by Rhys Thomas
The flat was thick with smoke, which followed the fire out the window. There was fire everywhere. The heat was crazy.
There were two bodies lying on the floor, Zac in the center of the room, facedown, and then Sarah, his Sarah, slumped against the wall near the radiator. Alone. There was a shudder in his heart. Her head lolled to one side, her glasses halfway down her nose. The shock of sadness amplified inside him. He was on his feet and over to her, by her side, sliding on his knees, resting her head on his shoulder. He tried to stir her, but she was already gone.
“No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no.”
A craziness in his mind almost made him sit next to her so they could drift away together, but his other half told him about the oxygen mask in his pack. He tried it on himself, taking two plentiful breaths.
He sat Sarah up and put the mask over her.
The heat was immense, but there was a clear path to the door between the flames. He was across the room before he knew it, stopping at Zac and fishing the phone out of his pocket, then sliding the locks across, opening the door. The flames, galvanized by the new oxygen, whooshed across the open space.
“Get him out,” he called to the people outside the door, pointing at Zac.
There were now flames between him and Sarah, but he ran through them, covering his face. There was the taste of blood in his mouth, and when he put his hand to his face it came away red. He put her jaw into the palm of his hand.
“Come back,” he said.
But she couldn’t hear him. She was dead. Everyone was dead again.
He hugged her tight and he started to cry, no numbness, no protection, he started to cry. Great waves flowed out of him and he felt his body grow light, and then he stopped and breathed and watched the movement in the room, the flames dancing, something wonderful in the way they moved, the way the curtains being blown by the wind were like rainbows of thick magma.
Without effort he picked her up and powered through the wall of fire that he was sure he felt move aside as he passed, and he went out into the passageway just as the fire crew pushed past him, and he took her up to the little roof garden, where he laid her on the gravel.
“You have to come back.” He spoke low, almost inaudibly, his voice thick with tears. “Please,” he said, into her ear. “Come back.”
The world was motion and force. CPR. He needed to do CPR. All the faces of the people stared at him with so much sorrow he thought he would melt. And then he watched their faces change and felt the stirring in his arms.
Look at Sarah, said a higher Sam.
And Sarah was looking back at him. His chest fell into his gut and he pulled her so tight he thought he might snap her.
She pulled the oxygen mask off her face. He felt her shake and there were tears in her eyes when she saw him. He helped her up and somebody wrapped a blanket around her. Then, just hard enough to make itself known, there was a little quake in his heart.
She was alive. At last he could see it now, the arrow of the future. Others still encircled them on the little rooftop garden and her warmth flowed right through him.
Every past was once a future.
He held her tight, as the world went crazy all around them.
THE PHANTASM #015
Some Years Later
Whatever Happened to the Dark Defender?
He lies in wait. It is not night but a bright day in late August, the kind of long summer day that seems like it’ll never end. Being out in daylight is alien, but needs must. He watches the back garden from the bushes. There is not a hint of breeze and in the costume he is stifling. A paddling pool is in the center of a messy lawn, a tricycle is turned sideways. The patio doors at the back of the house are open, and yet the place appears deserted.
It is time to move.
Slowly, he emerges from the bushes. Over to the patio doors. A kitchen lies beyond. Not as neat as he’d like to see, but kitchens become this way when true life is being lived. His ears prick up. There is a rustling in the hallway. Quiet voices chatter, a flash of movement. Immediately he gives chase. His costume, honed over many years, is light and mobility is easy.
Out in the hallway he sees a trailing leg disappear into the living room. But he knows the layout of this house. Next to the kitchen, through a set of double doors, is a dining room. The house is a loop and he can cut them off coming the other way.
It all happens so fast.
“Baaaa!” he shouts.
The evil twins scream, turn and run the other way. No need to give chase. Notorious troublemakers, the twins, but not the brightest. He waits behind the double doors and, soon enough, they run in. And just as they do, he pounces, tackling them both to the ground.
“Got you!”
They scream and thrash, but it is no good. They cannot escape his superhuman strength. Because they are only five.
“Get off, Dad!” calls the boy, though he is laughing.
“This is no laughing matter. I’m taking you both to jail.”
“No!” the girl squeals. “Please, Phantasm.”
“Jail. For first-degree ice cream theft.”
“But you gave us the ice cream.”
“The law says you may not eat ice cream until after your dinner.”
“It’s not fair,” they say in unison, something that happens a lot.
“I was testing you. And you failed.”
They all stop. The sound of a car pulling into the driveway.
“Let’s hide and jump out on her!”
It is a great plan from the boy.
“Let’s hide in the garden and throw her in the pool,” says the girl.
Funny. These kids are funny. His pride swells. The key is in the latch. The paddling pool idea will have to wait. They all scurry into the living room and each twin grabs one of their father’s legs, and he can feel their body warmth. The front door opens and in the mirror at the end of the hallway he watches her come into the house, carrying a shopping bag in one hand, pushing her glasses up her nose with the other. Her hair falls across her face and she blows it away.
He calls her his sidekick. But she says it’s the other way round.
She sees him in the mirror and stops. He puts his finger to his lips, and she smiles. When she does this, the door swings wider and a thick sunbeam falls across her; he feels it burn hard into his memory and, for some reason, today, thoughts of the intervening years stream through his mind in one mass, the good times and the bad, the tough and the not so tough, all the peaks and troughs a life through the world must take, the highs and lows and ebbs and flows. He loves so much the way her skin crinkles at the corners of her eyes when she smiles now, each crease a disappointment, every line a joy. Slowly she moves down the hallway.
He’s patrolling tonight, but it’s his turn to cook. Sausage, beans and chips. The kids love it (and so does he). She’ll tell him about her day, he’ll tell her about his. Mr. Okamatsu is over from Japan and he’s coming to the twins’ fifth birthday party on Saturday. Probably Denny was late for his shift at the library today, she’ll say, meaning Sarah had to go on lunch late again. As she tells him this, there will be a moment, just a small moment, when her words fall away and he will see her for all that she is, this incredible force of life that puts an excitement in him every day, because he is lucky, in a way, gifted a unique perspective where he is able to perceive how good life is. Then the moment will fall away again, her words will come back in, and she’ll tell him to be careful tonight and come home safe.
The Phantasm looks down at the twins, who look back up at him. He holds up three fingers.
A countdown.
Three.
He folds down one finger.
Two.
They stifle laughter, and it’s like a friendly ghost passing through him when he sees their faces illuminated like this. A little quake of the heart. I
t is such a beautiful day today.
One...
* * *
Acknowledgments
A huge thank you to my editor, Erika Imranyi, and everyone at Park Row Books, especially Liz Stein and Anne-Marie Rutella. And thank you to Jason Bartholomew, for making it happen.
Thanks so much to everyone at Wildfire in the UK: Alex Clarke, Ella Gordon, and especially to Kate Stephenson.
Thanks to my early readers: Ian Worgan, Richard Jones, Chyrelle Anstee, Margaret Pearce. And thanks as ever to my wonderful parents, my two brothers, one sister-in-law and three nephews. And to my sister, Anna: the bravest person I know, and my hero.
Thank you to my agent and friend, Laura Morris. I don’t need to tell you how much you mean to me, but I will anyway: a lot!
Finally, thank you to Amy, the love of my life.
About the Author
Rhys Thomas is the author of The Suicide Club and On the Third Day. He lives in Cardiff, Wales, with his partner and three cats. Follow him on Twitter, @rhysthomashello.
ISBN-13: 9781488050978
The Secret Life of Sam Holloway
Copyright © 2019 by Rhys Thomas
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