Sciron

by David Rashleigh

  Monday Morning

  Steve and Katie had been looking forward to enjoying the luxury of a lie-in that Monday morning. Joshua, however, had other ideas; waking just after six as intent on play as only a toddler can be at that hour. Steve took him into the living room to give his wife another hour or so in bed, but their other child, obviously a quick learner, decided to join in the early morning fun.

  Two hours later, the three of them were gathered in the living room, the adults still nursing coffee cups and Joshua engaged in the alternate construction and demolition of a Duplo tower. Just as Katie began to feel a now-familiar despondency, her son looked up from the multi-coloured mayhem surrounding him.

  “Man coming” he said, pulling himself to his feet and toddling over to the window. Steve and Katie exchanged nervous glances.

  “Do you feel it, Steve? The sadness? He’s coming back.”

  The feeling of wretchedness intensified, making Katie shrink into her seat. Joshua was pointing out of the window, shouting.

  “Look, Mummy, Daddy: Man!” Steve went over to the window and looked out, but, despite the uneasy feeling that was penetrating his consciousness, saw nothing. His wife’s voice made him spin round.

  “He’s here.”

  Steve was rooted to the spot. The apparition that had haunted their lives for the past week was stood in the doorway to the living room, his coal-black eyes seemingly burning into Steve’s mind.

  Help me.

  Steve realised that he had heard the words, but the spectre’s lips hadn’t moved. He tried to move to protect Katie, but found that his legs had turned to rubber and he found himself gripping the window ledge to prevent himself from falling over.

  What happened to me? Where’s Dot?

  “She’s not here. We don’t know where she is.” Katie’s voice held none of the fear that paralysed Steve. “We don’t know what happened to you, but we are trying to find out.”

  The figure in the doorway looked blankly at Steve for what seemed like an eternity. His gaze slowly shifted to Katie, and finally to Joshua. His grey, downturned mouth lifted slightly as he looked at the little boy, his expression almost resembling a smile. He looked up sharply, his demeanour returning to utter misery.

  Why did he hit me?

  Steve realised for the first time that the man in front of him had bloodstains down the side of his head, but, to his relief, his son was oblivious to the fact. He was amazed by Katie’s seeming lack of fear as she addressed the nightmare vision that had invaded their home.

  “Who hit you Jack?”

  Can’t...remember. Dark...so dark. I’m cold, Dot, and can’t find my way home.

  The ringing of the phone made Steve look away for a moment. When he looked back, the phantom had vanished.

  “Man gone” burbled Joshua, knocking over another tower.

  ***

  It had been a sleepless night for Jack Rimmer. Cedric Morgan’s revelations about Sciron had reinforced Jack’s growing suspicion that, despite its seeming implausibility, Katie Melling’s story might just be genuine. Lunch had been a slightly strained affair, with Jack being careful not to blurt out any of the supernatural aspects that were foremost in his mind. Janice was clearly an excellent cook and her witty interjections had been something of a relief from her father’s patrician lecturing. There were, however, some pieces of the puzzle missing, and Jack knew that his return to Lancashire could not be put off any longer.

  His first task was to speak with Katie, as he had promised on the previous Saturday. He sat in his study, staring at the flock wallpaper that had been left behind by the last occupant of the house, going over in his mind the words that he would use. Finally, putting aside the irrelevant thought that he really must get around to redecorating, he could delay no longer. Locating the scrap of paper on which he had scribbled the Mellings’ number, he lifted the handset and jabbed at the buttons.

  “Mrs Melling, I think that I believe you” said Jack when Katie answered the phone. “I also think that I may know what happened to my father, although I need to find out a few things first.”

  “You should have phoned a few minutes earlier,” Katie’s voice still had a slight tremor that unnerved Jack. “Your father was just here, and this time Steve saw him.”

  Jack was utterly lost for words. The ensuing heavy silence was punctuated only by the unfettered chattering of the toddler at the other end. When Jack finally regained his composure, it was all he could do to tell Katie that he would be making his way back up north, and to ask when it would be convenient for him to call in.

  Jack went over in his mind his itinerary for his forthcoming trip. He would have to visit the local newspaper archives, and further research what his father may have been doing to bring about his disappearance. He now knew of the events of April 1941 and the part played by the foreign spy. What he could not know was whether his father had been an active participant, a witness, an innocent victim or if his disappearance the same night was some sort of bizarre coincidence.

  Having booked a room at the same motel that he had stayed in the previous week, Jack went to his bedroom to pack his bag. He planned to do no more than to travel north that day, access the newspaper archives the following day then visit the Mellings on Wednesday morning before returning home. Counting out the requisite clean clothing, he carefully placed it in the green nylon holdall that had served him for the previous ten years or so, and then moved to the bathroom for his toiletries. Once there, he caught sight of himself in the mirror: the dark rings under his eyes accentuating his lined face. Suddenly he felt very, very lonely. He had chatted with Janice the previous afternoon whilst Cedric had taken a post-prandial nap, and had been impressed with her joie de vivre. She, too, lived alone, but in her case because she had been widowed some seven years previously. Unlike Jack, she had the comfort of three children and no fewer than eight grandchildren to alleviate her solitude.

  Jack’s life had always revolved around the Army. On the few occasions that he had fallen in love, the object of his desire had been wholly unsuited to military life and none had persuaded him to give up his vocation. Most of the time, Jack was quite happy with his bachelorhood but occasionally, like today, the realisation that he was likely to end his days alone forced its way to the front of his consciousness. It took a considerable effort of will to continue his packing but he was still distracted by the emotion as he loaded his bag into his car. As he reversed off the drive, alternate feelings of loneliness interspersed with uninvited thoughts of Janice’s sparkling blue eyes diverted his attention, just for a moment.

  That moment was enough. The impact threw his head against the side window just as he became aware of the shrieking of rubber against tarmac. Jack was dazed, unable to move. Without really thinking about it, he managed to switch off the engine and remove his seat belt. He tried to open the door, without realising that a blue Renault Clio was jammed into the side of his car. Jack became dimly aware that somebody was talking to him and at that moment his head began to hurt. The pain was intense, like a hammering inside his skull. It brought him round, however, and he turned to the person that had opened the passenger door.

  “Are you all right? What happened?” The voice of his neighbour finally penetrated the mist in Jack’s head.

  “I’ve no idea. One moment I’m reversing off the drive, then...this.”

  “Are you hurt? Should I call an ambulance?” The concern in the man’s voice suggested to Jack that he ought to check whether he had indeed been injured. Holding his hand against the side of his head that had impacted the window, he was mildly surprised to see that he was not bleeding.

  “It’s just a bang on the head, I think. I’ll be fine. What about the other driver?”

  The neighbour, whose name Jack couldn’t remember, went around the front of the car to the smaller car embedded in it. As he did so, Jack heaved himself across the passenger seat and half fell out of the car. As he regained his feet, he saw the other driver, a youth of a
bout twenty, leaning on his wrecked pride and joy. On seeing Jack he started towards him.

  “You stupid old git! Look what you’ve done to my motor!”

  As he spoke, the wail of sirens could be heard from behind Jack, causing the young man to stop in his tracks. Hurling a few choice expletives, he ran away from the approaching police car.

  Jack felt utterly confused, like a first-time spectator at a baseball game, as the police car pulled up. He was still staring, open-mouthed, as one of the uniformed occupants came over to him.

  “Do you need medical attention, Sir?” said the policeman.

  “I don’t think so,” said Jack, curious as to what had transpired with the other driver. “The other driver...why did he run away?”

  “Can’t say, but I’ve no doubt that we’ll find no record of any insurance. Speaking of which, since you appear to be unhurt, would you mind producing your documents, Sir?”

  Forty minutes later, having pushed the badly-damaged Honda on to the drive and satisfied the local constabulary with his licence, insurance and MOT certificate, Jack unpacked his laptop. While it was booting up, he called his insurers to report the accident and arrange for the car to be inspected.

  Having arranged with them to collect the keys from the neighbour and checked the train times from Ashford station via the national rail website, Jack rang a taxi and repacked his computer. Making his way outside with his bags, he leaned on the boot of his wrecked car.

  “Are you all right, Mr Rimmer?” The voice belonged to his other neighbour, a blousy woman of indeterminate years and excessive make-up who had once sought, unsuccessfully, to add Jack to her collection of male callers. “I hope you didn’t mind me calling the police, only...”

  “Thank you, no, I don’t mind at all. I rather think that you may have saved me from an even more unpleasant experience.”

  As she opened her mouth to speak again, a silver Nissan saloon pulled up outside Jack’s house. Salvation, thought Jack, speaking before she could prolong the exchange.

  “That’ll be my taxi. Thanks again.” Jack smiled graciously at her, threw his bags on the back seat then sat next to the driver, glad that the car’s arrival had also saved him from an extremely awkward conversation.

  ***

  Public transport was a revelation to Jack Rimmer. He had travelled on rail warrants during his military career; the intervening years had dulled his memory of the experience. Arriving at Ashford station, he purchased a return ticket to Preston. That was the first shock: having to part with over £250 unless he could commit to a particular train for his return journey. Arriving on the platform as a London train pulled in, it took Jack a moment or two to realise that the doors opened at the push of a button. Sitting on a narrow, gaudily upholstered seat with cigarette burns in the fabric and discarded chewing gum on the floor, he placed his suitcase and laptop bag on the seat next to him.

  Not realising that he had caught a stopping train, Jack became increasingly frustrated as the train halted every few minutes. Each halt was accompanied by a computer generated voice informing him of the stops to come, the next stop, the train company’s smoking policy and advising him to keep his luggage with him at all times. By the fourth stop, Hollingbourne, he was losing the will to live. He knew that the distance from Ashford to London was about fifty-five miles, and alleviated the sheer boredom of the journey by calculating that his average speed was about thirty-seven miles per hour. Well, at least it was faster than the M25. Just.

  The open country of Kent finally gave way to the suburban sprawl that is London, and eventually, nearly ninety minutes after leaving his adopted home town, Jack was crossing the Thames into London’s Victoria station. Retrieving his suitcase, Jack cursed silently as he stepped in the sticky, glutinous mass that he had assiduously avoided for the past hour and a half. Unsuccessfully attempting to scrape the sole of his shoe clean, he resigned himself to sticking to the floor with every step. Still muttering to himself, he alighted from the train and made his way to the Underground.

  Here little seemed to have changed, visually at least. The station was as he remembered them, the map as confusing as ever. Having deciphered the multi-coloured ribbons, Jack was delighted to discover that a direct train would get him to his next destination, Euston, in under ten minutes.

  Jack struggled with his bags down the escalators to the Victoria Line platform. Here another surprise awaited him. Despite being the middle of the day, the platform was heaving with people. Fighting his way down the platform, Jack was astounded to hear people conversing in a plethora of different languages, many of which he recognised as eastern European. English speakers appeared to be in the minority, and Jack wondered how things could have changed so much since the last time that he had used this means of crossing the capital.

  A train arrived, and the mass of humanity surged forward as the doors opened, heedless of the people trying to get off. Being laden with bags, Jack had great difficulty in battling his way on to the train, finally cramming himself into a tiny space against the glass partition close to the door. He was amazed that so many bodies could fit into such a small space; a glance around the carriage at the faces of his fellow travellers told him that either everybody accepted the crush with great stoicism, or that this situation was entirely normal. Fortunately, it was only four stops to Euston, but, even so, the temperature in the carriage quickly became most uncomfortable and Jack felt himself begin to perspire.

  His ordeal was soon over. After just eight minutes feeling sympathy for sardines, Jack was able to leave the train and be swept along with the multitude to the main line station.

  ***

  “Have you two had a fight?”

  Katie's mother wasn’t the best judge of mood or character, but even she had noticed the atmosphere in the Mellings’ flat when she had arrived for her usual childcare stint.

  “No, Mum, everything’s fine.” Katie's demeanour was fairly normal; it was Steve who had not seemed his usual self. He had left for work almost without a word, not even one of his habitual mother-in-law jibes.

  Katie readied herself for a shift at the Spar shop, and could hear Joshua becoming fractious in the living room as she struggled to pull on her knee-length boots.

  “He was up early this morning, Mum,” she explained. “He’ll be ready for his nap”. With that she put on her coat, gave her son and mother each a quick peck on the cheek and headed out of the flat. At the bottom of the stairs she was surprised to see her husband waiting for her.

  “I’ll walk you to work,” he said, taking her arm. “What are we going to do, love? What’s happening to us? I’ve never felt so frightened as this morning, and I think that it’s more because I couldn’t do anything. I was useless, wasn’t I?”

  “At least you stayed conscious,” Katie replied. I fainted the first time I saw him, remember?”

  “’Him’? Don’t you mean ‘it’?”

  “He was a man once. Besides, you’ve heard him: he’s confused, lost. He can’t remember what happened to him. He’s probably been floating around here for years, and it wasn’t until the flats were built that he could actually speak to anybody.”

  “You’re talking like you know what’s going on here!” Steve’s voice had an edge of exasperation. Katie’s attitude towards this upheaval in their lives was turning their normal relationship on its head: he was supposed to be the sensible one, the decisive one, the calm one in a crisis. Indeed, he had played that role ever since they had met six years previously. It was he who had approached Katie in the Labour club, where she was working her first night behind the bar, and asked her on a date. It was he who had gone out and spent the traditional months’ wages on an engagement ring when Katie had tremulously informed him that she was pregnant with Joshua, then overcome the objections of Katie’s mother to their marriage. It was he who had remained calm when she had gone into labour three weeks early in the early hours of the morning.

  So why was he going to pieces now? How could she
be so accepting of this impossible situation? Steve shook his head and pulled his wife closer to him as they walked.

  “Okay, love,” he said. “It’s ‘him’. So what do we do about him?”

  “We find out what happened to him.”

  ***

  The journey appeared to be improving. The Pendolino train looked sleek and modern in the platform at Euston station, its appearance marred only by the multitude of dead insects splattered across the otherwise bright yellow cab. Jack walked along the platform looking for the standard class carriages, deciding to head for the very front of the train. On reaching it, he was delighted to see that the very front coach was designated a “quiet zone”, with the use of mobile phones prohibited. Heaving his bags through the door, the sleek exterior gave way to a somewhat cramped interior. There was a single small luggage rack, which was already full despite there being only half a dozen people in the carriage. Finding an unreserved seat, Jack crammed his laptop bag and suitcase into the overhead rack and sat next to the narrow window.