by Sam Nash
Another browser window, another trawl. This time, she picked through her Facebook feed. Hugo Blom was capitalising on his new-found fame. Legions of Christian worshippers flocked to his side in support of the struggles he faced daily over his unnatural desires. His impassioned speech at Parliament Square, recorded in video snippets, littered Mary’s Facebook news feed. Her name was tagged on every post and tirade. Someone had created an animated gif of Mary’s explosive appearance on stage, her electromagnetic discharge played over and over in a loop. This was not going to fade quietly into the background.
Mary held her head in her hands. The likelihood of the Prime Minister keeping her promise grew ever more doubtful. The door creaked. Mary whipped her head around to find the boy watching her through a sliver of a gap. Busted, he bound into the room.
“Time’s up lady.” He stood next to her, reading the visible comments on the screen. Mary quickly closed the browser windows, glaring at his intrusion. She had seen enough. Her notoriety continued building in Britain but, as yet, they were unable to pinpoint her location. Time was on her side.
Wandering back to her room, a bumble bee ricocheted from the window, reminding her of Alexi’s issues. His insistence that technology was killing worldwide bee populations, followed by a memory of large trucks leaving an underground facility. What was Alexi up to? Not my problem anymore. He can go on playing with his bees and erecting more wind turbines to his heart’s content. But, why would he need a team of telepaths unless he had another grand plan in the pipeline?
Mary pushed him from her mind. Her new life was all that mattered, not his potential to destroy others. She grabbed her satchel and crept down the stairs. Mrs Kent was still in the yard. Mary could see her through the rear windows, wrestling with billowing bedsheets from the washing line. An eleven-pm curfew, eh? I’ll be back long before then. She skipped down the porch steps and out onto the street.
The wind cut through her flimsy clothes, chilling her skin to ice. She had just enough time to register the first few spots of rain, before the deluge arrived. Mary ran the five hundred metres to the end of the street and sought shelter beneath the shop awnings. Soaked through, she looked about her for a potential haven. Her choices were slim. Most shops had closed for the evening, leaving her with the steakhouse, a Chinese takeaway, or further down the road, the diner.
I can’t imagine Mrs Kent allowing me to eat a Chinese takeaway in my room; all those foreign smells and messy noodles. A vegetarian in a steakhouse would not fare particularly well. The diner it is then. Clutching her satchel tight to her chest, Mary ran the length of the block, back to the diner.
Bowling in through the doors, she almost ran into the waitress.
“Back again, honey? Did you find the Kent’s place okay?”
“I did, thank you. It is wild out there.”
“Sure is. Wilder still across the border in Philly.” The waitress nodded towards the television above the counter. “The storm has wrecked no end of buildings. Let’s hope it blows northwards, eh? What can I getcha?”
Mary sat at the counter, along with a number of workmen, fresh from their shift. Most ate in silence, watching the news play out on the screen. Behind her in the booths, sat families with young children dressed in a variety of after school apparel, from cheerleading outfits to martial arts garb.
“I am rather peckish. Do you have any vegetarian dishes?”
“We can do you an omelette, or grilled cheese, or an omelette?” The waitress scratched her head with the end of her biro, in quiet thought.
“Thank you, an omelette sounds lovely.”
“You want fries with that?”
“Yes, please. May as well go the whole hog.”
“Pardon me?”
“Fries would be lovely, thanks.”
A man sitting near to Mary bellowed a garbled instruction to the waitress. She seemed to comprehend him fully, dashing to the remote control and raising the volume on the TV.
The reporter stood beneath a glass overhang, speaking to camera. Behind her, blue flashing lights and medics wheeling a trolley into the rear of an ambulance. “As far as we can tell, the senator is alive and fully conscious. At present. All we know for sure is that at six thirty this evening, Senator Luca Bonovich was struck by lightning at the opening ceremony of the new Bonovich Community Baseball field.” The reporter paused, while the storm rampaged around her and her crew, knocking them sideways in the force of the wind. A hand appeared in the shot, wiping the rain from the lens.
“Witnesses say that shortly after the ribbon was cut, the senator was invited to pitch from the mound. It was at this point, that the senator was struck. Medical teams rallied and re-started his heart at the scene. We will follow his progress and update viewers as events occur. Back to the studio.”
A few people murmured their concern for the politician. One woman looked to be uttering a prayer, before kissing the crucifix hanging around her neck. Most returned their attention to the food on their plates without comment.
The news broadcast ended with a weather forecast for the region. Once again, the diner grew silent, listening out for the predicted trajectory of the storm. Confident that the epicentre was shifting in a north easterly direction, the broadcaster gave warnings to towns and cities that lay in its path. Their township was not among them. Tension in the diner visibly eased. The babble of community life returned to full volume, and the waitress adopted a relieved smile. “Poor man. Let’s hope he recovers soon. Would anyone like more coffee?”
Within ten minutes, Mary was presented with a steaming plate of omelette and fries, and a tasteless cup of tea to wash it down. She tucked into the meal with relish, complimenting the waitress for the perfect eggs. This tiny iota of praise, prompted the waitress to grab the remote and switch channels on the television. Her customers wailed and moaned, but it made little impact.
“Would you like a channel from your neck of the woods, honey? We got cable.”
“Really? Thank you. Do you have access to the BBC news?” Mary asked, without putting much thought into the outcome of such a request.
“Sure do…” The waitress pressed a menu, scrolled down to the BBC and selected the option.
World news events, bored the clientele. One or two sitting at the counter squinted up from their meals every now and then, but most ignored the broadcast. The Italians were celebrating a papal visit with another dignitary, the French bemoaned fishing quotas and the Swedes were congratulating themselves on a new method for treating Alzheimer’s patients.
Mary recognised two customers arriving at the diner, each holding a raincoat over their heads. It was Shandy and her friend from the bank. She clocked Mary at the counter. Her response was to choose a booth to Mary’s left, allowing her ample opportunities to be seen sneering and glowering.
Time rolled on. Eventually, the world news swung back to Britain. Mary peered up at the screen to see the familiar red curved settee in the BBC news studio. She almost choked when the next guest was introduced. Dr Hugo Blom perched on the sofa, soberly dressed in V-neck sweater and cotton slacks. Twisting around, Mary was relieved to see that no one in the diner paid Hugo any attention. Video footage of the pilgrims’ march through the streets of London, stopping at Trafalgar Square before marching along to Parliament Square, were of little interest to the inhabitants of a New Jersey township.
The RSS feed of headlines scrolled along the bottom of the screen. Prime Minister stricken by legionnaires outbreak at the Houses of Parliament. Pharmaceutical giant fined for dumping illegal waste into river channels and water courses. Mary scoffed at the deception, tucking into her omelette and skinny fries.
The waitress had the remote control again. She squinted at the television, and then down at Mary, and back to the screen. “Hey, ain’t that you up there on that stage, honey?” She squeezed the volume button, and gestured across the diner. “Hey everyone, we have a star in our midst. Quiet now…” The township residents all hushed at the command, obli
ging the waitress with their attention.
Mary shrank down as low as her posture would allow, shutting her eyes tight to the revelation. She had no need to watch. She knew the replay would show her standing centre stage in front of the Arch Bishop of Canterbury, addressing a crowd of fifty-thousand irate Christian worshippers. The dissent which ensued after viewing a YouTube video of Mary performing actual transubstantiation in a laboratory at Imperial College, London. Some were in awe of the possibility that she might actually be the new messiah, others threw their jaunts and jeers in verbal combat.
“So, what?” Shandy sneered. “So, she is a bit famous in the back end of Europe. Who cares?” She slammed her burger down on her plate, sending the cutlery crashing to the table. “Switch over to the game. No one wants to see this snooty Brit on TV.” The waitress shushed her, delivering a scornful glare. She increased the volume a few more notches.
The video clip paused, the cameras cut back to the studio, where Hugo Blom preened.
“That was quite a feat you pulled off there, Dr Blom, how did you achieve those numbers in such a short span of time?” The lady presenter asked.
“Well, it was simple really. The video I posted online, girded such overwhelming support, I felt it was my Christian duty to act.” Hugo picked at a fragment of lint from his knee, doing his best to look chaste and innocent.
“And this is the video claiming to show the unusual abilities of Mary Arora?”
“Yes, it was taken as evidence for an experiment suggested by her husband Dr Parth Arora.”
“Can we see the clip now?” The presenter touched the small device in her ear. “Yes, we can go to that now.” The picture altered to one of Parth and Hugo, celebrating their discovery with mugs of wine.
The diner was silent but for the sound of clattering pans from the kitchen. Mary braced herself as her ex-husband uttered those fateful words. The phrase that had sent a ripple of revulsion through the faithful around the virtual globe. The statement that gave rise to the British Prime Minister denouncing Mary as mentally ill.
“Mary,” Parth shouted from the monitor. “Turn this water into wine for us.”
It was as though the whole world simply stopped. Every mouth hung open in the diner as they watched the colourless liquid transform into a dark syrupy burgundy with just a touch. Scrabbling with her purse, Mary knew it was time to go. Thrusting a few dollars beneath the edge of her plate, Mary gathered herself up, and turned to leave.
Shandy led the charge. “I just knew there was something off about her…didn’t I say…?”
The family of cheerleaders and karate kids flinched as Mary approached. “Move away from that woman, Chet, before she turns you into a frog or something.” Workmen sat at the counter watching in awe. The video feed had returned to images of Mary on stage. Chanting from the masses grew in a crescendo, all baying for Mary to show them her capabilities.
The small woman alone on the stage looked harassed and agitated. Mary looked up at the playback of herself losing control of her electromagnetic discharge, frying the cabling, circuitry, sound systems and giant screen in a spectacular array of electrical sparks and secondary flames. The workmen gasped, waiting for a slow-motion replay. The waitress dropped the remote on the counter and stepped backwards, her gum resting on her trembling lips. Even Shandy was muted.
Mary hurried towards the door. “I never intended for any of this to happen.” She yelled over her shoulder. “I didn’t mean to offend anyone.” She ran. The rain pelted down, flattening the curls to her face and chilling her bones. She could hear them coming after her, scraping the counter stools across the hard flooring and yelling swearwords through the closing door.
The diners spilled out onto the pavement beneath the shop awnings. Mary sprinted around the corner and across the wide road. Street lamps flickered on in the stormy evening light, distracting her from the commotion up ahead. As she passed the edge of the library building, Mary saw vehicles screeching to a halt outside the guest house. Some of the vans had aerials and satellite dishes mounted on the rooves.
Emblazoned across the side of the vans and people carriers were the letters CNN. The United States media circus had arrived.
Chapter Five
Mary dashed behind the trunk of a Maple tree. This is crazy. How the hell did they get here so fast? She sneaked a look towards the guest house. Mrs Kent’s son stood sneering on the veranda. The old woman packed up her crochet, strained to rise from the rocking chair, and shuffled past her grandson and into the house. This was his carnival, and nothing was going to stop him.
A slew of reporters, camera and sound engineers bundled from the vans and rushed to the porch steps. Mary could hear several people speaking at once, but nothing distinct. She scurried from the tree to the front stoop of the library. The overhang gave little shelter in the swirling storm and it faced the main drag of the street. The reporters only had to turn around and they would spot her in an instant.
Slipping around the side of the building, Mary found a covered area, enclosing the library rubbish bins. Hunkered down, between the dumpsters, she tried to rationalise her options. I doubt anyone from the diner would give me a lift to the next town now. I will have to walk the distance in the morning. How the hell am I going to get the money and Grandma Phebe’s brooch from that bloody safe?
Van doors slammed, metal poles clanged together and engineers muttered brief instructions from the roadside. The camera crews were setting up their encampment. A siege, just for her. I wonder if the boy knows that I am not in my room? Little sod must have back-tracked through my browser history and spotted the YouTube links. I wonder how much CNN agreed to pay him for my whereabouts?
Mary hugged herself. The last grey fingers of daylight slipped away. Wasps gathered around a patch of sticky liquid, oozing from the base of the trash cans. The stench of rotting coffee grounds and spilled soda invaded her senses. If I could just… An idea popped into her thoughts. She squeezed between the dustbins and found a squashed cardboard box. Ripping it open, she lay the flat sections of dry board on the floor, in the most sheltered section of the covered area, and sat down.
With her satchel beneath her knees and her back against the library wall, Mary closed her eyes and hummed a tune to herself in the darkness. The same tune that harmonised her brain waves to match that of the Earth’s resonant frequencies. The Beatles number that her grandfather would sing to her in infancy. With her alpha rhythms in sync, Mary disassociated her mind from her body, and flew.
In a roiling mass of energy, Mary’s consciousness slipped around the corner of the library building and soared high above the Kent’s guest house. The camera crew were still unrolling cables and connecting their microphones up to record an interview. The boy had a massive grin plastered across his pimply face. There was no way that Mary could feasibly take control of him, without drawing attention to his actions.
The grandmother was a wholly different entity. That was who she needed to find. Commanding her nebulous mass, Mary pushed her consciousness through the roof of the guest house and descended the central staircase to the hallway. She could see the boy through the open front door, his stance as confident as his mother’s. With no time to lose, Mary shifted towards the rear of the building, passing the dining room and into the kitchen.
Mrs Kent stood by the oven, slipping her hands into heatproof mitts. The grandmother was shuffling towards a high-backed chair next to the range, clutching her crochet bag to her body. Rather her than Mrs Kent…Mary mused. Steering herself to face the old woman, Mary blended with her sight, and took control of her central nervous system.
The pain was instant; an ache in almost every joint. Spasms in her left hip caused Mary’s energy to fluctuate, forcing her to concentrate hard on the task. She batted the grandmother’s psyche into a sleep state, and dropped the crochet bag on the chair. Turning around, she shuffled the old woman’s body back through the kitchen and into the hallway.
This is taking forever. No w
onder the poor old dear just sits on the porch all day with her wool. Grabbing the banister for support, Mary dragged the body up the stairs, one agonising step at a time. By the tenth tread, Mary was aware of a dull ache in the lower abdomen. A sinister mass of cancerous cells divided and multiplied at a lethal rate. The invasion was impossible to ignore.
Mary swallowed, and refocused. There was nothing she could do to help, except leave the woman’s body alone. Guilt swept through her consciousness. I’m using a dying woman to collect my belongings. I’ll be as quick as I can grandma. Bear with me. At the top of the stairs, Mary had to stop to allow the body to draw breath. Lactic acid built in the muscles to displace the pain from worn joints.
A few more steps, and she was inside her room. She moved to the wardrobe and opened the doors. The safe was just as it had been left. For a brief moment, Mary wondered if the boy had tampered with the lockbox; perhaps overridden Mary’s programming with an admin code and helped himself to the money. What if he has taken Phebe’s brooch?
In cold alarm, Mary jabbed at the keypad with a bony knuckle and fumbled with the latch. The brooch lay on top of the money wallet and passport. All was well, until Mary heard the bedlam from the media crew growing louder; the rumble of multiple footsteps on the stairs, drawing nearer. The boy had invited the reporters inside.
Mary scooped up the safe contents, tucking the flat items into the waistband of the old woman’s skirt, and tightening the brooch into her fist. She slammed the wardrobe closed and shambled as fast as the old body could muster.
There was a light tap on the door. Mary was trapped. She rehearsed sentences inside her mind. Coaxing them into an excuse for his grandma’s presence, but what could she say? Did the old woman have an accent? How would she sound to them?
The boy sprang into the room, followed by a rush of eager people. They did a three hundred and sixty degree sweep of the room, ignoring the old woman entirely. “Oh, she’s not here.” The boy uttered. “She’ll be in the bathroom.”