The Flooding

by Sean Hancock

  “You okay?” I ask.

  After staring at me for what feels like an eternity, he says, “No.”

  “Why?”

  “You seriously have to ask that?”

  “What were you looking at?”

  “What do you think I was looking at?”

  “I don’t know; that’s why I’m asking.”

  After a pause, he says, “I was checking to see if there was anything online about what happened.”

  “And?”

  “There’s something on BBC news about a possible gang-related shooting in North London. It didn’t go into any details, though.”

  “See, it will never come back to us.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  Silence.

  On the floor beside him is a black trash bag. Clothes are sticking out of the top of it. I go to grab my backpack so I can take it to the bathroom and get changed. Tammuz stands and says he’ll leave me to it. He asks if I’m hungry and want a sandwich or a cup of tea, and then he tells me he’s on edge, but he’s sorry for being rude.

  “That’s okay,” I say, and even though I’m starving, I tell him no thanks, that I’ve got to go soon, and add, “Has that got everything in it?” I gesture toward the trash bag. “Shoes as well?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “But I’m coming with you.”

  “Where?”

  “To get rid of it.”

  “I can handle it.”

  “The stuff in there could send me to prison for the rest of my life. I’d like to make doubly sure it gets disposed of properly, if that’s okay?” His tone is frigid but also scared. I don’t want him to be scared. I also feel irrationally offended, as if he should realize I’ve cleaned up crime scenes in a dozen lives. Granted, most were before the age of modern forensics. I suddenly remember Rosa’s dad watching crime shows and understand why I’d found myself riveted to the pesky little details, though at the time I thought it was gross and morbid.

  “Don’t you trust me?” is the lame result of these colliding thoughts.

  “I barely know you.”

  “Fair enough,” I say. “I’ll be downstairs in ten minutes; then we go.”

  Tammuz is about to leave the room when I say, “They suit you.”

  He turns, his face letting me know he has no idea what I’m talking about.

  “The glasses, they make you look . . . distinguished.” I don’t mean it. Ever since Mr. Farish, I’ve not been a fan of men in spectacles, but I wanted to say something nice, and that’s all I could think of.

  He gives me a half smile, the saddest smile I’ve ever seen, and leaves the room.

  I grab my bag and pull out a fresh pair of skinny jeans, my red TOMS sneakers, and a gray sweatshirt with “GEEK” written on it in big black letters, something Rosa thought was cute. After emptying my pockets, I stuff all of today’s clothes into the trash bag. Then I’m out of the door and down the stairs, shouting for Tammuz, so he knows I’m ready to go.

  “That was quick,” he says, coming from the kitchen, no longer wearing glasses, with a half-eaten sandwich in hand.

  Trying to lighten the mood, I say, “Unlike you, I don’t have makeup to put on.”

  He grabs a black leather jacket that’s hanging on the banister, smiling as he says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  When we hit Archway underground station, I say, “Give it to me,” meaning the bag full of clothes Tammuz has been carrying. The two of us are huddled under his tiny umbrella, arms interlinked. The rain has died down a little, but the air is wet and cold. My TOMS are soaked through, but I’ll be able to buy new clothes at the airport, not that I’ll need much in sunny California.

  Tammuz hands it over. “What’s the plan?”

  “Wait here,” I say, adjusting the straps on my backpack before jogging toward the tall, looming office building next to the station. I’m approaching a homeless couple with a brown Staffordshire bull terrier. Its ribs are showing. The three of them are sitting on the floor underneath an architectural overhang, their faces beaten and tired. They have cans of strong lager on the go.

  Speaking to the woman with hollow cheeks, I stoop and say, “Here are some dry clothes for you both. They should fit.” I pull a fifty-pound note from my jeans. “Your dog looks hungry.”

  The woman beams a toothless smile and starts to get up, but I tell her there’s no need. I hear them talk excitedly to each other in Polish as I turn and walk away, the man shouting, “Thank you, we appreciate, thank you.”

  “You trying to frame homeless people?” Tammuz asks as I step under his umbrella, the two of us face to face.

  “You’re so cynical,” I say. “Philanthropy is a hobby of mine.”

  “I thought we were going to burn them.”

  “The homeless people?”

  “Very funny. The clothes.”

  “Not the right weather for it,” I say. “We did the next best thing, though.”

  “What now? We go our separate ways?”

  I nod.

  “What’s your plan? You have anywhere to stay?”

  “I’m a big girl, Tammuz.”

  “So that’s it, we never see each other again?”

  “Depends.”

  “On what?”

  “Whether or not we’re meant to.”

  Tammuz pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “You have a phone number?”

  “No.”

  “An e-mail address?”

  “No.”

  “You blowing me off?”

  Unable to resist the obvious joke, I say, “As romantic as that sounds, I have other plans.“

  Tammuz lets out a disbelieving laugh. “I’m not going to dignify that with a response.” His eyes sparkle with an idea. “Your turn to wait,” he says, handing me the umbrella, diving into a nearby corner shop. Two minutes later, he reappears holding a lottery ticket.

  “My number’s on the back,” he says. “And if you win Saturday, you better call me.”

  I tuck it into my jeans without looking. “I will.”

  During the silence that follows, the mood changes.

  He says, “Did you mean what you said before, about us being a mistake?”

  I decide to be honest. It’s the least he deserves. “Yes and no.”

  “What does that mean?” he says. Then he adds, “I’m worried I’ll never see you again.”

  “Considering everything’s that happened, wouldn’t that be a good thing?” I give him a smile that’s meant to be both kind and mysterious, but I have no idea how it comes off.

  He shakes his head. “Absolutely not.”

  “I heard what you said earlier.”

  “When?”

  “When you thought I was dead. You said you loved me. I think it helped bring me back.”

  “It’s true. I know how cheesy that sounds and that it doesn’t make any . . .”

  I stand on my toes and kiss him. “As it ends, so it begins.”

  He opens his eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means we’ll see each other again.”

  “When?”

  I shrug. Then I turn away from him, enter Archway Station, and buy a ticket to Heathrow. After passing through the ticket barrier, just before stepping onto the escalator and disappearing underground, I feel compelled to glance back and see if Tammuz is still there, to look into his eyes one final time.

  But I don’t.

  FIFTEEN

  My eyes snap open, and my body flinches.

  The light is bright and suffocating, and for a split second, everything is fuzzy and nothing makes sense. There’s a strong, cloying smell coming from somewhere; it’s heavy, musky, overwhelming.

  When things come into focus, I’m confronted by a young black girl looking down at me; she has a cream-colored beanie hat, thin eyebrows, and red lips, her hand pulling away from my shoulder.

  “Relax, babes,” she says, smiling. “This is da last stop, figured you’d want wak
in’ before da train took you back to where you started.” The pungent odor belongs to her: a heady mixture of flowery perfume, stale clothes, and tobacco.

  I look out of the window, see Terminal 5 signs, grab my bag, and stand, swinging my arms through the straps while saying, “Thanks, I appreciate it.”

  “Lucky day, innit?” she says, getting off at the same time. She’s seventeen or eighteen with that West Indies–infused London swagger, reminding me of the girl with the big forehead from last night, Robbie’s sidekick, only not a psycho bitch.

  Beanie glances at my bag. “Where you headed?”

  “Los Angeles,” I reply, walking along the platform toward the escalator. Everything in this station is made from glass or chrome, giving a clean, clinical, futuristic feel to the place.

  “I’m, well, jel,” she says, keeping stride. “I’d kill to go there.”

  The escalator is carrying us to street level, and I can already feel the cold, wet air blowing in from outside. “There must be an easier way,” I reply, following up with, “What about you?”

  She sucks air through her back teeth. “I ain’t goin’ nowhere, babes; this is da closest I’m gettin’ to LA for now, one day doe, even if I have to hijack a plane, innit.”

  I force a smile. I’d rather be left alone, but she just did me a favor, so I’m trying not to be rude.

  We step off the escalator and follow the exit signs. “Know of any cheap hotels around here? My flight’s not till tomorrow.”

  At first, Beanie seems thrown by the question, but then her face brightens, and she points across my body, saying, “Check out dat guy’s smug face.”

  I stop and turn to my left. There’s a large advertisement for the Premier Inn.

  It’s a picture of a middle-aged black man tucked into a purple and white bed, cuddling a teddy bear. He looks like he’s having the best, most contented sleep of his life. Something I’m in desperate need of.

  “Perfect,” I say, turning to Beanie. “Where is it?”

  She shrugs. “Dunno, babes, I ain’t from round here, just visitin’ a friend, innit, must be close doe . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” I say, pointing at the London Underground employee standing on the other side of the ticket barrier up ahead, both of us walking again. “I’ll ask her. Thanks for waking me up. I owe you one.”

  Beanie’s phone rings and she stops to answer. “That’s okay, babes, just bring me back a present, yeah?”

  Looking over my shoulder, I wave and say, “You got it.”

  The staff member gives me directions to the hotel and a rundown of nearby places to grab a bite. There’s Subway opposite the station, so I opt for that, devouring a six-inch Veggie Delight in seconds.

  It’s late by the time I arrive at the Premier Inn, and there’s only one person manning the desk: a chirpy, slightly, strange man in his midforties sporting a combover and thick-rimmed glasses. After introducing himself as Walter, he asks for my passport. I could show him Rosa’s; it’s something I packed before leaving Exeter, but I want to stay off the grid as much as possible, so I concoct a story about how my mum is picking me up first thing and she has all my stuff, adding that he can scan my ID in the morning. I flirt as well, laughing at his geeky jokes (“I hope your passport photo isn’t as bad as mine!”), making him feel good.

  Mission accomplished.

  My small, neat room on the fourth floor smells of polish, dust, and stale cigarette smoke. White sheets are on the bed and there’s a purple throw. The room has a wooden desk and chair and a flat-screen TV.

  I strip down to knickers and a T-shirt, have a quick wash, and slip into bed. Even without a teddy bear to cuddle, I’m asleep before my head hits the pillow.

  No dreams, just darkness until two indigo eyes appear above me. Then four. Then eight. Then sixteen. The number grows exponentially until there are literally millions of them, slotted side by side like puzzle pieces, blinking as one, watching me.

  Words accompany the image, something along the lines of “There you are,” although I don’t hear an actual voice.

  I notice that I am naked. I try to move, only to discover my legs are heavy and unresponsive. The sky of eyes changes shape now, its outer edges swooping down as a vibrant red begins to shimmer across its surface. Then orange, yellow, and purple, and then every hue and quality of light imaginable, all of it dancing and pulsating in a way that feels organic and alive.

  “What do you want?” I shout as this thing, whatever it is, becomes a sphere around me. Tentacles emerge from it and move in my direction.

  “Wake up, Samsara.” I definitely heard a voice that time, and I know who it belongs to.

  Meta.

  The tendrils edge closer, each one capped with a single eye.

  “What do you want?” I ask again, still unable to move. I look down to see what’s wrong with my feet, but they have disappeared, or rather, the sphere has absorbed them, shins as well. A horrible thought occurs to me, that I’m being eaten alive and slowly digested.

  “You are in danger,” the voice says.

  “Let me go,” I shout, panicking, afraid of what will happen if I am fully consumed by this thing.

  The iridescent sphere of light and color blinks and says, “Wake up, Samsara. NOW.”

  At the same moment, a tentacle touches the center of my forehead. The eye attached to it delves into my mind, and I see an image of Rosa back in her hotel room tied to a chair. Something is covering her mouth. Then, to my utter surprise, I become the chair, which is cheap and badly made . . .

  Seconds later, I’m viewing the world through Rosa’s eyes again, although her perspective has changed. Down at floor level now, I see two embroidered letters straight ahead: “BU,” white thread on black fabric. I feel compelled to reach out and touch them, as if that will save me somehow. Before I’m able to, a charge of electricity pulses through my body, and just like that, I am no longer in the world of dreams. Nonordinary reality is replaced in an instant by the ceiling of my hotel room.

  I sit upright.

  Aside from my labored breathing, everything is silent. I am dripping with sweat. I look at the clock on the television directly in front of me: 1:45 a.m. Below it, tucked underneath the desk, is a small wooden chair. It’s the one I was bound to in my dream. I remember how fragile and creaky it was.

  I shake my head and laugh, seeing the funny side of how messed up I am, surrendering to it.

  It has stopped raining, and the sky has cleared. I know because a shaft of moonlight is shooting through a crack in the curtain. I take some deep breaths, get out of bed, and go to the bathroom, the carpet dry and prickly under my feet. The extractor fan kicks in when I turn on the light. It’s loud and invasive. I splash water on my face and look in the mirror, inspecting the red marks on my neck (the result of being throttled yesterday), remembering how lucky I am to be alive, to still be in with a chance of rescuing my master.

  I think about taking a shower but decide against it. What I need is more sleep, and the British Airways desk doesn’t open for a few hours. I should probably give some thought to the dream I just had, but then again, what’s the rush? I’ll have plenty of time to unpack it while crossing the Atlantic. Besides, the symbolism is pretty obvious: I feel trapped and powerless, hence being tied to the chair, and watched by Meta, which explains the sphere of eyes. I have no idea what those embroidered letters were about, but then again, maybe they weren’t about anything.

  I dry my face, switch off the bathroom light, and walk into the adjoining room. I notice how silent everything is without the extractor fan. I stop in my tracks before reaching the bed, sensing human energy close by, energy that does not belong to me, energy that was not present two minutes ago. But before I can do anything about it, before I can turn and fight, something hard and heavy hits the back of my head. I see the moonlit floor approaching and feel a breeze against my face.

  Nothingness envelops me.

  I become aware of music. It’s tinny sounding, as i
f being played on a mobile phone.

  The track has a high-tempo reggae beat and fast, aggressive Patwa lyrics that are impossible to decipher.

  I can smell weed.

  My head is lowered, my chin against my chest, and my eyes are closed. I resist the urge to open them.

  Someone nearby says, “She’s dead, cus. You licked her hard, you know.”

  A man. Londoner. Young. On my left.

  Another person speaks: “How can she be dead if she’s breavin’, bruv? Look at her chest.”

  Male. Similar age. Also left of me but farther away.

  “What you doin’, man? That’s rank!” says the first speaker, sounding amused and grossed out at the same time.

  Who are these people? I keep my eyes closed, wondering if this could be a continuation of the dream I was having, if getting up and going to the bathroom was just something I imagined.

  But I know that’s not the case. I was awake, and these people broke into my room.

  How did they do that so quietly?

  My mind flashes back to the altercation over Tammuz’s moped, mainly because of the pattern and tone of their speech. Could this be Robbie’s work? If so, where is he, and how did he find me?

  The two voices came from my left, and I can feel somebody else’s presence in front of me. Could that be him? I think that accounts for everyone, but I can’t be certain of my judgment, especially after taking a blow to the head.

  The guy who thought I was dead suggests something else. “What’re we waitin’ for, man? People coulda’ seen us or heard somfin’. I’m already on probation. I say we take the cash and bounce.”

  My money, I think, still trying to work out who my abductors are, what they want, and how I can hurt them.

  First things first: what are the facts?

  I’m sitting on a chair with my wrists secured in front of me, palms together. Something has been stuffed into my mouth, and there’s duct tape across my lips. No point screaming then. More binds across my stomach and chest attach me to the chair. My ankles are strapped. To make matters worse, I’m wearing only the knickers and T-shirt I went to bed in.