Darkside 1

by Aaron K Carter

  I sigh and lean against the wall. I don’t even want to go in because I don’t know what I’ll say that won’t make things worse because I always, must, make things worse otherwise they’d be better than they are. I don’t know and I don’t try to understand how things could be different I try to make them different but it seems I fail. I always fail, fail as a mother it’s not like I didn’t try with them, try to do what was right what you were supposed to and love them and see that they were clean and clothed and fed and that nobody got at them or hurt them. but somehow I still failed, and it was my fault—not theirs they were sweet, good, good boys. I’d already lost Ian.

  And in losing him nearly lost Quentin and here I was losing him again. I hadn’t wanted him to go off here, I hadn’t wanted him to leave. But it was the best chance he had to ever get out of the slums we lived in. he was clever, he’d gone to school for mechanics but it wasn’t a good school so he’d never have a decent job. I wanted him in the military like his father, surely that meant he’d be good at it, didn’t it? But here they were saying they needed me to see him except I didn’t see what they expected me to do I was why he was here I was doing no good that was why I’d let him go away I clearly wasn’t doing any good. and I’d have gone and gotten help and asked anyone I could for help asked them if they knew what to do for a boy. But I didn’t think anyone did know. I’d never met a man who was all right in the head. so why did I expect my son to be?

  “You can go in now,” a soldier says, a bit tentatively.

  “Okay, thanks,” I say, taking a deep breath and adjusting my sweater it’s cold in here my nose is running. I feel pale and ill-kept in this man’s eyes. some poor woman from god knew where coming to see her poor boy who was just lucky to be here.

  “Are you all right?” he asks.

  “No,” I admit, shaking my head.

  “He’s a good boy, you should be proud of him,” he says, sort of looking at his feet.

  “I am---I am, he’s the most wonderful thing that ever happened to me,” I say, realizing it’s true as I do. with Ian, I’d been scared, terrified of him dying. My first baby had died. that was a little girl. Amber. I never told anyone about her. never told them they had had a sister. She died when she was four years old. I just woke up in the night feeling like my heart was tearing open, and I went to look at her and she was cold and dead. so when I found out I was having Ian I was terrified. Terrified he’d die too because I was so incompetent. Well, he had. Just not as a baby.

  But when I found out about Quentin, I was happy. When I first saw him, he was so strong, a big, healthy baby. “We’ll take care of him, mum, I promise,” Ian had told me, “I’ll help you, we’ll be all right.” And we were all right. I got a real job because of him, Quentin. With two babies I knew I needed steady work, that wouldn’t get them hurt. And I’d been glad. I thought I’d have these two wonderful boys and I’d take care of them and we’d be all right. And Quentin was nothing like Ian. Ian had been small, pale, quiet and moody.

  Quentin was all smiles, sweet stout thing, always healthy, calm, he didn’t scare me like Ian did, getting fevers when we didn’t have money for medicine. No, he didn’t scare me not until he quit talking. Not until they both left me that awful awful night. I was sure Quentin was dead too, sitting there, staring at his brother’s body hanging on the end of that rope. And what haunted me the most, haunted me still, when I walked in, seeing Ian hanging there like that eyes bulging out, face pale and going purple, I’d screamed, of course, screamed and cried out and Quentin hadn’t moved—and I ran to him. I didn’t go to Ian, try to hold him up, nothing, I went to Quentin, I shook him and tried to figure out of he was still alive. and he’d just sat their stone-faced in shock. And I dragged him out of that awful room, slapped his face, trying to wake him up. He moved then, tried to walk back in there to look at his brother’s body. By then the neighbors had heard me screaming, somebody came over and shut the door and left us in the hall me crying and hugging Quentin and trying to see if he was alive. and I never said goodbye to Ian. I just abandoned him for Quentin who was already gone from me too. Sometimes I think I would have done Ian more good.

  “Yeah, he’s, ah—he’s a good kid,” the man says, just nodding, “He does a good job.”

  “He always was a good boy,” I say, not moving to step in. I want to do something, to say something that will make things better but I can’t I still don’t know what I’m going to say to him.

  “Don’t you want to see him?” He asks, softly.

  “Yes but---I don’t know what to say to him,” I say, “I never know what to say to help him, I always feel like I only make things worse---I never had any brothers, never knew any really good men—just---I try and I try and I try with him and everything I do it feels I like I make things worse not better and like I’m failing him and---do you have any children?”

  “Yes,” he said, nodding a little, “I have a daughter.”

  “Do you know how to talk to her?” I ask.

  “No, I have absolutely no idea,” he says, almost laughing, “But I’m really shit at most things, so by now, I’m pretty comfortable being here. incompetent, fairly useless, waste of space that I am.”

  “Oh god,” I say, almost laughing because that’s exactly how I feel.

  “I don’t think that’s what she thinks, though, at least I hope not,” he says, “I’m sure that’s not what your boy thinks either. Go on. having you is better than not, no matter what you say.”

  “You’re right,” I say, nodding, “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” he says, smiling a little, then he frowned, “Did only you come?”

  “Yes,” I say, “It’s just the two of us.”

  “He asked about a sister,” he says, still frowning.

  “She isn’t coming, school, I told them that,” I say, sharply. No that is the last thing I need. I told them it was only me. I need to keep him okay. God, why does this have to be so hard?

  “Maybe I misunderstood,” he says.

  “Maybe,” I say, but now I don’t want to go in at all. I don’t want to look in his eyes and see the words wanting to spill out of his lips but unable to.

  “Go on, then, he wanted to see you,” he says, nodding a little.

  “Yes, you’re right,” I say. I want to go in and ask him. but I can’t do it, I’m too afraid of not getting an answer. But I have to go in anyway. no matter how afraid I am he’s twice as. And I’m all he’s got, for better or worse, ruining his precious life or no. I have to try.

  My mum comes in quietly, almost like she’s afraid of me. I am leaning against the back wall, head tipped down to look at my combat boots, they aren’t bad boots.

  “Quentin?” she asks, almost nervously. I just look up at her really slowly because it’s very unreal that she’s here in this place even when they said she was coming.

  Why didn’t you come? Ginny still doesn’t answer me.

  “Hello, mum,” I say, straightening up. She comes up and hugs me then and I let her, hugging her back awkwardly. It’s been so long since I had an actual hug----it’s been since we said goodbye actually.

  “You’re so wonderful, look at you, in your uniform,” she says, leaning back and adjusting it on me, feeling the fabric, “I swear, you’ve grown an inch since I last saw you, so handsome.”

  “Sorry, they pulled you out of work,” I say.

  “No, it’s fine, doesn’t matter, not at all,” she says.

  “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m okay,” I say.

  “They said you weren’t talking,” she says, taking a deep breath, her hands are still on my arms like I’ll melt if she lets go.

  “I was just out of sorts. I’m fine; they asked me some stuff, because of what happened here at training, and it just got me riled, I came round though,” I say, evasively. I don’t want to go back there in my brain because I don’t know the way back.

  “Yeah, okay, good, I’m glad, I’m still glad to see you,” she says, squeezing me
.

  “Yeah, yeah definitely,” I say.

  “Are the other cadets---have you made friends?” she asks. She knows for a fact that I’ve never had any friends.

  “They’re fine. nice, this one girl, she talked to me, when I wasn’t talking so much and made me feel a bit better,” I say, closing my eyes and smelling the forest and feeling her cool lips on my cheek.

  “What’s her name?” my mother asks, smiling hopefully.

  “Tsegi, she died,” I explain.

  “what?”

  “I’m probably not supposed to tell you as it’s under investigation, but she did,” I say, shrugging.

  “That’s awful, Quentin I---”

  “It’s okay, I was there,” I say. I’m glad I found her. and wasn’t frightened of her. she wouldn’t have liked that.

  “Okay,” my mum is upset now.

  “Sorry, just thought I’d tell you,” I say.

  “No it’s fine, you’re fine, I wanted—I wanted to know,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “Yeah,” she says, “Are you um---eating all right?”

  “No, somebody wound up in the food so I’m just eating prepackaged cereal right now,” I say, honestly.

  “WHAT??”

  “It’s really healthy sort of stuff---”

  “What do you mean somebody wound up in the food?!”

  “Just that.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay.”

  Another fantastic conversation with my son I’m only upsetting him and making things worse I always do and he’s okay or he isn’t okay I can’t tell.

  “Where’s Ginny?” he asks, running a hand through his hair, which is so short now.

  “She had something with school---”

  “You know I know when you’re lying,” he looks straight at me.

  “She really couldn’t,” I say, closing my eyes.

  “Why though?” he asks. I open my eyes to look at him and he’s closed his eyes, his fist to his forehead. His voice has gotten deeper I think. And I do think he’s an inch taller. He reminds me so much of his father he haunts me now, standing like that, like his sire used to, fist to his head where did he pick that up? Where did he even know to do that or is it just written in his DNA somewhere just like the way he tips his chin to look at people shorter than him which is almost everyone. My sins living in front of me, with innocent eyes unaware of the sin of their creation.

  “Because she’s sick Quentin---”

  “You know you can’t take her to a hospital,” he says, sharply.

  “She’s okay it’s nothing---”

  “Tell me,” he says.

  “She’s fine Quentin she---”

  “TELL ME,” his voice is loud, booming in this tiny cement room. I tremble almost at it, but he doesn’t see he’s frightened me his eyes are glassy with anger. “TELL ME.”

  “They took her,” I say, quietly, my throat aching at saying the words.

  He swears. A word he never heard from me. he goes and leans his face into the wall.

  “Quentin,” I go over to touch his shoulder and every one of his muscles is stiff. Like when I pulled him away from Ian. His face is pressed against the cement and he’s not saying anything. “They took her from school they were doing searches I don’t know how they knew I swear it was nothing to do with you.” I hope they aren’t recording this somehow I wonder if we could get in trouble for knowing.

  “They’re killing her god damn it,” he says, his face still against the wall.

  “No they said we’d get to see her they said---”

  He swears again.

  “I couldn’t do anything, they just told me called me at work,” I say.

  “I’ll get her out,” he whispers.

  “No, you need to stay here you can’t---”

  “I said I’ll get her out,” he turns his face to look at me, eyes red from crying, “I swear on Ian’s grave I’ll get her out.”

  “You can’t do that Ginny wouldn’t want---”

  “Shut up,” he said, pressing his face into the cement, “Just shut up.”

  I start crying, then, leaning against the wall too, just sobbing and hugging myself. Because I’ve failed him again.

  “Is he gone?” I whisper to Logan.

  “Who, Titus? Oh yeah, has been,” he says, looking around. We’ve finished marching for now, and are lined up to get our tents and supplies for the night. I honestly enjoyed marching, it was sort of soothing to have Titus sing to us, mostly because then I knew where he was.

  “He’s going to get himself in trouble,” I sigh.

  “I don’t think so,” he says, “I think he’s immune to it.”

  “What, trouble?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” he says.

  “no, nobody is,” I say, “Trouble will find him one day.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say, walking over and hugging my mother as she sobs, “I’m so sorry. It’s okay, I’m just going to get her back. it’ll be okay, just the three of us, right?”

  “Yes, yes of course,” I say, hugging him back. just like I told Ian when he sat with me on the bed, the night Quentin was born. Me sick but I had to go to work the next day I’d only just got the job. And him, home alone for two days, thin as a rail, like always, lovely red hair sticking up ‘cause he hadn’t brushed it as he should and of course, I hadn’t been there too. I had been sobbing because I knew my Ian was going to have to walk to get us food that night because there was nothing left and I couldn’t think of what he could get for the money I had left in the bottom of my purse. I hadn’t even paid the hospital I’d just left and I was terrified they would come after me and take Quentin away. And I was terrified I’d lose the job because I’d oversleep or fall asleep at work because he’d keep me up crying. but he hadn’t. little angel, nothing like Ian, he was a quiet baby, slept soundly and then would mumble and moan until we fed him or changed him then he’d sleep again or just sit there looking at us. but I didn’t know that then so I’d sat there feeling sick with my newborn lying next to me on the bed, wrapped in an old towel because the only blankets I had for him were in fact towels we’d been collecting. And he was sleeping quietly but I was still afraid and so tired and hungry and sick and lonely that night.

  “We’ll be okay mum, I’ll help you take care of him. we’ll be all right. The three of us, just the three of us, right?” Ian said, so serious and grown-up, not even ten years old.

  “Yes, yes, of course, we will,” I told him, just like I tell Quentin now. but we weren’t all right. I’d failed the three of us, or Ian wouldn’t be dead. and the worst part was, I didn’t know what I’d done wrong. I had no idea. So I didn’t know how I was supposed to do it. but it wasn’t like this. Or I wouldn’t be failing again. but apparently failing was all I knew how to do.