by Rhys Thomas
“I love you,” she said, suddenly and quietly, words like fireworks.
This couldn’t be the real world. What he was feeling was not possible. Nothing in the real world could be this good, not for him. They quivered and shook, two hearts beating inches away from one another, two souls, and everything fell apart as he felt her chest against his and he was nothing but a moment, a breath, a flash in the dark, and it felt to Sam like this might never end, that time was mutable now. Had she really just said that? He closed his eyes and let the wave ride over him, as if infinity was something right there in front of him, something he could reach out and touch. It was an explosion of infinity, a fireball of hope, of possibility, and around it, all at once, the light from it illuminated the great expanse of what he knew, instantaneously, was the future.
24
THE NEXT MORNING CAME, and when Sam woke she was still lying next to him, asleep on her back, her head turned sideways on the pillow, the palm of one hand sticking out above the covers, a vision of grace.
He reached to his bedside table and toked on his asthma pump as quietly as he could so as not to wake her.
“What are you doing?” she said.
There was a bolt of shame about his asthma. It made him feel puny. But then, just as quickly as it came, it went away.
“I’ve got asthma,” he said, taking another, deeper toke in front of her. “Do I look like the Diet Coke man?”
Sarah laughed and reached her hands under the covers for him.
“What are you doing?”
“I’ve got major hangover horn,” she said, like it was nothing.
In the silence of the morning she rolled over and onto him and arched her back, and the frame of the bed creaked with their weight. As she rode him, he looked at her face. Her eyes were closed and he was hit by the impression that she wasn’t really there in the room with him, like she’d withdrawn to some other place beyond the veil, where nobody could touch her, a separate space of her own personal ecstasy. She leaned forward and kissed him deeply, grinding hard with her hips, both still a little drunk, and when it was over they lay on their backs, panting for the longest time, until at last she curled up next to him.
They lay there for a second, Sam deep in thought about how great this was, how all of a sudden they were in bed together having sex when only yesterday he felt so awful. Outside the window birds cawed. He felt her pressing closer to him and an image appeared in his mind, of a white sheet hanging from a line, being blown dry by a spring breeze.
* * *
After Christmas Day they were supposed to be going home. Instead, they stayed for ten days. They’d taken long walks through the estate, past an old dilapidated chapel tucked away in a wooded hollow with a witch hazel sapling poking through a window, and had talked about so many things. As the days passed, the number of people at Arcadia dwindled, but it only made things more intimate. They found a path made of upturned champagne bottles, which the old owner of the house had made in its heyday, and it had glimmered ethereally in the twilight gloaming. They’d slept together every night, which was in some ways confusing to Sam, who couldn’t understand how someone could want him that way to that degree, but he wasn’t about to complain.
The day after they got back, Sarah took him to see a band called Frightened Rabbit. They went to a pub and drank cloudy cider in a dark corner until their minds were foggy and he couldn’t stop thinking how great this was, how new and exciting, and how being out of his comfort zone wasn’t even a thing now. They’d run across the busy street, hand in hand, to the venue; dark night sky and bright headlights, rain spitting sideways.
He’d never been to this kind of cramped, sweaty, grimy, ramshackle place. Metal girder columns with huge rivets blocked the view of the stage from the bar, and the mezzanine looked on the verge of collapse. He’d never seen a band like Frightened Rabbit either; amazing in an earthy, aggressive, lovely way, the singer laying himself bare, covered in sweat after a couple of songs.
Sam stood at Sarah’s shoulder and at the end of songs, when the room erupted, she’d turn back to him and smile, and he was so happy it felt like his bones might liquefy. She called him sappy, but he didn’t care. At the front people bounced up and down, and the way so many of them knew all the words to songs he’d never even heard made him think he was being welcomed into a secret world.
His T-shirt was slick with sweat, like he was melting into the room. He put his arms around her waist and it felt like an okay thing to do. All borders had come crashing down. Sam watched the back of Sarah’s neck and the side of her face. Her hair tied back, sweat glistening behind her ear, the wet skin catching the orange light from the lighting rig above the stage. He could just see her eyelashes when she blinked.
He was almost completely happy. Almost. Because now, the thought of the superhero had been sparking flashes of dread across his chest. He couldn’t tell her about it. When they’d been at the Christmas fair, she’d said it was messed up and over the past week, between the long stretches of happiness, that conversation had played and replayed in his head. He wished the Phantasm could enter early retirement, but that was what was producing the flashes of dread. The call of the costume was way too strong to overcome.
THE PHANTASM #010
Among the Tombs
The graveyard. Witching hour. Full moon. In the old times they said the veil between this world and the next thins in these places. Realities shift, and things that go bump in the night are close. But that was in the old times...wasn’t it?
The hero is a man of reason, he worships at the altar of science. And yet at his feet is the orange chocolate KitKat he’d climbed over the gate to enjoy in solitude. Even heroes need time to think. But he is not alone. He dropped the chocolate bar as soon as the groaning started out among the tombstones. The stirrings of fear were immediate. The old legends suddenly don’t seem so stupid now. Yes, this dark protector can defeat men of flesh and bone, but what of something other?
His first instinct is to run, but then, what kind of a hero would he be? Would Bruce Wayne run? Of course not. In the moonlight and low mist, the headstones look like the skyline of a city abandoned for a hundred years, great monoliths tilting this way and that with the erosion of centuries. Soil Mechanics 101.
He picks up the KitKat and inspects it with his Maglite. It is too dirty to salvage. Looking out across the graveyard, he crushes the chocolate bar in his fist. Whatever that thing is out there, it has his attention.
The grass is slick from the day’s rain. Need to be careful. The groaning has stopped. Cold air washes over him like ghosts, and a sixth sense warns him of a presence nearby. And yet there is nobody in sight. Was it a trick of the mind? Just the trees aching in the wind? A stray cat?
Then his blood freezes. It’s behind him.
He spins round. Nothing there.
The chemicals of fear surge through him and again the call to flee is strong. There is a dark area before him, where a tall tree has blocked the light from the lamppost skirting the graveyard. He teases the Maglite over the space, but it lands on nothing. Composing himself, he steps forward. The headstones here are tight together, but there is a clear path through. At the end of the path he sees a missing spoke in the railing—and the safety of the street beyond.
And yet it seems a hundred miles away. And then, louder, the noise returns. Something is groaning, and he realizes with horror that it is coming from under the ground. Rooted to the spot, he looks down and finds himself unable to move. The bodies. All the bodies. Then, when the groaning comes again, he starts to run. The ground is slippery and he almost falls, but he uses a headstone to stay up. He slips again, but this time he can’t right himself, for he has fallen, and the rules of logic dissolve; he can’t stop falling. He has pierced the veil of the worlds and is plummeting downward, into the Underworld.
For six feet.
He lands on his legs,
which buckle. He tries to fall sideways but is propped up by a wall of sheer earth. A shiver runs through him. It accompanies visions of Hades and Satan. He is in pitch-blackness as his mind catches up. He has fallen into an open grave.
He pauses and thinks. No need to panic.
“Geeerrrggghhhh.”
PANIC!
The thing is in there with him!
He scrambles up the side of the wall, but it’s too high. It’s so sheer that there’s no purchase. His guts in his throat, he initiates a huge jumping jack to get a hold of the edge, but he’s not tall enough and slips back down. Oh God, he thinks. Oh God oh God oh God.
The presence of the creature is so strong he presses himself up against the far side of the grave and grits his teeth. But he quickly realizes he must face his adversary. It becomes apparent: this is a test, a rite of passage.
Calm as an ocean, he grips the Maglite, hoping to blind whatever beast shares this sacred space. He takes a deep breath, turns and points the light. The sorry thing in the grave with him puts up its pale but muddied talons to block the light, as if the photons themselves are causing it pain. His first thought is, There is UV light in this torch, I have happened across a vampire and the UV is burning it. His second, more accurate, thought is, It’s a drunk man who’s also fallen into the grave.
The man is bald, midforties, overweight and wearing nothing but an orange T-shirt and jeans. Must’ve been taking a shortcut toward that gap in the railings.
“What on earth are you doing in here?”
His sense of control coming back, he is able to speak in his official Phantasm voice.
“Errr?” says the man. He is absolutely hammered.
The Phantasm goes into his backpack and fetches his foil blanket, drapes it over the drunk.
“Helen’s left me,” he says.
Face-to-face, the Phantasm shakes his head solemnly. “I’m sorry to hear that.” He pours coffee into the lid of his flask. “Here.”
The man drinks, and the caffeine revives him a little. “Have you got any sugar?” he slurs.
The Phantasm goes into his utility belt and withdraws a sachet of white sugar, pours it into the flask lid and swirls it around before handing it back. It is only then the man realizes that the presence come to his aid is wearing a mask. But he does not seem perturbed.
“Batman?” he says.
“I’m not Batman,” the hero whispers. “I am the Phantasm. And how may I address you?”
The man’s head wobbles on his shoulders. “Colin,” he mumbles.
Colin is bereft after the loss of his Helen.
“Let’s get out of here,” the guardian says, kindly.
He knows that getting Colin out of this grave is going to be difficult. From his pack he takes a length of rope. Here, his training is called for. With the Maglite in his mouth he makes a lasso knot, remembering the YouTube tutorial he watched. Then he searches his memory. There was a headstone just outside the grave, no doubt inscribed with the name of whichever poor departed soul will be spending eternity in this hallowed spot. He knows he won’t be able to pull Colin up, and so the plan will be for the big man to go first, with the Phantasm pushing him from beneath. He tosses up the lasso but misses with his first attempt. Stepping back to give himself space, he twirls it above his head and misses again. But he is nothing if not persistent.
Behind him, he hears the trickling of water. And a few seconds after, the sound is joined by an odd aroma.
“Colin? What the hell are you doing?”
Colin is standing behind him now, facing the opposite wall.
“I gotta have a piss, I’m busting.”
“Colin! This is a grave!”
But Colin just shakes his head, his large frame swaying. Steam is rising from the ground. He leans his one hand on the wall of the grave, above his head. It is unbelievable.
Success! The rope holds tight.
“Okay,” he says. “Colin? I need you to pull yourself up. I’ll help you.”
“I can’t believe she’s left me,” he whimpers.
“Colin, forget about Helen for a second.”
This snaps him to life. He sniffs, shakes his head and takes the rope, not even looking at his savior.
“Can you climb up?”
Colin doesn’t even need to reply. Up he goes. His mighty arms pull, hand over hand, and the Phantasm crouches beneath him. Colin’s deep-tread shoes claw painfully at the avenger’s back, but it’s fine. He ratchets his legs up to elevate Colin, who is making constipated gasping sounds with his struggle.
It is going very well, until there is a loud groaning sound again. This time, it is not born of a living creature. The knowledge of what’s happening is immediate. With the rain and the weight the headstone is subsiding.
“Colin, get down!”
The Phantasm leaps clear and Colin falls. In one smooth motion, the masked avenger loops his arms around the big man and drags him away just as the headstone topples into the grave and impacts the ground with a heavy thunk! On his back, the heavy man on top of him, a pool of the heavy man’s urine seeping through his costume below him, he stares at the stars overhead and exhales a long breath.
“Oh man,” he says. “I’m getting too old for this.”
25
THE RED TAILLIGHTS of the cars whizzed past as blurs through the rain-soaked windows. He could see the bright neon sign of the noodle bar reflected in the puddles on the street, as people hurried past with umbrellas turned into the wind.
Sarah arrived with a gust of cold air from the open door and he waved to her from his seat. She took off her coat and laid it over the back of her chair without making sure there were no creases. The front of her hair was wet and her glasses were all steamed up. As it had so often over the fortnight, his heart skipped a beat.
She wiped her glasses in the sleeve of her sweater and moved the wet pieces of hair off her face before picking up the menu.
“I’m starving,” she said.
“They do really good noodles here.”
Sarah scanned the menu and said, “I want something spicy.”
“How was your day?”
“It was a bit weird, actually. My old boyfriend messaged me on Facebook on New Year’s Eve,” she said, not glancing up from her menu, as if it was nothing.
“Oh.”
“But I didn’t see it because the app’s not on my phone, so I only check it on my laptop.”
“I thought you weren’t on Facebook.”
“I’m not. I’ve got a page, but I’ve hidden it. I just use it for Messenger.”
He tried to make his voice sound normal. “What did he say?”
“Nothing really. Just that he was sorry and hopes that I have a good New Year.”
Sam felt suddenly cold. He wanted to be friends with her on Facebook. And what else was she keeping from him?
Sarah picked up both menus and slid them into the holder behind the condiments, out of the way. “It must have been weighing on his mind.”
“What’s weighing on his mind?” Sam noticed a stray noodle from the last customers near the condiments and swept it away with a napkin, trying to ignore the sudden out-of-depth feeling.
“You know, the drugs and everything.”
“You’ve never told me, though.”
“Told you what?” Her voice tightened. “I did tell you about him. The dealing stuff. It’s not a good life, all that paranoia all the time, and he feels bad for putting me through it, I guess. We used to have to take different routes home to make sure we weren’t followed and things. It takes a toll in the end. Kinda screwed me up.”
Sam looked around for a waiter.
“That okay with you?” she said.
“Yeah, it’s just...”
“What?”
“There must be something el
se. Kabe mentioned it up at Arcadia.”
“He what?”
She was sitting up straight and there was an edge to her he hadn’t seen before.
“He just said how you deserved better.”
“What exactly did he say?”
“Just that.”
Sarah picked up the menu again.
“I’m sorry,” she said, dodging. “I think I’m hangry. I need some food.”
A waiter went to the next table and the couple sitting at it leaned forward in unison. Sam didn’t know what to say, so he leaned way out into the aisle to grab the waiter’s attention, nodding his head and pointing at his table.
“He wasn’t a bad guy, he just got mixed up. It kinda just runs away with you.”
“Maybe it was because it was New Year’s Eve and he was lonely.”
“You’re not jealous, are you?” she said. “I’m telling you, aren’t I?”
“I’m not jealous.” He laughed. His stomach hurt. “Okay, I am.”
Sarah winced. “Look, Sam, don’t be one of those guys. I’m with you, okay? I know this is new to you,” she said, “but you don’t want to go down that line.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “It’s just, you said he was a bad person. You seem to be changing your mind.”
Her face flickered with irritation and she exhaled slowly.
“You can’t keep worrying about the past,” she said. “Eventually, you have to just accept it and make a future.”
He relented.
“I sometimes think my whole last six years was spent facing the wrong way,” he said. “Always into the past.”
“Let the past inform your future, but not define it,” she said.
“You remembered,” said Sam, trying to smile but failing.
They were both trying to act like things were normal. Why had her ex-boyfriend started messaging her out of the blue? And who was he? The waiter arrived at their table and Sam smiled at him, feeling Sarah’s eyes boring into him.