’s obvious this is upsetting, so I change the subject. “Seen Viktor since you got out?”

  He shakes his head. “Been staying as far away from him as possible and everyone else I used to know.”

  “So why we heading there now?”

  “Because he can get hold of anything.”

  “Even for someone who corrupted his little girl and vanished, owing him money?”

&nb
sp; “I’m hoping he doesn’t see it like that.”

  “You and me both.”

  “This is it,” Tammuz says, leading us into the front garden of a three-story Georgian house on the corner of a pretty crescent. A little park is opposite, and Range Rovers and BMWs line the pavement.

  We climb the steps, and Tammuz rings the bell. The rain’s starting to come down a little harder now.

  I loosen the straps of my bag. “Viktor didn’t mind you bringing someone?”

  “He doesn’t know.”

  “How come?”

  “Didn’t have a chance to tell him.”

  “Won’t it look weird turning up with a stranger?”

  “Probably,” says Tammuz, and I can tell he’s nervous. In fact, it’s obvious he doesn’t want to be here at all, and definitely not on his own.

  The door opens, revealing a short, stout man wearing a roll-neck jumper and a navy baseball cap. He’s in his midforties with stubble; his nose bends left slightly. One look at his lumpy, scarred hands, and it’s obvious the boxing he’s into doesn’t involve gloves.

  “Pree-vyet, Sergei!” is Tammuz’s attempt at “hello” in Russian. His pronunciation is terrible. He sticks a hand out. “How’s it going?”

  But Sergei, a man with the destructive, poisonous energy of a killer, is looking at me.

  “Who this?” he asks, in a thick Russian accent.

  Tammuz pulls his hand back. “Sam. She’s cool; don’t worry.”

  “I look worry?”

  Tammuz forces a laugh. “No, of course not, it’s just an expression, means you can trust her . . . where’s Viktor? I’ll explain.”

  “Tell your woman wait in park.”

  Your woman, I think, biting my tongue.

  “But it’s raining,” Tammuz says.

  Sergei points at me. “She have hood on jumper.”

  “Can I use your bathroom?” I ask, improvising, flashing teeth. “I’m gonna pee my pants.”

  “Go behind bush,” Sergei says. Tammuz tries to reassure him, but the brute is having none of it, telling me, “Go now, wait in park,” and he says to Tammuz, “You, inside, Viktor waiting,” which is when I take matters into my own hands. I speak Russian to Sergei, telling him this isn’t the welcome I was expecting from a brother.