Balance - Book 2

by Marc Dickason

  *****

  The next morning, some time after 10AM, I stood outside Little Dreamers Day Care. To my right was the white wall, and beyond the wall a see-saw and swing abandoned under the bright mid-morning sun.

  Before me, the Little Dreamers building was an exact replica of Judy’s mental projection. A perfectly ordinary, one-storey building, with large windows looking out onto the street. Not a soul stirred behind the windows. All was still.

  I looked to my left; a small parking area, a tree, a flowerbed, and modest suburban houses stretching off towards a cul-de-sac. Somewhere a dog barked.

  “Well?” A voice came from behind. “What are we doing, Mister?”

  I glanced over my shoulder at the taxi driver. His bulky body leaned against the vehicle while he patiently puffed a cigarette.

  “Not sure,” I replied, ‘Don’t know if I should be here.”

  “What? Wrong address?”

  “No. Right address. Just hang on a second.”

  “Sure.”

  I had already been to the D.O.M that morning to attend my overdue debriefing for Judy Carlson. It had consisted largely of Chief Commander Gill repeating that I had done my best and was not responsible for the outcome.

  “I could have brought her in peacefully, sir,” I had said to him, “If I had just had a few more seconds.”

  “I know that, son,” he had replied, “I’m not questioning it. But this institute is simply not one that banks on potential outcomes. You understand? I’m afraid the risk could not be ignored. It looked like she was going hot and the decision was made. I’m sorry you had to be involved, being that it turned out the way it did. Either way, you don’t have to worry. Your name will not be given to any newspapers or media outlets. You’re anonymous as far as the city is concerned. Okay, Cadet?”

  “Yes, Commander Gill. Thank you.’

  He had sucked in a deep breath, face taking on a note of regret, and spoke the next words in a whisper. “Now look, Cadet. You have to sign up for a visit to the Mental Wellness Centre.”

  “I’m fine, sir. I don’t think I need it.”

  “I know, son. I have no doubt you’re fine. But it’s compulsory. Best to just to get it over with.”

  “Alright, Commander Gill.”

  So I had headed across to the Mental Wellness Centre of that D.O.M and signed up. The woman behind the desk, all porcelain smiles, had told me I could attend at the Academy or at any Mental Wellness Centre across the city.

  As I had left the D.O.M the ache in my hand was becoming severe. So I had reached into my uniform pocket for the painkillers, only to have my fingers find a scrap of paper. Upon it was the address for Little Dreamers. I could not recall putting the paper into my uniform pocket, or removing the bottle of painkillers from that same pocket.

  Presently, as I flexed the fingers of my injured hand in an attempt to work out the growing pain, my eyes drifted back up to the Little Dreamers building.

  “Well, mister?” the taxi driver repeated, “is it the right place or not?”

  The front door of Little Dreamers opened and a mid fifties woman stepped out. I recognised her from the website; pleasant but firm. Everything a person could want in a day care teacher.

  “Hello,” she said, approaching the waist high entrance gate. Her smile was syrup. “Is there something I can help with?”

  “I’m just looking,” I replied.

  “Ah, you have a little one then?”

  I opened my mouth and drew on every ounce of my ability to lie convincingly. “Yes, I was thinking about bringing my daughter here.”

  “Lovely. How old?”

  “Five,” I ventured hopefully.

  “Beautiful.” The woman swooned. Her expression said an adorably pleasant five year had materialised. “And what’s her name?”

  “Selena.” The word popped out of my mouth.

  “Selena. What a beautiful name. She must be gorgeous. Does she have your brown eyes? Or her mother’s, perhaps?”

  “Yes, my brown eyes. Very beautiful.”

  We shared a smile of parental joy. I feared my jaw may dislocate producing a gesture so artificial.

  “Well why don’t you come in,” the woman said at last.

  “Thank you.”

  I turned to the taxi driver and held up ‘five minutes’ with my uninjured hand. He shrugged and lit another cigarette.

  “Trisha,” the woman said as she unlocked the gate.

  “Nice to meet you, Trisha.”

  I followed her up the stairs and into the building. Inside everything was as expected; walls decorated with crayon drawings, shaggy carpets designed to be played on, and various chests of stuffed animals and building blocks. Above a ceiling fan circled lazily.

  “Have a seat,” she said, gesturing to a desk.

  “Thank you.”

  She took the seat across from me. “So what hours do you work Mister…”

  “Pardon?”

  “Your name.”

  “Oh,” I forced a nervous laugh, “I beg your pardon. Bradshaw.”

  My brain applauded smugly at producing a convincing lie.

  “Nice to meet you, Mister Bradshaw.”

  We shook hands. A cluster of bangles tinkled on her wrist.

  “My, what happened to your hand, Mister Bradshaw?”

  “It’s nothing. Just an accident at work.”

  “I see, how unfortunate. Is it causing you discomfort? I believe I have some painkillers around here somewhere from my hip operation.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll live for now.”

  “As you wish. And where do you work, exactly?”

  “I’m a journalist.”

  Two good lies in a row. On a roll.

  “How interesting. At what publication?”

  “The Whisperer.”

  “The gossip magazine?”

  “Yes.”

  “How fascinating. I used to read it in my youth.”

  “Indeed, it is a very colourful magazine.”

  She smiled and drifted into silence. I took it as my cue to start asking child related questions. But already I was getting the crushing feeling the place was a wild goose chase. Perhaps the two women had simply attended the day care centre as children…

  “So tell me about your facilities here,” I asked.

  But as she started to speak my eyes moved to a crayon-drawing on the wall. At first glance the scribbles all looked alike, consisting of human figures, square houses, smiling suns, and the other usual suspects. But there was one that stood out. And another there. The more I looked the more curiosity blossomed. Perhaps not a wild goose chase.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Trisha,” I said, cutting in on her monologue, “but these drawings are interesting.”

  “Oh, so they are.” She looked at them and smiled. “Lovely, aren’t they?”

  “Indeed yes.” I made a show of admiring them. Then stood and stepped over to the wall. “But this one seems unusual.”

  She frowned. “How so?”

  “Well, look here; family, family, family.” I pointed out drawings of children figures paired with parent figures. “And then this one here, and here, and here.”

  She looked where I pointed. “I’m not sure what you mean, Mister Bradshaw.”

  “It just strikes me as unusual. What is this here?”

  The drawing I touched showed a crayon stickman on a chair. Behind it stood a large vaguely human shaped figure in black crayon, its eyes two spots of green in an otherwise featureless head. Trisha stared as if seeing it for the first time.

  “My, that is odd,” she said, “I don’t believe I’ve seen that before.”

  “It’s on your wall.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what is it? There’s another one here.” I pointed out a similar picture, this one showing an odd pink blob hovering over a stickman in bed. The blob seemed to be staring down with enormous black eyes.

  “I guess something they saw on television.”
<
br />   “I may be mistaken, Trisha, but they look like drawings of demons. Don’t they?”

  “Demons?” Her eyes widened. “But that’s impossible. Children so young with demons…”

  “I know. But it looks like it. Doesn’t it?”

  “Well…”

  Her gaze went hazy then blanked out. She was left looking like a mannequin fitted with a ‘shocked expression’ face.

  “Trisha?”

  She didn’t respond.

  “Trisha?”

  She blinked. “Hello. How can I help? Oh! I remember you.” She smiled dreamily. “Look how big you’ve become.”

  “What…?”

  “Such a well behaved little boy. So well behaved.”

  My mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about, Trisha?”

  “So well behaved.” She reached out and patted my hand. “And so polite. Has it been so long already? How old are you now?”

  “You remember me?”

  Her eyes cleared. “Hello. How can I help?”

  I stared, heart hammering. “You said something just now, Trisha.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just now, you said you remembered me.”

  “Did I? Oh, I’m sorry. My memory is getting a little scratchy in my old age. What is your name, young man?”

  “Clarence… Bradshaw… Look, are you alright? You seemed a bit distant there for a few moments.”

  “I did? I’m sorry, sometimes I daydream.”

  I tried to slow my thumping heart but it would not be consoled. Adrenalin was turning my veins to liquid fire. All at once there was not a cage in the world big enough to hold the flame.

  “I’m thinking about bringing my daughter here,” I said to her, smiling.

  “Oh. How lovely. How old?”

  “Five.”

  I walked back to my chair and sat, then stole a quick glance out the windows. The taxi driver was blowing a cloud of smoke at the sun.

  “And what’s her name?”

  I locked my eyes on hers and the light retreated into the shadows. Above, the repetitive clanking of the ceiling fan faded.

  Trisha was in front of the class. Her face glowed with delight.

  “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. Only those on the left now, row, row, row your boat…”

  The classroom was empty. Her voice echoed ominously.

  “…merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. And now those on the right!”

  “Trisha,” I interjected, “Trisha. Are you listening?”

  She stopped mid-sentence, head cocking.

  “What’s going on in here, Trisha? What’s going on in Little Dreamers?”

  “We’re singing,” she responded. “Children like to sing.”

  “Of course. What’s wrong with the children here? Why are they drawing demons?”

  She glanced around anxiously and breathed a sigh of relief. “Nothing is wrong with the children. They are all present and accounted for.”

  I paused, trying to determine the woman’s level of stability. “Show me the children, Trisha.”

  The scene blurred and now there were children in the room. Ghosts of children. Each indicated by a vague child-like entity, something like a badly unfocused photograph. Apparently Trisha didn’t remember many details.

  “Look there. What is that child drawing?’ I asked Trisha.

  “Where?”

  A child-shadow appeared sitting at her feet, drawing on white paper with a crayon.

  “There.”

  “Oh, that’s lovely my darling,” Trisha crooned at the shadow.

  “Why is it drawing that?” I asked. “Why is it drawing such a strange picture?’

  “It is?’

  “Yes. See? You saw the picture on the wall a moment ago.”

  She leaned forward to look. The picture transformed into the one indicating a pink-blob demon.

  “Is that a drawing of a demon?” I pressed. “Why would a child draw such a thing?”

  Her face went blank. I paused, rethinking the approach.

  “What happened to the children who draw these pictures? Did something happen here? Maybe they were chosen to be here because of what happened to them?”

  No response.

  “Is something going to happen to the children who draw these pictures?”

  Her head turned to the door. It opened and two black shapes melted into the room, slithering forward like nightmare sentient smoke. They enveloped the child and began to pull it towards the exit.

  “This child is no longer your concern,” one of the clouds said to Trisha.

  “Okay,” she responded with a smile.

  The shapes oozed from the room with the child in tow. Trisha continued to smile.

  I shuddered.

  “Who is taking the children?” I asked.

  No response.

  “Trisha, who is taking the children?”

  The scene flickered. Gold veins sprang across the floor from beneath her feet, creeping to the edges of the room and climbing the walls.

  “Alright, alright.” I glanced around and spotted a shadow-child stacking playing blocks. “Look at that. Someone is going to be an architect when he grows up.”

  “Oh, how lovely!” Trisha beamed.

  The gold veins receded and vanished.

  I racked my brain.

  “Do you watch the news, Trisha?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Let’s watch the news now. Okay?”

  “But the children…”

  “The children are safe, I’ll watch them. I won’t let anything happen to them.”

  “I guess its okay. Just for a minute.”

  The scene swirled. We were now in the living room of a well kept modest house. Trisha was on the couch alone, watching the news. TV light danced across her face.

  “Did you see the girl on the news?” I whispered, “The one who was shot?”

  “Terrible business,” she muttered to herself.

  The TV showed the helicopter footage of Judy hobbling up the street.

  “Who is that girl? Don’t you recognise her? Doesn’t she look familiar?”

  Trisha frowned. “She doesn’t look familiar. I’ve never seen her before.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe she was younger when you knew her.”

  Trisha squinted. Gently I drew up an image of little Judy, as I had seen her as a child. The TV vanished, in its place stood little Judy Carlson.

  “Judy?” Trisha muttered. Her face contorted with bewilderment.

  My heart leapt. “Yes! Judy Carlson. Little Judy Carlson….”

  Trisha stared, concentrating. A person trying to solve an impossible sum. Then all at once her face exploded with a smile.

  “Oh, Judy!” Trisha beamed, “How are you my little darling?”

  The Judy projection said nothing. Its face remained a blank slate.

  “Judy, how are you?’ Trisha repeated anxiously.

  The room began to darken and bulge outwards. There was a shrill groan of wood grinding against wood, then golden cracks began gaping open on the walls.

  I bit my lip. Giving specific life to projections had not been covered in standard Academy curriculum. But, heeding the laws of necessity and invention, I focused on the little girl...

  “I’m fine, Miss Trisha,” I whispered. Simultaneously I concentrated on the movements of my mouth and pushed them onto the projection. On-the-fly ‘animation’ was created. Lo and behold, but for a ‘retro kung-fu’ level of lip syncing, the little girl appeared to speak the words.

  “How have you been, my dear?” Trisha asked.

  “Who took me, Miss Trisha?” Little Judy said. I added forlorn sadness to her expression.

  “What?”

  “Some people came and took me. Please, tell me who they were, Miss Trisha.”

  Trisha shook her head, but her eyes were trying to remember. Artificial cobweb
s were dispersing.

  “Think, Miss Trisha. Please. It’s important.”

  The scene swirled again and we were back in the Little Dreamers classroom. Little Judy now sat before us, cross legged on the carpet with a crayon drawing. I stooped and was not surprised to find the drawing depicted a black horse-like figure. What was surprising was that the Judy I saw now was about five years old, and the Judy who had experienced the trauma had been eight. Something, an astute person may point out, was not adding up as far as time lines were concerned.

  Behind me the doors sprang open and two black shapes again slunk into the room. They descended on Little Judy. Trisha’s eyes followed them.

  “Miss Trisha! Who are they?” I, Judy, exclaimed.

  The woman smiled and shook her head. “Who do you speak of, Judy?”

  “Who are they, Miss Trisha?” I repeated, adding urgency to the girl’s voice, “I’m in danger! Your children are in danger! I need to know! Please remember!”

  “Danger?” Trisha breathed, “What danger…?”

  A look of fierce concentration settled on Trisha’s face, jaw clenching. Slowly, as if a tree shedding leaves, the black gas dropped from the figures to reveal people beneath. One was a tall young man in an expensive suit, hair scraped back over scalp and baby-skin face cleanly shaven. I recognised him from the hospital. The other was my grandmother, Fran, shuffling along with the aid of a walking stick.