2041 Sanctuary (Genesis)

by Robert Storey

  Chapter Eighty Four

  The thump of a car door closing woke Sarah from a troubled dream. She opened her eyes to darkness and realised Trish and Jason were leaving for town. Full of anxiety, she knew she didn’t want to be left on her own, and she rushed to the window and heaved it open, only to see a set of red taillights vanishing down the un-surfaced road. The cry of ‘wait!’ died in her throat and she stood staring in forlorn disappointment at the emptiness without.

  Closing the window, she returned to bed, pulled the sheets up around her and curled into the foetal position. Left all alone, she felt on the verge of tears.

  She fought back the sensation, angry and disturbed by her weak resolve. What’s wrong with me? she thought. She tried to reclaim her hold on unconscious sleep, but her limbs felt cold and shaky and the idea she could be suffering from some kind of illness increased her concern. You had a brain operation, said a voice in her head, you could have an infection, a bleed – or worse – both! I haven’t got a bleed, she told herself, don’t be crazy, I’ve been fine for weeks. But what if you needed drugs to suppress the chance of infection? If you haven’t been taking any, you’ve put yourself at risk. And so the thoughts went on, round and round in her head until her stomach clenched into a knot and the taste of bile entered her mouth. Unable to get back to sleep, she lay in bed until the sun streamed into the room and her sheets clung to her with the damp cold of sweat.

  As Sarah lay in a semi-catatonic state, the combined sensations of the itchy bandage round her chest and the clammy, dirt-ridden bedclothes overwhelmed her mind. Unable to stand it any longer, she flung off the covers and slid to the edge of the bed, where she sat staring at her hands, which continued to tremble and shake. Clenching her fists, she stood up and a wave of nausea made her head swim. She breathed deeply to expel the feeling and stumbled out of the room and into the dingy bathroom, with its blackout blind and closed shutters. In semi-darkness, she splashed cold water over her face and then cupped her hands to allow the cool liquid to pool before drinking it down with great, gasping gulps. She tucked the strands of hair that clung to her face back behind an ear and struggled out of her pyjama top, which she dropped to the floor in a sodden heap. Naked apart from her bandage, she moved back to the bedroom, feeling light-headed from the lack of sleep. At least my hands have stopped shaking, she thought, and she pulled on some clean knickers and an old T-shirt before sitting back down on the edge of the bed, which felt damp to the touch.

  She ran her hands over her face and then bowed her head. Is this my life now, she wondered, too scared to be on my own, a nervous wreck? What do I have to look forward to? The prospect of failing to find Mum’s killer and revealing the truth to a world too busy to care. And what difference would it make, anyway, if everyone knew about the Anakim? Will it change my life? No. Will it endanger Trish and Jason? Yes.

  She knew they said otherwise, but could she really drag them back into the mire? Or should the question be, am I even capable? Can I function in the real world? She held out her hand which trembled in response. I don’t even know who I am anymore. Am I Sarah from London, daughter of a murdered mother? Am I Sarah the childless spinster, cursed to live alone? Or am I the archaeologist who’s ridiculed by her professional peers? You’re Deep Reach, said another voice, don’t you remember?

  She didn’t want to remember and her brief life in Sanctuary was fading fast; it was almost like it had never happened. But ever since she’d decided to leave London behind in search of Homo gigantis, she’d been either chasing secrets or fleeing from those who wanted to protect them. Perhaps I should just give up and live a quiet life? Go back to the soul-sucking boredom of my nine-to-five. It sounded nice, it sounded safe.

  A scratching noise at the bedroom window caught her attention. She got up and walked over to open it and the ginger cat jumped down to rub round her legs. Sarah watched it wander away to investigate beneath the bed and that’s when she remembered her drawings. She moved to the bed and peered underneath. The cat’s face popped out and kissed her face with its nose. She stroked its head before gently moving it aside as she reached out to locate the cardboard box she’d hidden away. Sliding it out, she carried it downstairs to the kitchen while the cat continued to worry around her.

  She placed the box on the dining table, withdrew the sheets of white paper and spread them out. Sitting down on a creaky chair, she chose one of the pencils at random, selected a blank sheet and paused as her hand trembled. She reached out and held it with her other hand and waited until the disturbance eased. Able to continue, she drew a straight line, and then another, and soon she was immersed in the task, connecting series after series of bisecting lines. She didn’t know why she was doing what she was doing, but it felt right somehow.

  She hadn’t told Trish and Jason about her midnight preoccupations, the time when she usually succumbed to the compulsion to put pencil to paper. She felt guilty for not telling them, but she knew they wouldn’t understand, or would ask questions she didn’t want to consider. She finished shading the drawing and held it out to assess. It wasn’t quite right. She moved it aside and started afresh on a new sheet.

  Hours passed and Sarah didn’t realise how long she’d been lost in her artistic fervour until the lack of illumination halted her progress. Frustrated at the interruption, she got up and switched on the light. The ginger cat stared at her with green eyes from where it sprawled on the kitchen counter. Sarah gave it a quick stroke before deciding to take on some food and drink.

  After she’d nourished herself she looked at the fruits of her labour and frowned. Representations of pentagrams and sphinxes lay strewn around the kitchen. Many of them included detailed symbols and depictions of various constellations she had no right to know, let alone draw. She picked one up from the floor to examine and wondered why, when she wanted to forget the past, was she unable to stop drawing it? But it wasn’t these pictures that concerned her most; the other element of her artwork was a single image, repeated over and over again: the symbol of a cross. But none of the slight variations she’d drawn matched what she’d been striving to get down on paper, and it was perhaps for this reason that she’d been unable to cease the task for so long.

  She picked up some of the papers from the table and leafed through them. ‘None of them are right,’ she murmured, her anger rising. ‘None of them match!’ She threw them to the floor and then swept the rest from the table in a rage before she stopped and stood breathing hard in confused despair.

  She sank down onto a chair and looked over at the cat, who remained unmoved by the commotion, the docile feline just stopping to gaze at her before resuming its never-ending chore of washing.

  Sarah knew why she’d drawn the cross; how could she not when the constant reminder of her last hours in Sanctuary had left such an indelible imprint on her flesh?

  She turned her palms up to stare at the marks she normally tried so hard to ignore. An image of the bloody Anakim altar appeared in her mind’s eye and she grimaced at the remembered trauma. Thrusting the thought away, she continued to inspect the scars and the white tissue at their centre. Around each one the skin had blackened into a circular patch, perhaps induced by the device that had also fused her shoes to her feet. She glanced down at the marks where the metal clasps from her climbing boots had conducted the heat to leave their brand on her skin. She’d hoped, after all this time, that the ugly welts would have healed better, but it seemed she was destined to endure a visual reminder of the past for as long as her body deemed fit.

  The sound of distant thunder brought back more unwanted memories and soon the first raindrops fell, their strength and frequency increasing into a deluge. The rattle of the downpour filled the cabin’s interior and she wondered if Trish and Jason were okay. If it continues like this, she thought, they might even turn back.

  Sarah looked around at the drawings scattered all over the floor, her madness on display for all to see. A sense of urgency gripped her. She bent down and scooped
up a handful and stuffed them into the box before repeating the process again and again until the container bulged with the crumpled mass of paper.

  She went to return upstairs, but something caught her eye. A single piece of paper had evaded her purge and hung in wedged suspension between the cooker and fridge. She stooped down and pulled it out. The image of the cross was bent in half and she flattened it out to see a single crease remained through its centre. Another image seared into her mind. An image of a bloody wound and beneath it the tattoo of a crucifix. Shaken by the sudden insight, she lowered herself back to her chair and picked up the pencil to sketch in what she’d been missing all along.

  When she’d finished she held up the image of the crucifix and realised the man she’d drawn in sacrifice was the very one she was refusing to think about. In her attempt at divorcing herself from the pain, she’d lost sight of the very thing, the very person, who caused it. She closed her eyes and held the paper to her chest and her heart beat faster. She knew she had to release the pain to be free, but it was so hard, there was so much and she’d been holding onto it so tightly she didn’t know how to let it go. She didn’t even know if she wanted to, because if she did, she’d accepted it was over, and he was really – truly – gone.

  Thunder cracked loudly overhead and Sarah’s stomach clenched tight, jerking her out of her inner conflict. The cat jumped down to the floor to retreat to cover and she felt her throat constrict as her heart thumped fast and erratic. Feeling like she was going to be sick, she stood up, went dizzy and clung onto the countertop. Her heart continued to beat faster and faster, her breathing coming in short, rapid bursts as a steady pain built within her chest. She looked down at her hands, which curled into spasm. Scared, she stumbled into the living room as lightning lit up the night. More thunder boomed loud and she lost sense of time as she staggered up steps and eventually made it into the darkened bathroom. She prised open the cabinet and fumbled inside, sending bottles of medicine clattering into the sink below. Unable to see, she searched for the pull cord and switched on the light. Grasping the bottle she desired, she popped open its lid and emptied a few pills into her still shaking palm. Turning on the tap, she put hand to mouth, scooped up some water and flushed the tablets down and waited for her suffering to ease. When this failed to happen, she hugged her arms to her chest and sank down to the floor, where she curled up in a ball to shiver and shake in feverish delusion. The storm outside continued to howl and shutters banged loose as the wind whipped up a gale. Lightning flared bright and the cabin’s lights flickered out, and everything plunged into darkness.

  Chapter Eighty Five

  Mid-morning sunshine filtered in through the fresh air of a new day and Sarah stirred from a deep, uninterrupted sleep. Something soft tickled the flesh of her cheek and she opened her eyes to see the face of the ginger cat filling her vision from her position on the bathroom floor. The friendly creature meowed and brushed against her a final time before moving away to sit in the doorway to act as a small, furry guardian in an otherwise empty house.

  Wincing at the discomfort of sleeping on hard tiles, Sarah sat up and allowed her mind to clear. Bottles lay strewn on the floor around her and the drawing of the crucifix lay close by, the paper crumpled and torn. Pulling herself up, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair clung to her face and one end of the bandage that encircled her chest hung down below her T-shirt. ‘Who am I?’ she whispered to the stranger who stared back at her. ‘Who are you?’

  The question and her mute reflection reminded her of a moment back in Sanctuary when she’d stood in a certain apartment and questioned her own sanity. That night she’d asked her mother if her death had made Sarah seek her own. Now she just wanted to know who she was and where she was going.

  She reached round and pulled her hair to one side to look at the scar where the surgeon had opened up her skull. Yet another reminder of the dangers she’d inflicted on an already damaged body. Will I ever learn? she asked herself. Will I ever stop?

  She glanced down at her drawing and the figure of the man on the cross and realised she couldn’t even bring herself to say his name.

  She returned to gazing into her own eyes. ‘Am I that much of a coward?’

  As usual her doppelganger didn’t reply and Sarah removed her T-shirt to consider the wrapping that masked her wound. I’m not a coward, she thought, and as she reached up to the bandage, she realised her hand no longer shook. Grasping one end, she unfurled the white gauze, once, twice, from around her chest. The last section appeared and the fine fabric stuck to her skin, but with a final tug it came free to reveal the area beneath.

  No longer was the injury scabbed over or weeping. Smooth, alabaster skin covered her breast bone and the Anakim pendant embedded beneath. Of course, she hadn’t escaped the ordeal without a mark, there was a scar, how could there not be? The red hot metal had left a permanent striation in the shape of a distorted star. But the thing that stood out the most was something Sarah would never have suspected. Overlaying the healed wound was a discolouration of the skin. And it was far from ordinary.

  She reached up to run her fingers over the bronzed arms of a faint, yet readily discernable, cross. Somehow, when it had melted atop her pentagonal artefact, the golden keepsake given her by Trish had left a permanent stain on her skin. Strangely, the cross was also offset from the rest of the scar so that it was positioned slightly to the left, towards her heart. She couldn’t help but wonder about the location and form of the mark which was, to all intents and purposes, a tattoo, albeit one created by unusual means. Has my wish come true after all? She recalled the wording from two nights before. Please bring him back to me, she’d wished, I’ll take whatever you can give me, just give me something, anything.

  ‘Are you with me?’ She looked up and closed her eyes. ‘Are you still with me, Riley?’ she whispered and pressed her hands against the cross on her chest.

  No answer came from within the vaults of her mind.

  She looked back into the mirror to marvel at the similarity of her new mark to the tattoo of a crucifix that had adorned Riley’s chest. It was like they were linked somehow, between worlds, and she wished she’d had the courage to look at the wound sooner. The imagining eased her suffering and strengthened a fragile resolve. It was like a part of him remained embedded within her, much like the pendant itself, a single powerful connection that could never be removed.

  She looked down at her chest and traced the mark with her finger, before her hand strayed back to the place where the pendant lay hidden. She pressed hard against her skin and thought she could feel the metal beneath. It was a strange feeling to know that something foreign was inside her. Something not just foreign, but a device of power forged by non-human hands. And while the rest of her life remained uncertain, there was one thing Sarah knew for sure; that feeling wasn’t a good one.

  Suddenly feeling unclean, inside and out, Sarah moved to the shower and turned on the taps. A moment later she’d slipped out of her underwear to stand beneath the hot jets of water, which cascaded over her body in a cleansing wave. She stood, head bowed, to let the rushing flow wash away the grime of the past. But the more she allowed herself to relax, the stronger her sense of loss became. Riley is gone. He’s dead, because of me! I could have been happy with him back in Sanctuary and I threw it all away for what? This? This isn’t freedom – she put her hands to her face as reality kicked in – this is hell! A tear rolled down her cheek, and the tear turned into a sob, and the sob into heartrending grief for the loss of the man she’d loved and for the life she could have known. Her mouth gaped in silent agony and she sank down in the shower and cried, deep, gut-wrenching tears of self-loathing pity, which racked her chest and burned her throat until she could cry no more.

  ♦

  Sarah didn’t know how long she’d stayed in the shower, but it was long enough that her skin had reddened from the continual heat and day had turned to dusk. When she’d finally emerged, it was as a
spent, hollowed out shell of the person she once knew.

  Unthinking, she pulled on her dirty T-shirt and underwear, before wiping her hand across the steamed up mirror to stare at the person within. It was then, when she contemplated the worst, that she glimpsed a shadow in the reflection, hovering behind her in the corner of the room. Terrified, she swung round.

  Nothing was there.

  She opened the bathroom door and the cat, which had been sitting on the other side, jumped up before staring past her and letting out a terrified hiss. Sarah could sense … something, in the room behind her. The cat let out a horrific howl and the TV in the living room switched on.

  Sarah leapt forward and rushed downstairs, glancing back over her shoulder at the forbidding doorway of the bathroom. Scared out of her mind, she expected to see her friends, but no one was there. Another indistinct form moved on the balcony and Sarah fled out the front door and screamed as she rebounded off someone coming in the other direction.

  ‘Jason?’ she said, dazed.

  Her vision cleared and the figure at the bottom of the steps raised a gun.

  Not Jason!

  Glancing back, another armed man entered the house from the balcony. With nowhere else to go, Sarah vaulted over the railing, landed in mud and sprinted away.

  Shouts of pursuit chased her down a forest path. Her bare feet slipped and skidded on the sodden soil and she emerged into an open field. Floodlights blazed on and she slithered to a stop, half-blinded.