Summerhouse Land

by Roderick Gordon

  ‘Of course. Yes,’ he says, supporting her as they climb the steps between the twin rose beds, then pass around the back of the house and down the side passage. At the end there’s a stout wooden door and Sam slides back the bolts at the top and bottom, struggling to get them open. ‘They weren’t this stiff before,’ he says. ‘Everything’s like this – difficult to move.’ Applying all his strength to open and then close the door behind them, Sam comments, ‘I hope nobody spots this is unlocked. We’ll need to use it on the way back.’

  They leave the drive and go out onto the road where they see a car frozen in place as it was racing past, the twin beams of its headlights cutting through the grayness and its grim-faced driver hunched at the wheel. Sam walks warily around the car, but Damaris steps right in front of it, leaning on the hood above the radiator grille.

  ‘Er … I don’t think you should stand there,’ Sam says. From the way the vehicle is pitched slightly forward and the rubber tires are distorted there’s a tension to it like a tightly coiled spring. Sam can’t help but visualize how fast the car must have been traveling when it was trapped in this moment. ‘You know … just in case,’ he adds.

  Damaris doesn’t question him, shuffling out of the way. Then she glances up and, despite the condition she’s in, begins to giggle.

  ‘What?’ Sam asks.

  ‘Sorry …’ she says, regarding his gray face in the glare of the headlamps, ‘but you look exactly like a dummy.’

  ‘Yeah, well so do you.’ He points down the road. ‘We need to go that way.’

  As they reach the junction at the bottom of the road, there are two people on the sidewalk and even a man balanced on a bicycle, all preserved in the moment under the somber illumination cast by the streetlamps.

  ‘What a bizarre world you come from,’ Damaris says, scuffing the paving slab with her foot. ‘Everything’s hard and there’s not much that’s growing or alive, just machines and buildings everywhere. The people look desperately sad too. Were you happy here?’

  ‘Except for what my disease was doing to me, yes,’ Sam replies, as it only now occurs to him that she’s from a very different era and all this is new to her. He shakes his head. ‘But it looks extra creepy like this … like a city of lost statues. Like time fossils,’ he adds, as he and Damaris continue to survey the scene with the bicycle. ‘Maybe you’re right and it won’t change back. Maybe I broke time?’

  ‘It would make life easier for us, wouldn’t it?’ Damaris mutters. ‘We could just find your friend in the hospital and pull her out.’

  Sam nods, then peers up at the gray moon and stars fixed in the sky above. ‘But we don’t know that it won’t go back, do we? Let’s stick to the plan and get to that address,’ he suggests.

  Sam has a general idea of the way because their destination isn’t far off the route that he was driven every day to get to school, but nevertheless he frequently consults the map Curtis gave him. As they pass through the lifeless streets, Damaris’s nausea and weakness affect her in waves; there are stretches when she seems to be over it and puts on a turn of speed, then without warning she begins to flag and Sam has to support her again.

  ‘Funny, isn’t it,’ he says, as they stop and he helps Damaris over to a wall where she can sit and catch her breath. ‘I was completely knackered when I entered the valley and you had to look after me, but it’s the other way round now and I’m looking after you.’

  ‘Yes, really hilarious,’ Damaris mutters wretchedly, bent forward with her elbows on her knees as perspiration soaks her brow.

  An hour later and after a few wrong turns, Sam finds the street in Hampstead they’re seeking. It’s far less busy than the main roads they’ve passed through, many of which had long lines of traffic unmoving through them or thronged with crowds of people-statues returning from work or going out for the evening. But this road hasn’t a single person on it, and other than those parked at the curb a lone car is frozen along its length.

  ‘Here we are,’ Sam says, as they both look at the building. It’s a modern block of nondescript glass and concrete, and each flat has its own balcony. ‘Which floor does he live on?’ Sam starts to delve in his pocket for the photograph of Rachel.

  ‘Flat three,’ Damaris says. ‘We don’t need that. Not yet.’

  Sam takes his hand from his pocket as they both make their way to the main entrance of the flats. Cars are parked in the bays marked by white lines on either side of the forecourt and there’s a fenced-off area for trash cans. Otherwise it’s all tarmacked except for a couple of neglected borders of shrubs with the odd piece of windblown paper in them.

  ‘Flat three,’ Sam repeats, reading the label by the vertical row of buttons, then tugs on the door. ‘Locked. What do we do? Smash our way in?’

  ‘We could wait over there,’ Damaris suggests, pointing at one of the borders. ‘Wait and see what happens.’

  Sam nods, and they find a spot in among the bushes and sit down. With a view of the main entrance, Sam keeps watch, and it’s only a matter of minutes before Damaris falls asleep on his shoulder. ‘That’s why you wanted to wait,’ he whispers to her.

  Noticing an empty and slightly crumpled coke can lying in the soil, he whiles away the time by trying to hook it with his boot. It takes quite a few attempts to roll it toward him because the can is as heavy as if it’s been cast in solid metal. He perseveres, doing his best not to disturb Damaris, and finally brings it to within reach of his hand. Then he manages to lift the can up so that it’s a foot above the ground, where he leaves it.

  With the suspended can by his side and Damaris on his shoulder sleeping off her sickness, he watches the block of flats through the bushes. It takes all his resolve because it’s rather like staring endlessly at a black and white photograph.

  While he’s doing this, he’s constantly aware of the coke can in the corner of his eye, simply floating there.

  It’s an hour later when, all of a sudden, it seems to descend a few inches, then slides lightly to the ground.

  Jesse’s chair grates loudly on the floor.

  With an intake of breath Mrs White lets go of the spoon. She looks down at her forearm. There’s a pale mark, an impression. ‘Huh?’ she exclaims, because it feels precisely as though someone has just gripped her there. But that’s impossible because no one is close.

  Jesse is swearing. Mrs White swings round from the hob to see what’s wrong. The hamburger is lying beside his plate and Jesse has a piece of tomato in his hair and what looks like mayonnaise on his nose.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ she asks him, still rubbing her arm because although the whiteness has gone, she can’t understand the sensation she’s just had there.

  ‘The darned burger hit me in the face!’ Jesse says, frowning at the empty bun in his hand and then swearing again.

  ‘No need for that language.’ Mrs White turns back to the hob as the gravy boils up in the pan. ‘And please don’t play with your food, Jesse.’

  ‘I wasn’t,’ he protests.

  As Mrs White turns off the gas, something in the condensation on the mirror catches her eye.

  M & D

  It’s all going to be okay

  I love you so much

  Sam

  Mrs White smiles sadly. ‘Bless him. When did he do that?’ she says, thinking she should go up and check on her son.

  A car alarm goes off somewhere and Damaris lifts her head from Sam’s shoulder. Sitting upright, she stretches her arms and yawns.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Sam asks.

  ‘A little,’ she replies. As she lowers her arms, she immediately notices the ease with which she can move and sweeps her hand through the air. ‘No more soup! We’re back to normal.’

  ‘Yes, look.’ Sam points to the coke can, the red and white contrasting against the dry crust of the earth. ‘The colors are back too. It happened all at the same time.’

  As they listen to someone shouting a few streets away and the vague thrum of traffic all
around them, Damaris seems annoyed. ‘How long did you let me sleep for?’ she asks, peering through the foliage at the building.

  ‘I didn’t wake you up right away,’ Sam admits. ‘You needed to recover and, besides, I figured that we should give our man time to come home. No use ringing on the bell when the flat’s empty.’

  ‘He might have been home already,’ Damaris counters.

  ‘We don’t know that and quite a few people have gone in while I’ve been watching,’ Sam replies with a shrug, then gets up. ‘So let’s give it a try, shall we?’

  Damaris insists on cleaning the blood from Sam’s forehead before they head over to the main entrance. Once there, he turns to her. ‘Ready for this?’

  ‘Ready,’ she confirms, and he presses the buzzer. Someone answers almost immediately. Damaris speaks rapidly in Japanese over the intercom, but all Sam can understand is the name ‘Nishio’. The voice responds with a curt word that sounds like ‘Hai’, and there’s a click as the solenoid operates, the door swinging open a few inches.

  ‘First floor,’ Damaris says, then neither she nor Sam speak as they move across the marble floor. Sam opts for the stairs rather than the elevator; he wonders if Damaris has even been in one before and in any case they haven’t far to climb.

  As they reach the landing, there are two doors but one is already open. ‘That must be it. Give me the photograph now,’ Damaris says. Sam takes it out and passes it to her, then they head for the open door.

  As they enter Sam only has the briefest glimpse of plain white walls before, in the blink of an eye, he’s spun around. An arm wraps around his neck, the point of a knife pressed to his throat.

  Damaris steps back in alarm.

  Sam can’t see his assailant behind him, but he’s issuing urgent commands in Japanese.

  Damaris is holding up her hands to show she’s unarmed. She speaks to the man, who replies, giving her permission to move so she can read from the back of the photograph.

  After she’s done this, there’s a second or two when no one says anything. The man takes his arm from around Sam’s neck, but keeps the knife on him, pushing it into the small of his back. He frisks Sam, pausing for a moment as he finds the crown around his neck.

  No way you’re taking that from me!

  But the man seems satisfied that it’s nothing and steps in front of Sam. ‘I know you,’ he says in perfect English as he narrows his eyes at the boy. The man has very little hair – a few bristly patches on his scalp – and although he’s not much taller than Sam and looks older even than Rachel’s father, he’s so thickset that he hardly has a neck, and his face is lean. He might be wearing a dark blue suit and a shirt with a tie, but he doesn’t come across as a businessman. He has eyes that you wouldn’t argue with and one of his fingers is missing at the first joint. It looks awkward, brutal. He’s still scrutinizing Sam. ‘I’ve seen you in the hospital when I’ve taken Mr Nishio to visit his daughter. You are her friend. You are cured now?’ he says.

  ‘Yes,’ is all Sam can manage.

  Careful not to turn his back on Sam, the man sidesteps to Damaris and pats her down to make sure she isn’t armed either. Then he thrusts out a hand, the one with the missing finger, for the photograph of Rachel. He takes it and turns it over to read the reverse, staring intently at the writing. ‘Wait here,’ he instructs them, hurrying off to a room.

  ‘You were very calm,’ Sam whispers now he and Damaris are alone.

  Damaris smiles. ‘I wasn’t the one with the knife at my throat.’

  ‘In here,’ the man says, appearing at the doorway of the room where he’s just been.

  It also has plain white walls with very little furniture in it. There’s a desk with a laptop on it, which the man has evidently been using. For a minute he speaks in Japanese to Damaris. Not understanding anything he’s saying, Sam becomes impatient. The man’s face is impossible to read, so Sam can’t tell whether it’s good or bad news. Then Damaris bows to the man and turns to Sam.

  ‘Takahashi-san confirms that he works for Mr Nishio. He provides what he calls security services for him and his …’

  ‘Top executives,’ Takahashi helps her out.

  ‘The sequence of letters and numbers under his address on the back of the photograph is a code, and it checks out. That and the fact that your friend’s father has signed the message. The code is of the utmost priority which means Takahashi-san here will help us with anything we ask him. Anything.’

  There’s a short silence as Sam absorbs this.

  ‘So do you want to tell him the plan?’ Damaris asks.

  ‘Sure,’ Sam says. As he turns to Takahashi, the man gives him a small bow and indicates they should follow him.

  He goes to the far wall and pulls it from one end. Behind the screen Takahashi has slid back there is a television and a rack on the wall with a whole array of Japanese swords and weapons.

  ‘Samurai,’ Damaris says.

  The man doesn’t quite smile at her, but it’s close. He shakes his head. ‘I’m a fixer. And now I’ll go and fix us some tea. There are mats in there,’ he says, indicating a cupboard which is behind the screen he’s just opened. ‘If you want to relax.’

  While he’s out of the room, they unroll two mats and sit on them, but Sam is far from relaxed. ‘So do we let him help us?’

  ‘Why not?’ Damaris replies.

  ‘Don’t forget if you get hurt here, you stay h—’

  ‘You worry too much.’

  ‘But you should worry because you’ve had centuries of the valley and being healed. This is different. You can be injured, killed even,’ Sam says. ‘So if you get a bad feeling about anything, we bale out and go home.’

  ‘Okay,’ she answers. ‘But my bad feeling started a while ago.’

  Sam raises his brows. ‘When?’

  ‘Just before we stepped through the cliff,’ she replies.

  ***

  They’re in the car outside a place that Sam knows only too well. He and Damaris are in the back, while from the front Takahashi is watching the hospital entrance as people come and go.

  Sam clears his throat as he notes the time on the clock in the dashboard. ‘We don’t want to miss visiting hours,’ he says. ‘I should go and get her.’

  ‘No, I’m going in,’ Takahashi replies, as he unnecessarily adjusts the position of his rear-view mirror just to let Sam know that he can see him. As he does so, the cuff of his shirt pulls back so that Sam catches sight of the tattoo around his wrist. It appears to be a dragon, and the tattooing is so dense it suggests that underneath Takahashi’s clothing every inch of him is covered with them. He’s still looking straight at Sam as he continues, ‘I’ve picked up Rachel for her parents many times before, so it’s less likely to raise suspicion.’

  ‘But I need to explain to her why we’re taking her out,’ Sam argues, his voice rising with indignation. He really doesn’t want to go head to head with Takahashi, but already the man is trying to run things.

  ‘I don’t even understand why you’re taking her out,’ Takahashi says, ‘so how are you going to convince her? In any case, like all the children on the ward, she’s tagged. You pass one of the zones by the ward entrances, the alarm will sound and you’ll be stopped. How do you propose to deal with that?’

  Sam isn’t daunted by this. ‘We went through the sensors loads of times when we explored the basement or sneaked off to buy sweets and stuff. The nurses know me. They’ll recognize me and let me leave with her.’

  ‘If the duty sister looks you up on the system, she’ll see that you haven’t been admitted and shouldn’t be in the hospital. The staff also won’t fail to notice that, somehow, you’re well again.’ Although what he’s saying is matter-of-fact enough and his voice is unemotional, Takahashi has a way of looking with those dead, unblinking eyes which takes the recipient of his gaze somewhere else, somewhere incredibly intimidating. Sam feels himself breaking into a sweat. ‘You’ll fail. If what you’re proposing is truly Mr Ni
shio’s wish, I can’t allow that.’

  ‘But—’

  Takahashi shifts round in his seat and drills Sam with those eyes.

  ‘Fine,’ Sam says begrudgingly. ‘Do what you want then.’

  When he’s gone, Damaris says, ‘You showed him.’

  ‘Stubborn, interfering idiot.’ Shaking his head, Sam snorts with frustration. ‘What I don’t understand, despite all Curtis told us, is that for there even to be a photograph for Mr Nishio to give me, I must have done this before. And if I have done this before without Taka-heavy in the mix, why the heck do I need him now?’ Sam looks at Damaris who is sitting right up against the car door and watching the vehicles go by. ‘I’m sorry I dragged you into this.’

  ‘Don’t be.’ Damaris breathes on the window and traces an undulating line on it with her fingertip. ‘This opportunity to go outside the valley … is the most exciting thing I’ve done … in a very, very long time …’ She reverses the direction of her finger to draw another line weaving precisely through the first. Then she changes direction again and again, drawing frantically on the glass until the fogged patch is completely wiped away. ‘Don’t forget what Curtis also told us … about paradox,’ she says. ‘If this goes pear-shaped, then there’s probably never a photograph, so you and I never come here for Rachel. Everything resets.’ Damaris’s voice is expressionless and distant. Sam wonders if it’s because she’s mulling over their situation.

  ‘Yes, I remember all that, but it makes my head hurt just to think about it.’ He takes a breath. ‘Actually, my head is hurting. And look at this.’

  He tries to show Damaris the growth that’s developed on his wrist. It’s not that large yet, a small nub of bone pushing up the flesh, but it’s still noticeable. ‘There are more of them coming too. I can even feel my head changing shape.’ She doesn’t turn from the window to look. ‘Damaris?’ He lays a hand on her arm but removes it immediately because she flinches, pressing herself even closer against the door. ‘You’re not yourself. You’ve been acting a bit strangely,’ Sam says. ‘It’s not just my condition that’s coming back, is it?’