Crystal Clear

by Aidan J. Reid

  “Paul. Is it six yet?”

  “I heard you Ma,” he said. “Let me check.”

  He reached down the crack between the arm and the cushion and found the remote, aiming it at the TV. He flicked through the channels – adverts that seemed to be about orgasmic shampoos and reruns of movie remakes. He rested on the local news channel for a second to catch the bulletin.

  ‘…and how Bellington could become the focus for the world’s top archaeologists.’

  “Pau- “

  “I know Ma. Getting it for you now.”

  He located the station, adjusted the volume a few ticks higher, pre-empting her question to raise it, and lifted himself out of the seat. He threw the colouring jotter on the foot rest, lifted the two empty dinner plates and cups, and placed them in the sink. As he plugged the sink and turned the tap, he looked across the room. Despite the evening gloom, they still enjoyed at least a few minutes more of sun than the basement dwellers – one bright spot on the ass of living in the high rise.

  With the sink filled, he squirted the last drops out of the washing up liquid into the pool of cluttered dishes. He could tell she wouldn’t last as far as the ad break. Her head was bobbing down onto one thin shoulder, as if pecking for the crumbs of dinner. Maybe I can catch the end of that news report, he thought, and began stacking the wet plates.

  When he had finished washing up, and dried his hands, he glanced over at his mother who was fast asleep. He allowed himself a smile and was about to take his seat, when he saw the bright edge of the sun outside the window. Paul walked over to see its final descent, slotting like a shiny penny into the mountaintop. It inched its way, burning the last few embers of its sun rays for his eyes, those below cast in darkness minutes before.

  As he turned away, to hit the light switch, his chest flamed in colour. Instinctively he took a step back, flapping away what was on his shirt. He searched the ground looking for it.

  “What the hell was that?”

  The blur of colour had disappeared. Had he been imagining it? He cast his eye around the room to find a winged object, a butterfly or something. He didn’t need to look far. On the cream white wall opposite the window, he saw it clearly and stepped up to the image that was projected there. Seconds later, it disappeared. He looked to his mother, who was still asleep, hoping for once that she had been awake to see it. Then he walked up to the window again and picked up the prism, examining it in his hands and holding it up to the light. It was cool to the touch. There was no beam, despite him holding it up again.

  “Don’t you be eating my brandy balls,” came the voice from the seat.

  Call to Attention

  Two days passed with Paul trying in earnest to tease an image from the glass prism. Holding it up to various light sources, at different times of the day, failed to muster a similar reaction. His efforts extended to taking it outside and holding it up to the sky – using it like a magnifying glass where the sun would be. However, it had been dull and overcast when he tried, and his earlier enthusiasm soon left him. He began to doubt that he had seen anything at all, and on the Saturday afternoon, left the object back on the windowsill. Despite a growing scepticism, he continued to glance up at it from his colouring book.

  Some occasions, convincing himself it was a lost cause, and conceding defeat, he hoped to be surprised by the appearance of the image lighting the wall behind him. Other occasions, he focused his own energy on it, willing it to reveal the patterned glow. Sometimes, he would walk into the room, purposely not looking at it – peripheral vision tuned in case the object only worked when one wasn’t looking at it. In all cases, he was left disappointed despite his tactical play.

  “Hello?”

  “Stephen, that you?”

  There was the sound of chewing on the other end of the phone. “Mm-Hmm.”

  Paul looked at his watch. It was 9pm. “Sorry, didn’t realise you were having your dinner. I can call back- “

  “No. It’s quite alright. Chinese night in the Breagal household,” the man said. Paul heard him take a drink before continuing. “Good to hear from you my friend. How are you?”

  “Good.”

  “Your mother?”

  “She’s good too. How’s Margaret and Saul?”

  “Great and not-so-great.”

  “Hope it’s nothing serious,” Paul said. He glanced back up at the prism on the windowsill against the black night sky. No movement.

  “You know Saul. He has his good days and bad. We’re taking him to a new psychologist next week, so fingers crossed. Anyway, enough about me. Has Hollywood come calling yet?”

  “What do you mean?” Beside him, his mother was silently snoring. Her head sagging onto her shoulder. He could see that the top row of her dentures had pulled down and appeared in the small gap between her lips.

  “It’s in the papers. These archaeological excavations. Looks like the worlds press have flocked to Bellington.”

  “Don’t believe all you read in the papers.”

  “Or the news.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Any idea what’s happening?”

  “I was hoping you could tell me,” Paul replied and heard the short laughter of the other man.

  “What makes you think I might know anything?”

  “C’mon Stephen. You’re the smartest guy I know. Plus, you live in that library of yours. Thought this would be right up your street.”

  The man laughed. Paul could hear a seat being scraped against tile and footsteps. There was an orchestral tune coming from the receiver which faded into the background.

  “You surmised correctly my dear boy,” he said. There was the sound of a door click, then the steps ended and the man let out a little breath. It was quieter wherever he had gone.

  “Well, what do you think?”

  “Seems like a lot of noise over a couple of bowls and a few coins.”

  “Unless they’re worth a lot.”

  “They’re not. From what I’ve read they’re denarius, silver coins. Roman origin. They would have degraded and lost much of their value over the centuries.”

  “So, they must be really old.”

  “Yes. But it was common currency in 1 or 2AD. Many coins of this type have been discovered over the years. Not worth stopping the press for.”

  “Yeah, but this is Bellington remember,” Paul countered. “Nothing happens here. If a dog goes missing it makes the headlines.”

  “But, that still doesn’t explain why there are suddenly a lot of academics, land surveyors and archaeologists showing up unannounced.”

  “You reckon it’s not what they’ve found.”

  “I think it’s what they’re hoping to find.”

  Paul pressed his ear closer to the receiver. “Go on.”

  “Many historical digs uncover artifacts that pre-date our existing knowledge of their origin. Riddles of the past like intricate obsidian earplugs dating back to the Aztec era when tools obviously weren’t as advanced as what we have now. Metal vases cased in sedimentary rock estimated to be 10,000 years old. The Baghdad battery which was discovered in the last century suggests that our relatively recent advent of electricity had been harnessed as far back as 250BC which debunks the idea that our ancestors were simply spear throwing, primitive beasts that we eventually evolved from. Then there are the crystal skulls that- “

  “Wow, hold on! Slow down a minute.” There was a laugh on the other end.

  “Sorry. I do let my mouth get away from me sometimes. You did bring it up though!”

  “I know,” Paul replied. “So that’s all very interesting, but if any of it was true – if they were searching for something, why haven’t we heard about it? That should be front page news.”

  The man took a deep breath. Paul leaned back further in his chair, expecting another discourse.

  “It goes against the grain of what we’re taught. It could turn the entire education system upside down. Too many people have a vested interest. Companies, orga
nisations and academia have built a system that won’t consider anything that runs against their belief system. If evidence pointed to early civilisations being more advanced than us today, then that would create chaos in academic circles. Our entire written history would be ripped up. If people start questioning that, they’ll begin to question everything – religion, politics and how the world really works.”

  “So, you’re saying they’re trying to hide this knowledge to prevent people from knowing the truth?”

  “In a matter of speaking, yes.”

  “Come on,” Paul said and offered a nervous laugh. “Bit of a leap to think it’s happening here though.”

  “Perhaps. But then again, the location would fit examples of the past. The Golden Necklace of Tbilisi was discovered in an underground cave. The solid gold eggs of Indonesia were found in a sandy cove by a beach walker. The ocean floor has a myriad of treasures waiting to be discovered, some of which can be uprooted by the current and quakes.” A pause. “Paul, are you still there?”

  “Yeah. Sorry. Just thinking.”

  “Anyway, I’m rambling. Was there anything else you wanted to talk to me about?”

  He hadn’t taken his eyes off the prism object on the windowsill.

  “Maybe. I don’t know. Let me get back to you.”

  The First Vision

  As soon as he entered the apartment, Paul slipped the tie out of its knot. Pulling it over his head, he hung it and the coat jacket on the back of the single tall seat against the kitchen counter. His sigh attracted the attention of his mother who looked up, saw his crestfallen face and shook her head.

  “Nothing?”

  “Just building work.”

  “Sure, that’s enough isn’t it? A wage is a wage.”

  “Ma, have you seen the size of me?” Paul said, turning to his mother. Despite the elevator working again, it appeared like he had worked up a sweat from exercise, damp patches growing under his pits. She didn’t look up from her seat. The paper bag of brandy balls from two days earlier were still beside her.

  “Best way to lose weight is a bit of hard labour. Your da was stick thin all through his life. Didn’t do him one bit of harm.”

  “Not today, Ma. I already got the lecture from the Jobseekers.”

  “Well, I don’t know,” she mumbled to herself.

  Paul shook his head and went to his room. He peeled off the shirt and slacks, kicked off his shoes and put on his carpet slippers and baggy pants. There was a hoodie hanging on the floor which he picked up and smelt the underarm of. It was passable so he chucked it on, re-entered the living room and sat down. There was a gameshow on. He knew them all by association of his mother. This one was on a channel that repeated the classics. A word and numbers game called ‘Countdown’. Judging by the outfits and hairstyles of the contestants, he estimated it was some time in the late eighties. He reckoned the TV host was long since dead.

  ‘…the winner will receive our Countdown Trophy, our goodie bag (an image flashed on the screen of an encyclopaedia, fountain pen and signed photograph of the crew – all specs, high collars and garish coloured shirts) and a one-year membership of the official Countdown magazine.’

  Cue rapturous applause from the audience members – a sea of woollen cardigans and various shades of grey hair. Paul rolled his eyes and looked around for inspiration. The colouring book was on the foot rest opposite. He picked it up, about to flick through it but was stopped by the sight of several letters underneath. They were opened. He had already read them. Nevertheless, he picked up one of them again, seeing the ‘Urgent – Final Notice’ bold text on the front.

  “Is that a Valentines card?”

  Paul shook his head. “It’s May ma.”

  “What?”

  “Yes,” he groaned. “It’s a Valentine’s card.”

  A little smile twisted on the old woman’s face as she burrowed deeper into the armchair. She adjusted her glasses. Her eyes were back on the TV show, watching ghosts of the past. Paul placed the envelope back down on the stool, leaned back in his own chair and put his feet up.

  The sound of the TV show and it’s ticking clock faded away as he began to feel the tension leave his body. He heard his mother silently snore. Behind his closed lids the light changed in the room, the sun peeping out from behind a cloud - one last triumphant stand before bedding down for the night. When he opened his eyes, he felt refreshed. Standing, he stretched his arms high in the air and took a deep yawn. As he turned, he saw on the wall a blush of swirling colours. He looked back to see the source – the sun shining through the glass prism.

  “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  As he moved closer to the projection, there were moving pieces in the image. It reminded him of the old movie projector screen that his dad would use to run old movies and tapes. Paul studied the image but found the resolution too weak. Remembering how quickly it had appeared and disappeared the last time, he moved to the prism, picking up the colouring book on the way. He knelt between them, holding the flat back of the book up to capture the image. The detail was as sharp as a photograph, bright colours projected onto the card as he watched the series of images slowly play to their conclusion.

  The movie started again, the missing sequence which, when completed, made Paul crumple to the ground. The book dropped from his hand and he watched the image play on the wall again, before suddenly the room dimmed, and the picture faded against the cream wall.

  Quids In

  The little bell above the shop door tinkled to announce a visitor. Paul walked in casually, letting the door close on its own. He moved to the magazine rack, cast an eye over some of the top shelf before dropping down to the local gazette by his feet. Leaning over at the waist, he picked up the top copy. A magazine inside, slipped out and fell to the ground. For a moment, he stood frozen, locked in thought.

  “Mornin’ Paul.” The little woman had entered from a side door annexed to her living room. She was already behind the till by the time he picked up the supplement and got to his feet.

  “Good morning. Lily.”

  The woman smiled and nodded. She studied him with suspicion from head to foot as he approached the counter. He dropped the paper down, glancing at the front page.

  “Fine day.”

  “Lovely out,” the woman replied. “Any luck with jobs?”

  “Nothing yet. Word gets around.”

  “Josie’s young one,” the woman said. “She works in the job centre. Said you were finding it tough. You know Jim Taggart’s looking for workers? They’re building an extension onto the Davies house. Needs some help. Young ones dinny want tay get their hands dirty these days. Won’t get out of bed for nathan unless its better money than the dole. I don’t think it is, but a job’s a job ye know? Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “I’ll think about it. Thanks.”

  “He was in here this mornin’. Dropped off a flyer. I hayny put it up yet.”

  Ms. Nugent crouched down, disappearing behind the counter. When she resurfaced, there was a white sheet in her hand. He held out a hand and took it from her.

  “You OK?” He looked up from the sheet at her concerned face. “You look a bit peaky.”

  “I’m fine,” he replied, folding it in two and slipping it into his back pocket. Exactly as he had seen before. “Just a funny couple of days, that’s all.”

  “You want anything else with your paper?”

  Paul swallowed hard. The probing eye of the old woman seemed to pierce his thoughts, which made him squirm. When he spoke again it was in a cracked voice.

  “Maybe I’ll take one of your scratch cards as well Ms. Nugent. Lily I mean.”

  “Someone’s feeling lucky. Which one?”

  “Do you have a purple one?”

  Beside the cash register, an opaque box stood. Three strings of cards were bundled inside, spitting them through the open mouth like a colourful toilet roll. The woman pulled down on one of the rolls and tore off the end. She gave the card t
o Paul and then dabbed some numbers into her cash register.

  “2.70.”

  He pulled out a five in exchange for a few coins, before tucking the newspaper under his arm. He was already turned and on his way out when she called out to him.

  “How did your ma like the brandy balls?”

  “Not finished them yet,” he fired over his shoulder, eager to leave the shop. “I’ll see you soon.”

  She watched him leave. When the door was shut, she turned around to the shelf of sweets. There was a perplexed look on her face as she pulled out the tub for brandy balls. She unscrewed the top, and poked her nose inside to smell the sweets.

  She took one out, unwrapped the plastic, popped it in her mouth and started sucking, passing it from one cheek to another with her tongue. She nodded her satisfaction and screwed the lid back before lifting the tub back into place. It slipped from her nimble hands and almost hit the floor but she caught it in time. The sweet, which had been dancing in her mouth, suddenly dropped to the back of her mouth. Panicked, she tried to breathe but sucked it into her windpipe. With horror, the woman began clawing at her neck. She gasped for air, beating on her chest. Lily Nugent dropped to her knees, a single arm raised behind the counter, fighting for life. As the blackness began to creep into her vision, she desperately tried to signal to anyone that was passing, that she was slowly choking to death.

  Outside, and across the street, oblivious to the drama was Paul Byrd. He was hunched over a gas meter, using it as a prop as he scratched the card with a coin. His hand was shaking. He closed his eyes as the coin lightly scraped away the last row of the remaining scratch card paint. He took a deep breath and opened them. There were three matches. He had just won £10,000.

  Bubbly