*
“James? Are ye dreaming again, James?”
It’s a different nurse, the overweight, middle-aged one with an Irish accent.
“Ah, just look at you now, all in a sweat. Oh, and you’ve wet the bed again. Come on, love. Let’s get you cleaned up.”
He stares at the nurse, eyes wide and uncomprehending.
“It’s all right, James. You’re safe, you’re back home. Come on, now. It’s a nice morning out there. We’ll have some breakfast and then we’ll decide what it is we’re going to do with you today.”
*
Today.
“Today, American, you die!”
In the tone someone might use to wish you “Good morning”. He feels his chest constrict with fear, with the expectation of imminent death, tries to imagine what it will feel like to die. Except that he doesn’t die, not that day, nor the next day, nor the day after that. Each morning the same greeting, “Today, American, you die!”, each day his last, until fear is numbed by repetition.
He begins to assemble strategies for survival. No chance to use the Gift here, not when merely meeting the eyes of his tormenter will bring on another savage beating. “Why you look at me?” The beatings come anyway, especially if one of the man’s compatriots is killed. Then Trang screams and beats him with a bamboo stave, sometimes into unconsciousness, as if he alone were responsible. And each time he surfaces yet again, his body raging with pain. He focuses his mind, using the Gift to suppress the pain until in some strange way he feels the sensations but not the hurt. He learns to curl up when he sleeps, because Trang sometimes walks around the camp at night and amuses himself by waking him with a vicious kick to the genitals.
Trang commands this small group of Viet Cong. Is that his name? He knows only that he hears the word often when the grunts are taking orders from their leader. James never pronounces the word himself. In fact he never speaks at all; to do so would be to invite another beating.
Keep quiet. Keep your head down. Survive.
*
“James?” Again it is the big Irish nurse, Rose. “Would you like some breakfast? Here y’are. Now James – James, are you listening to me? – I want you to eat it nice and slow, you hear? Chew every mouthful. I want to see you still eatin’ when I come by again. Do you understand? There’s a good fella.”
He nods numbly.
*
Food. Food is scarce. Food is precious. Food means survival.
His stomach grips with hunger. He uses the mental power of the Gift to deflect his mind from it, just as he uses it to dull the pain of the constant beatings. When rice comes he eats it quickly. Trang loves to snatch it away before he’s taken more than a couple of mouthfuls. “Oh, you not hungry,” he taunts. Sometimes, if Trang is not looking, one of the VC soldiers tosses in a piece of fruit or a root vegetable as they pass by, as one might feed a caged animal. There is no friendship in the gesture, no eye contact, but it is a reminder that underneath all the differences that place them on opposite sides of this brutal conflict lurks a residue of shared humanity. It is a residue that has somehow left Trang outside its embrace.
Eat fast. Get it inside. Stay alive.
*
“You’ve woofed it again!” Rose is glaring benignly at his empty plate. “Oh well, come on. We’ll get some clothes on you and then we’re going for a little walk. All right?”
The sunlight is very bright in the garden and the air is warm. His legs are weak; he clings to Rose’s broad forearm. There is the path, there is freshly mown grass, there are flowers, there are clumps of trees… He shrivels.
“James? All right, then, that’s enough for today. You’ve done very well. We’ll go back now and try again tomorrow.”
*
One floor below the ward, the staff are assembled in a seminar room. Dr. Levison passes one folder to his left and picks up another.
“Travis. James Travis. Physically he’s looking a bit better. How’s the desensitization going? Rose – you were looking after that.”
“He’s doing quite well, doctor. We had some problems with the trees – I suppose it reminds him of the jungle. So we took another route past single trees, and then small bushes and gradually worked up. He’s all right with that now. Yesterday we got as far as the fountain, but then he froze solid. He just sat down. Sam and Charlie had to help me get him back inside.”
“The fountain? What time of day was that?”
“Early morning. We went out straight after breakfast.”
“There could be something here. Rose, tomorrow morning I want you to do it again. Only this time I’ll come with you.”
*
They walk slowly together, past the lawn, past the flower beds, past the trees, past the shrubbery, down the steps to the lower lawn. They approach the fountain. James gives a little sigh. His long skinny legs fold slowly under him like a dying insect. Now he is sitting cross-legged on the ground, his head lowered. Dr. Levison is excited.
“What is it, James? James! Tell me what you see!”
*
Death is inevitable; only the manner and timing of it is uncertain. Will it be starvation? Disease? A bullet in the back of the head? Or will Trang go too far one day and beat the last feeble flicker of life out of him?
The B52s are coming again, flying low. The bombardments are getting closer. Is that the answer? Will death come from the sky? He clamps his hands tightly over his ears, draws in his knees, and still he feels every crushing percussion throughout his body. A little closer, that’s all it needs to be. One bomb to blow this cage apart and separate his soul from his frail body once and for all.
Outside his cage a small fluffy feather, perhaps all that remains of some luckless jungle fowl, floats slowly down, rocking gently from side to side, then jerks away as another shock wave hits it. He registers its direction; the bombs are falling just to the north.
Something’s happening. The familiar pattern of activity in the camp has changed. Some VC grunts, in their usual peasant dress, come hurrying by with sacks of rice over their shoulders. But Trang hasn’t come. He hasn’t said, “Today, American, you die!” The daily ritual, so terrifying at first, has become perversely reassuring, so that the mere absence of it unsettles him.
“James! Talk to me James!”
He lifts his head. Dr. Levison is crouched in front of him. “Tell me, James. Where are you?”
It’s hard to say. There are two worlds.
He closes his eyes. He hears a sound he hasn’t heard for a long time, a familiar voice, his own voice. It seems to come from somewhere else. It says:
“In my cage.”
“What are you doing, James?”
That came from the other world. He passes his tongue over his lips, and stays where he is. “I’m holding the bars, watching.”
“What do you see, James?”
The words are coming more easily. “The bombing’s stopped. They’re preparing to move out. I can tell. I can hear a clattering noise. It’s in the distance and it comes and goes, but I know the sound; it’s a Huey. Why hasn’t Trang come?”
“Who is Trang?”
“Trang’s a psychopath. They’re all afraid of him. I’m his plaything. He beats me, starves me, taunts me. Every morning he says “Today, American, you die!” but he hasn’t come this morning. Where is Trang?
“Ah, here he is. I knew he’d come. He’s carrying an AK47 and it’s pointing straight at me. Not at my head; at the top of my chest. He’s not bluffing this time; he doesn’t mean to miss.
“‘Now we leave, American. But you leave first. Goodbye.’
“His finger is tightening on the trigger. I have nothing to lose. I look him straight in the eyes. I feel the contact. I summon up all my power and focus it at him. I am willing him not to pull the trigger. I can sense the resistance, so I push harder. The sweat is running into my eyes but I mustn’t blink. I have failed before. This time I must not fail. If I fail, I die. Our minds are locked together, wrestling. I
t seems like whole minutes go by.
“He frowns. His expression changes. His finger relaxes. He lowers the rifle.
“‘I s’ink American no find you. More better I leave you here, I s’ink so. You starve. Die slowly. More better, I s’ink so.’
“He gives a short laugh. Then a longer one. Then he hurries away.
“I settle down in my cage and check the time. Not by my watch, of course; they took that when they captured me. I use small pebbles to mark the floor of the cage where the shadows of the bars fall. It makes a sundial. Trang’s never noticed it.”
“It’s about eight in the morning. The shadows move slowly. Around three in the afternoon I hear shouts, the shouts of American soldiers. They burst into the clearing. The first thing they see is me.”
He opens his eyes and sees, not the sweating, astonished face of a U.S. Army Lieutenant, but the empathic countenance of Dr. Bernard Levison.
Levison looks round at the fountain. It is of black and white marble. The area around it has been paved with the same materials, white with an inlay of black to form a pattern. A pattern of parallel black lines. James’s sundial. He turns back.
“James,” he says quietly. “James, we can help you. We can help you now.”
And for the first time in his adult life James covers his face with his hands and weeps.
*
He learns to live in the present more than the past, to distinguish reality from the version of reality disgorged by his tortured brain. He still dreams but now he wakes from the dreams. The dreams become less frequent. Bit by bit, step by painful step, he is restored both physically and mentally. He emerges with the inner strength that comes from self-knowledge. Seven months after entering the Veterans’ Administration Hospital he embraces Rose and shakes Dr Levison by the hand. He is ready to pick up his life again.
He has few qualifications other than his military service. The VA helps him to get a job in the Detroit police force. He carries a firearm but hopes he will never have to use it. He is quiet and conscientious. He does not fraternise but he is respected. By and by he is promoted to Sergeant.
*
When the man pulls out a gun and demands the contents of the cash register, the owner kicks a footplate and sets off the alarm. There is a shot and the owner falls behind the counter. Customers scream and some manage to run out of the store. But the beat car is less than a block away when it gets the initial call. It mounts the sidewalk and two uniforms come out fast, unholstering their weapons. Seeing them, the man tears a six-year-old girl away from her petrified mother and hides behind island shelves in the depths of the store. One of the officers gets on the radio to dispatch. Dispatch sends three more patrol cars, one to cover the rear entrance.
James Travis is the Patrol Sergeant; he has been out on another call. When he arrives he finds two officers controlling a small crowd outside and three guns fanning the inside of the store. His men are using the cover provided by stacks of groceries near the entrance. James recognises the lead officer and speaks with quiet authority.
“What’s the picture, Matt?”
The officer replies without taking his eyes off the store. “Owner’s been shot. The perp has snatched a little girl. He says to let him go or he’ll kill her.”
“Where’s the mother?”
“We got her out. Sally’s looking after her outside.”
“Okay, good work. Now keep cool, all of you. We don’t want anyone else getting hurt here.”
The air is hot and heavy. One of the officers wipes sweat from his eyes with his sleeve.
James looks at the interior of the store and a feeling begins to grow inside him, a feeling of great intensity, a feeling that his life, his Gift, even his appalling experiences in Vietnam, have suddenly acquired meaning, that all these things have come together for this one moment.
He reaches out to the mind of the man in the store and feels the contact. He increases the pressure, trying to draw the man out. It isn’t working; he can’t get enough leverage crouched down like this.
The crowd outside has grown, the little girl’s mother still at the front, Sally keeping a firm grip on her arm. There is an audible intake of breath as James rises slowly to a standing position. The other officers glance sideways at him, faces blank with dismay, expecting a fatal shot at any moment.
James bears down harder. Now there is a slight movement from behind the shelves. One of the officers jerks his automatic in that direction but James extends an open hand, restraining him. He needs every ounce of concentration.
Slowly the man emerges. He still has the little girl by one wrist but he holds his other arm out, and there is no gun. He comes forward, eyes wide, as if in a trance. James fixes his gaze, willing him forward. His brain aches from the effort. The man moves again, slackening his grip slightly on the girl’s wrist. She twists away instantly and runs behind the shelves. The distraction causes James to lose his focus for a brief instant. The man blinks, takes in his situation. With a shout he grabs the revolver hooked in the back of his belt and gets off one shot before they open fire. He spins and jerks in the fusillade and crumples to the floor. The officers rise slowly.
The distraught mother, capable of restraint no longer, crashes through the doors and races into the store to find her daughter cowering at the end of an aisle. She carries her back, sobbing with relief, then freezes as she sees one of the police officers lying in a pool of blood, his fellow officers standing or crouching near him, faces grim. Somewhere outside an ambulance siren wails. She approaches and kneels.
“God bless you, young man,” she says. “You saved my little girl’s life.”
His eyelids flicker and his lips move. She bends closer to hear. Then his head drops and his body goes slack.
Watched anxiously by her little girl, she straightens up slowly, covering her eyes with a handkerchief.
“What did he say?” one of the officers asks her huskily.
“He said…he said, ‘It was my gift’.”
[First published in Alexei’s Tree and Other Stories, Matador, 2005]
The
Magnolia
My wife always says “I’m the gardener”. She was saying it now, to the four friends we’d invited for dinner.
“I’m the gardener,” Jessica was saying. Then she added, by way of an afterthought, “But Sam is quite helpful.”
“You have such a beautiful garden,” Fiona purred. “There isn’t a finer one within a hundred miles.”
Her husband Richard cleared his throat. He was an academic, and in the traditional interests of accuracy and fairness he was about to correct his wife’s overstatement, but her steely look, which Jessica missed but I didn’t, stopped him in his tracks.
Jessica was fluffing her feathers at Fiona’s compliment. “Well, I’m sure I don’t know what I’d do without my little Biosphere,” she murmured, with a commendable show of modesty that fooled absolutely no one.
Nadia joined in. “It’s so mature, that’s what gets me. I’m sure I don’t know how you do it.”
Jessica sensed the implied question and shot a quick glance at me. How indeed do you have trees a hundred and fifty years old inside a Biosphere that was built on new ground barely twenty years ago? Sooner or later the others would catch on, and then they’d all be doing it, but for the moment we were way ahead of them and neither of us was about to elaborate.
“It’s a shame, in a way,” said Jessica, artfully redirecting the conversation, “that you can’t see in from the outside, too. It would look so nice.”
“But that was the whole point of Biospheres, surely?” said Nadia. “To restore privacy. It was bad enough in the old days, with helicopters and light planes. Once they started with drones, you’d have had no peace at all.”
“That and the hi-res observation satellites,” added Nadia’s partner, Bob. “Once the Press boys got access to those the paparazzi could snatch pictures of you, sunbathing in the altogether in your own back garden, and you wouldn’t
even know.”
“Well, I’m sure they’re very welcome to photograph me in the altogether if that’s what turns them on,” Nadia replied.
Everyone laughed at the joke against herself. It wouldn’t have taken a very high resolution system to capture Nadia’s ample proportions. Come to that, Jessica wasn’t far behind. I’d told her the extra weight she was carrying around didn’t suit her, but she wouldn’t listen. She never listened to anyone, least of all me.
“It wasn’t primarily the privacy issue.” You could depend on Richard for a thorough analysis. “It started with industrial pollution: all the concern about the quality of the air we were breathing. Then there was global warming: the summers got too hot to work comfortably outside and the evaporative loss of water was making it too costly to grow anything but desert species. Then there was the ozone hole, and the soaring rate of skin cancer. It all pointed in the same direction: create your own microenvironment, outside as well as inside. They used Blackglaze for the Biospheres because it filtered out the ultraviolet but let through the wavelengths needed for photosynthesis. Of course it had the advantage that you couldn’t see in, so it solved the privacy issue at the same time.”
“Wasn’t there a scare about anthrax, as well?” offered Bob. “I heard that it was put about by the manufacturers of Biospheres.”
“It was never proven,” said Richard, “but it was the last straw for a lot of gullible people. Not Jess, of course,” he added quickly, noticing Jessica suddenly appearing taller in her chair. “You just wanted a nice garden, didn’t you, Jess?”
“That’s right,” Jessica smiled sweetly.
The Tomb and Other Stories Page 10