A black Saab stopped on the other side of the road and a man in a suit climbed out of the passenger side. He didn’t have any luggage. He crossed the street, checked the departures sign and stood next to the bus stop.
“You’re sure?”
Lisa snorted. “Dude. I’m a grown-ass woman.”
“Call me when you get back to Thames?”
“It’ll be the first thing I do. Now go do something important, you fancy Aucklander.”
Just before he turned onto Manukau Road Peter took another look in the rear-view mirror. Lisa had her head down, looking at her phone. The man was reading a newspaper. Peter pulled out into the traffic.
He told himself he wasn’t waiting near the door just so he could get a glimpse of Samuel when he got in. But it was nearly three thirty and there he was, sitting at the kitchen table where he had a good view of the living room and the front door beyond. When he heard footsteps on the path outside he put down his coffee cup.
Samuel came in quietly, almost bent over. His hair hung in front of his face.
“Hey, Buddy,” Peter said, hoping the fear he felt didn’t carry in his voice. “How was your day? Can I get you something to drink?”
Samuel shook his head.
“Everything okay?”
Samuel looked up. The bruise ran from his cheekbone to the corner of his eye. “I told you Dad,” Samuel said, “Everything is fine.”
Peter took a step back. “Who did this to you?”
Samuel didn’t speak.
“You need to tell me, Samuel. I need to make sure Principal Bridwell is aware that—”
“I can handle it.”
“Samuel, this isn’t something you need to handle. I’ll call Principal Bridwell now.”
“You won’t tell anyone,” Samuel’s voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. But there was a strength behind it that made Peter look at his son again. The bruise stood out stark and angry on his cheek. But Samuel’s face was expressionless.
“Samuel, it’s not fair, I’m your father,” Peter could hear the whining in his voice and he hated himself for it. He fell silent.
Samuel stared at Peter, waiting to see if he was going to say anything more. Peter lowered his head. He felt like he’d just lost an important battle.
Samuel turned away. “I’ve got homework.”
Samuel didn’t emerge from his room for the rest of the evening. Peter sat downstairs, flicking through channels on the TV, but not settling on anything for more than a couple of minutes. Several times he found himself standing, walking halfway to the stairs, but forced himself to sit back down. He wanted more than anything to talk to Samuel, but he still felt sore from the conversation earlier, as if he were the one with the bruise, not Samuel. He paced, did the dishes, then a load of laundry.
Lisa didn’t call, which didn’t surprise Peter at all. She would have had every intention of letting him know she’d arrived safely for about five minutes after getting on the bus. Then she would have found some interesting gossip on her phone and forgotten completely. He picked up his phone a few times, and then put it back on the coffee table. He knew what she’d say if he told her about the new bruise. She’d tell him to get on the phone to Bridwell right away and let him know. Then she’d be up all night worrying too.
So he sat. He felt a pressure building around the sides of his skull. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths. After Melanie’s diagnosis he’d started suffering from panic attacks and they always started like this. Then he’d get agitated and have trouble breathing. He’d tried to hide them from Melanie. After all, what was a little freak-out compared to what she was going through? But she was too smart for that. It’s okay, she’d say, as if she hadn’t been chugging painkillers all day. Just let it out. Close your eyes. Breathe.
So he sat and he closed his eyes and he breathed. Eventually he felt the pressure easing. He leaned back on the couch and looked up at the ceiling. His head felt clearer, as if he’d been for a walk around the block.
He went upstairs. Samuel’s door was closed. He knocked and when there was no response he quietly opened the door. Samuel was already in bed. New textbooks were stacked up on his desk. It annoyed him that Samuel hadn’t bothered to say goodnight. Samuel looked younger when he was asleep and Peter felt a pang of loss. How many times had they stood just like this, him and Melanie, looking down at their boy’s face? Back when the future was as open and unmarked as Samuel’s new exercise books.
It had to be Fullerton. Peter thought about the look the boy had given him in Bridwell’s office. A rich kid with attendance at Saint Enoch’s as a birthright—the little psychopath had probably tormented Samuel and didn’t even think about it afterwards. He’d go in to school tomorrow. Bridwell would be shocked to hear that Samuel was being bullied, especially in his first week. He’d sort it out. It would feel good to call Lisa, let her know he’d sorted everything.
Peter closed Samuel’s door.
He was walking barefoot on the plain of cracked earth. The sky was not quite the same as it had been in his last dream. The purple hue was darker now. The air had a sharp, acidic taste, something like iron. He wondered about the dust he was kicking up with every step. Perhaps it would be wise to stop walking, let the dust settle.
Something was over the horizon. Then he felt a twist, as if his mind had seen what was there, then quickly turned away, as if it was trying to protect him from something he should not see.
But he had to see.
He willed himself to move forward. A breeze picked up and he coughed against the dust. He hadn’t gone more than fifty paces before the wind became a sandstorm. He closed his eyes but he could feel the sand rasping against his skin. More than anything he wanted to stop, turn around, and run the other way. He knew with the certainly of dream logic that if he did the storm would cease, but he lowered his head and took another step, then another.
The wind screamed in his ears and stole the air from his mouth.
Bridwell was in a meeting so the receptionist asked Peter to wait. He took a seat on a couch next to a cabinet full of trophies. The walls were covered with framed pictures of past students in poses of triumph: a film director receiving an Oscar; the captain of the Auckland Blues hoisting the Ranfurly shield; a faded newspaper article from the eighties featuring a bespectacled man in a suit under the headline ‘The Ten Million Dollar Man’.
Prominently placed off to one side, the award-winning photo of the current Prime Minister from last year’s profile in The Guardian. Barefoot in the wet sand of Bethells Beach in winter, hands thrust into the pockets of his expensive jeans, smiling at something behind the photographer. Paul couldn’t stand the guy, had never voted for him, but he’d read the article. It was little more than a puff piece but he could understand how his party had swept into power in a landslide two years ago. In the article the Prime Minister had spoken of his time at St. Enoch’s in glowing terms. There had always been a small number of boarding students and the now-Prime Minister had been one of them when his parents were killed. They had been returning to their home in Napier after a day trip to the beach at Waimarama. The 1958 Bedford truck was unregistered, with three bald tyres. The driver was well past eighty and had not held a driver’s license for two years when his left arm went numb, his chest began to burn, and the truck drifted over the centre line. ‘I wouldn’t be here today,’ the Prime Minister had said in the profile, ‘and I certainly would not have become Prime Minister without the drive and persistence I was taught in five glorious years at St. Enoch’s.’ That sentence had probably resulted in a 20% increase in fees the next year.
Peter noticed his leg was jiggling up and down. He stopped it and took a few deep breaths. He heard Melanie’s voice in his head again. Just let it out. Close your eyes. Breathe.
“Mr. Wilson?”
Peter opened his eyes.
“You
can go in now,” The receptionist said.
Bridwell came out from behind his desk. “Mr. Wilson, so good to see you again. Please, take a seat.” There were a couple of chairs and a low table in the corner of the office. “Would you like a coffee?”
Peter shook his head. “No, I’m fine.”
“How is Samuel adjusting to life at St. Enoch’s?”
“He’s…well, there’s a problem. He’s—” Peter had been running this discussion over in his mind all morning, but here he was and he couldn’t get the words out. “He’s…I think he’s being bullied.”
Bridwell’s looked dismayed. “Oh my, and this is still only his first week.”
“Well, yes. It’s—”
“What makes you think he’s being bullied?”
“He comes home and goes straight to his room. I’ve barely seen him the last couple of days.”
Bridwell nodded. “The first few days at a new school can be tough, particularly when you’re adapting to a new city as well. He’s probably overwhelmed with everything. Perhaps he’s just exhausted when he gets home.”
“He’s got a black eye.”
Bridwell didn’t say anything for several seconds. “Oh dear,” he said. “You must be feeling terrible.”
“It doesn’t matter how I feel. Someone is hitting my son!” Peter could feel his face flushing red. He hadn’t meant to raise his voice.
“As I’m sure you know, we take a zero-tolerance approach to bullying at St. Enoch’s. If someone has been bullying your son, you have my word I will find out.”
“Wait—what do you mean if?”
“You say he has a black eye, but we don’t know what happened. I’ll talk to his teachers and some of the prefects and try to get to the bottom of what happened.” Bridwell smiled, obviously an attempt to calm the father down, but the sight of it just made Peter angry.
“But he’s being bullied! It’s that prefect that took him to class yesterday.”
Bridwell frowned. “That’s a serious accusation to make Mr. Wilson. What makes you think Fullerton might be harming your son?”
Peter started to reply. Closed his mouth.
Bridwell smiled softly. “I’ll find out what’s been happening and let you know. I’ll be in touch. Don’t worry, Mr. Wilson. I’ve been a Principal for many years. I’ve found that these things have a way of working themselves out. “
He was obviously being dismissed. Peter wanted to say something, to let Bridwell know what he really thought of his precious St. Enoch’s, but instead he found himself on his feet, walking towards the door.
“Oh, Mr. Wilson.”
Peter turned.
“I do hope we’ll see you at the mixer this Friday night. It’s a chance for you to see a different side to the school. I think you might really appreciate it.”
Peter found himself smiling, hated himself for it. “I’ll see you there.”
The house felt like a prison when he returned home. He’d already made the beds and tidied the place before his meeting with Bridwell, so there was nothing to do. It was going to be a scorcher of a day. He should make the most of being an Aucklander now; do some exploring, visit the shops, go to the beach, but he was shattered. Those bloody dreams had ruined his sleep for the whole week. They hung around during the day too. Several times he’d closed his eyes just for a couple of seconds and found himself back there, walking barefoot on that cracked plain under those glistening stars. He blinked. Had he nodded off standing in the kitchen? For a second he thought about taking himself back to bed, but he had never slept well during the day, and he didn’t think today was going to be any different. He put a couple of spoons of instant coffee in a cup. Then he added a couple more.
He called Lisa again while he waited for the kettle, but there was still no answer. He left her another message. His voice echoed in the empty kitchen.
He looked up at the ceiling. Samuel’s room was directly above the kitchen.
He stood in the doorway, holding an empty plastic bag. I’m not spying, he told himself. I’m tidying.
Samuel’s room was spotless. He’d made his bed, just as he’d done the last two days. The first couple of times Peter had been impressed—Samuel had never been so tidy at home, but something about the perfectly turned-down duvet, completely free of wrinkles, felt wrong.
He crouched down and peered under the bed. Normally he’d expect to see half-finished muesli bars and potato chip wrappers, along with several week’s-worth of laundry, but it was spotless.
Peter opened the top drawer of the dresser. Socks on the left, underwear on the right, perfectly organised. The next drawer was full of t-shirts, perfectly folded. Samuel was just a kid. Kids were supposed to be messy and smelly and complain about cleaning their room. They didn’t turn into neat freaks overnight. It just didn’t happen.
There was something balled up at the very back of the bottom drawer. Peter had to stare at it for several seconds before he could understand what he was seeing—one of Samuel’s new white uniform shirts. Whatever had happened to the thing, Samuel couldn’t have been wearing it at the time. One of the arms had been ripped off completely. The arm that was still attached was shredded with long, straight cuts that ran from shoulder to cuff. And on the front was a bloodstain larger than his fist.
He dropped the shirt. It lay on the floor in the middle of the bedroom like something dragged from the sea. After a while he picked it up again and shoved it back in the bottom drawer where he’d found it.
The afternoon passed with nothing to show for it. He wanted, needed, to talk to Samuel about the shirt, but he couldn’t see how. If he mentioned it, Samuel would know Peter had been in his room, but it wasn’t as if he could say nothing. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Peter had always been a confident parent, from the moment he’d first heard Samuel’s newborn cry. At every phase in their life together he’d somehow known exactly what to do, what to say. Even at the worst of times, the last few weeks of Melanie’s life and the desolate months that followed, his relationship with Samuel had always been there. They still had each other, and he’d thought they always would. He suddenly felt like he was living with a stranger.
Samuel didn’t arrive home until nearly five. Peter jumped up from the table when he heard the door rattle and nearly ran across the kitchen. He forced himself to slow down a little, then stopped dead when he saw.
“What happened?”
Samuel’s sleeves were rolled up. He raised his right hand. His knuckles were raw. Samuel clenched his fist and fresh blood began to flow. It ran down his forearm to his elbow and dripped on the floor. Samuel looked at his own blood as if it were an exotic insect he was seeing for the first time.
“I told you not to go to Bridwell. I told you I could handle it.” A slow smile spread across Samuel’s face, turned into a sneer. “It’s been handled.”
A buzzing started in Peter’s head. He took a step backwards, felt his back hit the wall.
“I need a shower,” Samuel said. “And then I have homework.” He looked down at the blood fallen from his fist, a stain now spreading across the carpet. “Clean that up.”
Peter closed his eyes for a moment. When he looked again Samuel was gone. Samuel didn’t leave his room for the rest of the night and when Peter woke the next morning he found himself alone.
He’d been telling himself a story the whole afternoon. Samuel would come home and say he didn’t want to go. They’d go out to dinner instead, check out a movie. They’d gorge themselves on ice cream and popcorn, stay up too late and sleep in the next day. It would be the perfect evening, just the two of them. But Samuel came home and went straight to his room, without a word.
Peter waited as long as he could. Then he went upstairs and knocked on Samuel’s door. “Hey, buddy? You still keen on going to this thing tonight? We could skive off and go see a movie instead. You know
…if you wanted?”
Samuel opened the door, but only a crack. “No. We’re going.”
“Oh. Okay. Well, I was just wondering-”
The door closed again.
Peter’s suit was still hanging on the back of the door, right where he’d left it. He’d taken it off as soon as he got back from dropping Samuel off at the school on Monday. Wearing a suit twice in a week. The last time he’d worn it was Melanie’s funeral.
He tried to call Lisa a couple more times. When her recorded voice asked him to leave a message he hung up. He’d already left enough.
Samuel appeared in the living room just before seven. He was wearing his uniform, tie straight, shoes polished.
“Looking sharp son,” Peter said. Samuel shrugged.
Samuel didn’t say a word the whole drive. Peter kept wanting to say something, anything, to break the silence, but he kept quiet as well. There had been a Saint Enoch’s monastery once, back before the school. Peter didn’t know if the monks were the kind that took a vow of silence. Perhaps that had something to do with the way all the conversations he tried to start with people from Saint Enoch’s sputtered and died. Even with his own son.
He gripped the steering wheel and looked out into the night.
Peter hadn’t been in the school hall before. Even if he had, he might not have recognised it. Thick red curtains hung from the ceiling, hiding all the gym equipment. Jazz played through the PA speakers. If it were not for the lines of the basketball court still visible on the floor, Peter could have sworn he was at a yacht club.
It was crowded. All the men wore expensive suits. The women wore thin, silky dresses. Peter pulled at the collar of his shirt again. His suit hung awkwardly on him, as if he’d recently gained weight, or lost it.
Bridwell was waiting near the door. “Mr. Wilson. So glad you could make it. Good evening, Samuel.”
Cthulhu Land of the Long White Cloud AU Page 12