The Secret Life of Sam Holloway

by Rhys Thomas

  * * *

  When he got home, he checked his phone. There were two missed calls and two texts from Sarah. The texts just asked where he was, nothing more. The last one was at 8:15. They weren’t angry, and the lack of anger just made Sam feel worse. He pictured her dressed up and ready to go, her coat on, checking her watch, and the terrible familiarity of regret crunched into him. Usually, after getting back from a patrol, the adrenaline buzz would keep him buoyant, but this time all that lift was gone as soon as he climbed out of the costume.

  Before going to bed, he grabbed his spare phone, checked his voice mails and closed his eyes in desperation at the sound of distant human voices.

  * * *

  He dreams of a shiny gray runway cut into a lush rain forest. A beautiful day. The sun, just past noon, draws short shadows; crisp, fluffy white clouds drift. On the ground, in the shade, the air is moist and cool. The forest breathes. He dreams a bright white plane on the runway, sleek and futuristic. He and his family climb aboard and the plane speeds down the runway and lifts over the canopy.

  The forest from the sky looks like an expanse of broccoli flower heads. The family sits together and his sister turns to him, a spoke of sunlight turning through the cabin.

  Thumbs-up. This is great.

  He wakes and remembers, and his sheets are drenched in sweat.

  * * *

  In the deep dark of night, predawn still a few turns of the planet away, he fetched his wooden rod and opened the hatchway to the attic. Popping his head over the precipice, he pulled the cord and the strip lights clicked to life. Not high enough to stand, just a crawl space between the low wooden shelves bowed in the middle under the weight of all the comics, he dragged himself on his elbows past the enormous collection. He pulled off one shelf a copy of Sandman Volume I: Preludes and Nocturnes and pushed it along before him, the shelves and stories and memories of all the panels closing in around him. An embrace of stories.

  He couldn’t stop picturing Sarah at home, waiting for him, and couldn’t understand why this image was making him feel so unhinged.

  He made this maze, just wide enough to fit a human on his belly, when his library overspilled. After the Event he’d gathered these comics to him as a source of comfort. He’d never read them all, but it didn’t matter. Just the sheer volume of stories made him feel safe. Back in those days, when he was still in his parents’ house, he would feel the numbness start its slow saturation, and open the pages just to stare at the pictures. The narratives were of no consequence at that point; nothing mattered. On rare occasions, simply staring at the images helped.

  He rounded the first corner of his comics maze, the wooden shelves just three shelves high, and came to a fork in the road. The farther into the warren he went, the safer he felt. Unable to see behind him, he imagined the shelves sealing shut, feeling himself entombed by stories, sealed on the other side of reality. Life was so much easier when he hid away. Shifting right and right again, he came at last to a small opening, the center of the labyrinth, where the space became wide enough to house a low Japanese table you could put your tea on. A travel kettle, a mini-fridge, a sugar pot, a Royal National Lifeboat Institution teaspoon that had belonged to his mother, a milk jug, a cup and saucer. The only other thing on the table was a framed photograph of his family, his dad’s arm around Sam’s shoulders, his mum’s gentle smile, the twins in the front. He couldn’t remember the day it was taken. Sam lay down and turned out the lights and, tucked safely away from the world, he wrapped his arms around the Sandman comic, tried to clear away the thoughts of the girl with red hair and hoped that Dream might come for him.

  10

  THE CURSOR ON his screen flashed. It was dark outside the little barred window above his desk. Strong winds made the roof of the office moan and sigh. Everyone had gone home, apart from Mr. Okamatsu, who was at the printer station near Sam.

  A bond existed between Sam and Okamatsu that wasn’t there with the rest of the British staff, who clocked out at five on the dot and spent a lot of the day on Facebook or surfing holiday sites, yet complained the work conditions were too severe.

  “Mr. Okamatsu, can I ask you something?” he said.

  Mr. Okamatsu looked up from the printer.

  “The ship that sank. Do you ever think why the man who went down with it did it? I mean, would you do that? Give your life just to save some stock?”

  Mr. Okamatsu paused, the papers from the printer hanging gently in his hands.

  “He was doing his job,” he said. “It is sad, but maybe, if everyone was like him, the boat would not have sunk in the first place.” He stacked the papers neatly and then said, mysteriously, “There are always long consequences to action.”

  * * *

  It was misty out. Rain was close, headlights like young suns in early galactic clouds. He churned through thoughts and emotions, inhaling, digesting, expelling as he ran. Chemicals streamed along his veins.

  * * *

  That summer holiday before he went to university was the happiest of his life. Sam had learned to drive and he’d take Tango and Blotchy on regular excursions to the coast or the country or the city in his mum’s car. Sam had wangled some extra shifts at the video shop, giving him considerably more disposable income, part of which he saved, part of which he spent on alcohol and comics, and part of which he used to buy presents for the twins.

  When he finally arrived at Warwick, he missed home terribly but was determined to embrace the student experience. He could be anyone he wanted, and this gave him a new kind of freedom. He found himself creating an alternative Sam, pushing down the things he disliked about himself (his lack of confidence, his wish to be alone more than most people, his nervousness) and bringing to the fore the things he did like (he could occasionally be funny, he was kind, he could even be outgoing at a push and with a little drink). And this slight alteration of the dials paid dividends. In the Student Union bar he found himself being able to talk to girls quite easily and even put the moves on some of them, with varying degrees of success.

  He dispensed with his virginity in the sunny days following his first year-end exams, bedding a girl called Amelia after the student ball. The whole thing was a bit of a mess and, in his mind, at the moment of penetration, this strange thought, There we are, then, I’m in, this is what all the fuss is about. It was an awkward session, and though she made the right noises, he couldn’t shake the feeling of there being an element of theater at work. They had sex a few more times before summer break, but Sam soon discovered that having his alone time was more important to him than he’d ever realized. Amelia wanted to be with him all the time, and the feeling was oppressive. Fortunately for him, she Facebooked Sam in the summer to inform him she’d found someone else (a seventeen-year-old from her hometown).

  Halfway through the final term of his second year, his parents visited and said they were going on a family holiday to South America. Images of the Amazon, Mayan ruins, of the Nazca Lines and Machu Picchu raced through his mind, but Sam was unable to go because he had signed up for a field trip to the Brecon Beacons in Wales, the results of which would make up the backbone of his dissertation. His parents said they’d postpone, but Sam would have none of it. He knew it was their dream holiday and, being the new, well-adjusted young man he’d invented, he insisted they go.

  It was incredible to observe the development of the twins. They were changing all the time. Steve was fully conversant by this point and had developed an adult neurosis, insisting on placing a clean handkerchief beneath his dining plate or bowl at mealtimes. And Sally was even more impressive, having mastered the basics of reading.

  Just before they left that day Sam’s father took him to one side and told him, “You’re doing really well, kiddo. Me and your mum are so proud of you.”

  It was odd. Despite his semi-sarcastic maxims, his father wasn’t one for speeches and it meant a lot to Sam. In the golden sun
light the warmth in his bones came from more than a burning star. Sam watched them drive away at dusk that day, down the hill, with the twins in the back seat turning round and waving through the window to him. Down the hill they went, between the blocks of student high-rises, disappearing around a corner, a deep red sky beyond them.

  * * *

  Showered and changed into his pajamas, Sam went to the conservatory with his tablet but couldn’t concentrate on anything. As he sat there, staring out the window into the blackness, he felt his leg shaking. Something was starting to become clear. If there was to be any future with Sarah, the time would come when he would have to tell her about the Event, about what had happened. He would have to speak about it. Out loud, to another person. He wasn’t sure he could do it. It wasn’t fear, or guilt for moving on, it was more the unwillingness to face what had happened. God, why did the gravity of others have to have such an unbalancing effect on his own orbit?

  He lifted the tablet and reflexively scrolled through the news stories on BBC.

  His phone buzzed, making him start.

  Hey, how are you? Everything OK? x

  He froze, then sat up in his chair, leaning over the phone. Something was happening, he sensed it; some deep undercurrent taking place in the universe. Just as she texted he’d noticed a weird story on the right-hand-side column of his tablet. He zoomed in on it, understanding instantly the connection between that story of the sinking ship and the girl who’d come into his life. He tapped the link and then looked back to his phone screen. It buzzed again, a vibration in his hands.

  What are you doing tonight? X

  He read the headline on the tablet again. Was this right? He imagined an image of a rope being thrown over the side of a ship. A lifeline.

  Missing Sailor Found Drifting on Red Sea in Stolen Lifeboat

  11

  SARAH WAS IN the corner, where she’d been sitting the night he met her, drinking Guinness and reading her book. She looked up and saw him and reflexively he raised an arm to wave. She sat up and pushed her glasses up her nose. Her hair was tied back into a short ponytail, her fringe parted at the side, right-angling over the rim of her glasses like a waterfall. The black streaks showed darker than the red. What on earth was someone like her doing asking someone like him to the pub, especially after last night?

  “Hi.”

  “Hey.” She smiled, her whole face.

  The fire crackled and spat orange embers onto the rug before the hearth.

  “I’m so sorry about yesterday,” he said, straightaway, and as soon as he said it he felt a lightness in his head.

  “Forget it.”

  “No, I’m really sorry. I feel terrible.” He set his coat over the back of the chair as she reached across the table. Sam thought this was odd but took her hand and shook it.

  “Oh,” she said. “I was just going for my drink.”

  “Right, yeah,” he said, spying the near-empty Guinness next to his hand. “Here.” He slid the glass one inch toward her.

  “Thanks,” she said, with a laugh.

  No problem, just pretend those last eight seconds never occurred.

  “So what happened?” she said.

  “I...uh.” He’d thought of a thousand excuses—late meeting, car broken down, tree fallen through kitchen window—but this seemed the best. A nice, simple lie. Whatever you do, don’t tell her the truth, it’s too weird. For all the good he did as the Phantasm, for all the good it did for him, the sense of dread about her knowing was a constant thrum at the base of him. “I was just so tired I fell asleep.” He winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh yeah, I know what that’s like.”

  He knew she knew he was lying.

  “Well, you’re here now.”

  “Yeah. Um, can I get you a drink?” he asked.

  “How about we go in rounds?”

  “Sure. What do you want? Guinness?”

  She looked small in her seat. As he looked down at her, the shape of her face was a strawberry.

  “Yes, please. With a dash.”

  Sam pondered this. “Lemonade?”

  Sarah stared at him. “I’m shitting you, Sam. I’ll just have a Guinness.”

  “Oh, ha ha ha!” The laugh came out super loud, and then they made eye contact and a sudden Zap! of chemicals rushed through him. Whoa. It felt nice. Quickly, he went to the bar, trying to be calm, trying to stop the buzz making his body feel like it was having a sugar low. He bought the drinks and felt good about it. It was a normal thing to do, the whole thing felt normal.

  “Cheers,” she said. “I’ve got a lot of drinking to do tonight.” She winked at him.

  Sam was a little startled by this. He wasn’t used to girls being funny around him. He wasn’t used to being around girls at all, not outside of work.

  “Sure, yeah.” He took a big swig of his lager dash.

  “So how come you have lemonade in your beer?”

  He shrugged. “Beer’s disgusting, isn’t it?”

  “I like Guinness.”

  “It tastes different in Ireland. Apparently.”

  “Have you ever been there?”

  “Uh-huh. I went to a place called Wicklow once, with my parents. Down on the harbor there we watched the fishing boats come in and all the families were waiting for the fishermen and they all stayed on the wharf thing and played tug-o’-war.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  He remembered the way the sky had been so massive. That was the last holiday before the twins. He took another large pull on his drink and was already halfway down.

  “It was one of the loveliest things I’ve ever seen. You don’t think things like that happen these days, but they do. They do still happen. I also saw a woman call a guy the C word because he almost ran her over. ‘You C,’ she said. ‘I hope you die of an F-ing heart attack.’ But in a really quiet, Irish voice.”

  She laughed. “Swings and roundabouts, I guess. Hey, did you know that after the smoking ban in Ireland people kept getting run over because they were standing out the front of pubs in the road?”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It is too. Look it up.”

  He laughed. This was okay. This was not bad at all.

  “So I had a really great time last week, with the shooting stars,” she said.

  “Great!”

  The pint glass in her hand looked massive.

  “Did any of your wishes come true?”

  He stopped himself saying something cheesy.

  “Not yet,” he said, his eyes falling away.

  Am I already in love with you? He finished his drink and the chemicals of alcohol glistened and sparked in his blood.

  “Easy,” she said, looking at her nearly full pint. “Same again?”

  “I can wait.”

  “It’s fine,” she said, and went to the bar.

  He looked into the fire and tried to find patterns. It was going well. He hadn’t said anything too stupid, and there was no sign of any darkness in his mind.

  She came back with a lager for him and a cider for her, then leaned back. She was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt with white torso and blue arms, and the number eighty-five in American sports font on the front, sleeves rolled to the elbows.

  “I don’t normally do this,” he blurted.

  A pause and a space where they flowed into a connection. He looked at her for a second.

  “Me neither. But it’s hard moving to a new place where you don’t know anyone.”

  “So you want to be a librarian for your career?”

  “I guess so. I just wish you got paid more. But it’s nice being around those sorts of people, academics and students, and it’s nice finding books for people who are making a difference.”

  “Did you go to uni?”

  She shook her head. �
�I thought about it, but my folks weren’t well-off and I wouldn’t really have been able to move out, even with the loan and a job. Well, I could have afforded it, but the debt...”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s too scary. I didn’t do that great in school either. Kind of lost it for a bit.”

  She shook her head and there was a pause. He twirled his glass on the table.

  “Hey, are you any good at pub quizzes?” she said.

  “Um, I’m okay at them. I’m not great. I’m not thick or anything, but I’m not that clever either?” He could sense her looking at him in a kind of “What is he talking about?” way. “I mean, I don’t know anything real or useful. Do you know what I mean?”

  “Sam. Would you like to come to a pub quiz with me?”

  His pint glass wobbled in his hand.

  “I’m sorry. You’re probably doing something—”

  “No. I’d like to go.”

  As soon as he said this, he felt something uncouple from something else.

  “I said I’d go, but it’s with people from work and it’s all a bit new to me and, you know, it’d be nice to go with someone I know.”

  “Sure.” A silence fell in. “It’s funny, you seem like such a confident person.”

  Her eyes slipped to the table. “I’m not. I mean, I sometimes am.” Tiny droplets of sweat dappled her forehead.

  He picked up his glass and stopped, put it back on the table. He found himself wanting to be in the moment.