Submersion (23 page)

I thought of the single word that had been inked on the original tape:
security.
Certainly not ours, that was for sure.

‘What do you want me to do with it?’ the old man asked.

‘Destroy it,’ Jessie replied and the old man nodded, no questions to be asked.

‘And what are you going to do?’ This came from Agnes.

‘Nothing,’ Jessie replied, without a second to think. ‘We do nothing. Whoever this is, let them come forward, let them confront us, but until then, we do nothing.’

I wasn’t sure if Jessie’s obvious refusal to accept this for what it was – a message from Monty that this was far from over – was for Agnes’ benefit (if we didn’t mention Monty, then maybe he wasn’t involved) or whether it was a sign that it was time to stick our heads in the water. Whatever his motivation, he was right.

There was nothing we could do.

We simply had to wait for
whoever
and his mighty mob to come forward and let us know exactly what he wanted from us next.

PLAY

‘Tell me a story. A dark one, a bit scary! I want to have nightmares!’

‘Have I told you about the Chamber of Doors?’

‘No, no you haven’t.’

‘The worst form of torture imaginable, the Chamber of Doors is the place that drains you of all hope, sucks out your very soul. And it’s a cruel, clever, slow torture. Are you sure you want to hear?’

‘Yes.’

‘In the chamber you walk through an endless succession of doors - as one in front opens, the one behind you closes. On and on you go. And up ahead, enticing you forward each time, is the one thing you desire more than anything else. But every time you move forward, it moves further away. And so the cycle continues. You move forward and your hopes and dreams elude you no matter how hard you push yourself, how fast you move to catch them up.’

‘Couldn’t you turn back?’

‘No.’

‘But what if you did?’

‘You can’t. Once in the Chamber, there is no turning back.’

‘No escape at all?’

‘No. Just the perpetual road ahead. To nowhere...’

PAUSE

              8. Billy

The story of my father – just like Mother’s working for Monty Harrison – is a secret I am supposed to keep to myself. And, just like Mother’s employment details, I’m not entirely sure why it’s a secret, and on the occasions I’ve enquired, Mother’s response has been short of explanation and sharp of tone.

‘So, where is your dad?’ Tilly Harrison asked me one day on our way into school.

We hadn’t been able to meet up at the train graveyard since the evening I snuck out – Mother had been keeping a vigilant eye on me. She had even recruited Grandad Ronan to give me a stern talking too – a measure that proved just how desperate she was to keep me from danger. It made me think about Tilly’s tales of children being taken again. Even if they weren’t true, something was definitely stirring away.

Yet, mine and Tilly’s friendship had continued to blossom all the same – on the speedboat journey to and from school and during break and lunch times. She had even called me on the telephone a few times – not that I was aware at the time, as Mother had simply told her I wasn’t available.
Stay away from that child!
she told me.
Yes Mother,
I promised, in a tone that was
almost pushing it,
but she let it go and I continued to meet up with Tilly unbeknown to her.
Just stop ringing,
I instructed my new friend and she promised.

‘So, what about your dad?’ Tilly asked again, when I’d not responded the first time.

It was a lunchtime at school. We were outside, sitting on the dry, cold grass, flattening small bumps into it with our squatted weight. No one else was within earshot, but I was still hesitant to tell her. The only other person I had spoken to about this was Old Man Merlin, and that was under pressure from him. Even my closest friends and family – Elinor, Tristan – never asked about my father, as if they had been warned off. (Which they probably had, knowing Mother.)

‘Why don’t you talk about it?’

By her third question, I felt compelled to offer Tilly some form of explanation.

‘He left a long time again,’ I said, looking about us, checking if anyone was likely to take any interest. ‘I was about five. I don’t remember him that well. But I do remember Mother’s crying. Endless, like he had died.’ I paused, before adding an impulsive: ‘And something else.’

In the end, the urge had been too great to resist. And, with those three words –
And something else
– I had committed myself to Tilly.

I felt the strong need to deliver something worthwhile. Following her lame, half-finished story regarding children being taken from schools, I wanted to show her just how great storytelling should be. I had been taught by the master after all – my good friend Tristan Jones. Further, whilst I didn’t remember my father particularly well, I did remember the odd circumstances of his leaving.

‘What?’ Tilly asked, almost gasping with excitement at the prospect of what I was about to disclose.

I shuffled a little closer, dragging my bottom along the cold, grassy earth, intensifying the moment. The school grounds were a perfect location for telling tales. With the grand, red-bricked Cathedral-like building behind us and the dead, grey waters surrounding us, threatening to suck us under if we veered too close to the edge of our safe, green mound, the atmosphere for a dark tale was naturally created. And, suddenly confident in my ability, I began.

‘The night he left, something unexpected occurred…’

No one ever talked freely about my father. My mother – that goes without saying. If he is mentioned, she goes tight-lipped and tearful. She doesn’t actually shed a tear – that’s all done with; I suspect there are none left to spill. But her eyes glaze, so you sense what’s being held back. The others don’t mention him, either. Aunt Agnes, Great-Aunt Penny, Great-Uncle Jimmy, Grandad Ronan; even my story-teller friend, Tristan, fails to weave him into the dense fabric of his tapestries.

I have asked in the past and the response is varied in its delivery.

‘It’s not my place.’ Aunt Agnes.

‘You don’t want to be dwelling on things like that. Now, off you go!’ Great-Aunt Penny.

‘That’s one for your mother.’ Grandad Ronan.

‘I didn’t really know him,’ Tristan. This was true, I guess – Tristan had only been around a matter of weeks when my father left. But I imagined he still knew things. After all, Tristan knew everything.

What I did have is my memory. Well, the memory of a five-year-old boy, listening from the shadows, remembering whispers and glimpses and colouring in the rest with my imagination.

Some things I remembered very clearly, though – some things were captured like photos in my head, an indisputable library of evidence.

The gift he brought home for us that day and placed on the kitchen table, and the laughter that peeled around the room as a consequence.

The row that happened; the crying and shouting.

The slamming of the door when he left.

And the inexplicable thing that occurred – the secret I shared with Old Man Merlin.

Mother’s clear instruction the following morning.

I was certain of my memory. Certain, as if it was a play I had rehearsed time and time again, or a storybook with pictures. It was still very vivid to me. And yet, sometimes I doubted it. See, there are moments of complete happiness in the memory; happiness that had since vanished from our lives. Happiness it was hard to believe ever existed. And yet, that was what I recalled.

A great deal of fuss, drama and secrecy was made about the item Father brought home and placed on the table. The
fuss and
drama
was all for me, and a little for Mother – I can still see her face, every aspect of it smiling. I’m sure she was smiling, although she does it so rarely now that I can’t help but wonder about that memory of mine. The
secrecy
was a necessity. What he brought home, it wasn’t strictly allowed.

‘You mustn’t tell anyone, Billy!’

He placed a large, square box in the centre of the table and paused, grinning, mainly looking at me, glancing briefly over to Mother.

‘Are you ready?’ he asked.

I nodded and he folded back the four flaps that created the lid of the box. Delving beneath a fuss of shredded paper, he pulled the item out and held it up, as if heralding the item’s arrival.

‘There you go. What a beauty!’ he announced, gleeful, relishing the moment and our reactions too. ‘What do you think, Billy?’

‘What is it?’ I asked, disappointed at the large brown, hairy item he revealed.

‘Fruit!’ Father announced, enjoying my reaction, as my face shriveled in further disgust.

‘Do I have to eat it?’ I asked, my dislike remaining.

‘It’s very different on the inside. Its exterior is deceptive, like a defence mechanism. Inside, it’s a very different creature.’

‘But you said it was a fruit.’

‘It is, Billy. A beautiful, white fruit. You just have to crack it open.’

‘Can we crack it now?’ I asked.

I recalled Mother laughing; another memory photograph. Her laughter; like a treasure in
the deep chest of my mind. It had since faded, like a cheap proof, and I strained to recall it perfectly. But it was still there, lingering, like a hope not quite lost.

The oddest thing is that I had a memory of Mother telling me the story of Father and the coconut, over and over again. Like it was the only part of that day she could bear to remember. Like it was the only happy part of it all. The rest of what happened, she refused to discuss. And so we got into our pattern of never mentioning him. Never mentioning any of it.

Yet, even as I recalled it all to Tilly, I couldn’t help but doubt myself. Father holding up the item, his words and joy, Mother’s laughter – had it really happened? Had we all been that happy once? Or had I made this version up, to hide how things really were? No, it had to be true. It was so clear in my head; so undoubtedly real.

‘Maybe later,’ Mother had interjected, all those years ago, not crushing our joy, but simply putting it to one side for a while. ‘It’s late and someone needs to get ready for bed. Go on, up you go. I’ll be up to say goodnight in a minute or so.’

But she never did.

Once I was upstairs – proudly stripping off day clothes and pulling on night ones, something I’d only recently mastered to perfection on my own – things seemed to happen that changed the course of things. Mother’s laughter was stolen away – like someone had broken into her soul and stolen this jewel, with just a fragment remaining undetected in my memory. My father was reduced to a cowering wreck; his solid, upright frame shuddering with sobs. All this I heard coming up from below, the sounds tracing their way to me in invisible steps up the staircases. A row to end it all. A row that led to Father leaving us.

Later, I would find the table centre piece – the focal point of the end of our day – smashed to pieces. Contrasting, jagged pieces of hairy exterior and waxy white insides laying shattered over a thick, red table cloth, a milky river weeping out from the centre, dripping away onto the floor. Red mixed with white, sloshed across the table, like animal remains.

Looking back, I see the cracking open of the coconut as the catalyst. Father was wrong – there wasn’t just white fruit in the centre of that hard, furry nut; something else had escaped. Unleashed upon the world, it polluted the room with its undetectable poison, taking the life out of the happiness I had experienced there, leaving me with inexplicable sorrow.

At least, that’s how I see it, looking back. That’s what my five year-old brain captured with its internal camera.

That night, whilst I had lay patiently in my bed, awaiting Mother’s habitual good night kiss and ritual tucking in of my covers, below their row ensued.

I couldn’t hear what was said, but I heard their crying – heard it from both of them. And an awful, awful shriek at one point. A blood-curdling cry; an inhuman, animal cry. A sound so petrifying that it kept me rigid. Kept me imprisoned in my bed…

‘What was it?’ Tilly asked me, stopping me for the first time.

It was nearing the end of our break time and the interruption irritated me a little. She had broken my flow. Further, what if there wasn’t time to conclude it?

‘I don’t know,’ I told her, doing my best to hide that annoyance.

‘Oh.’ There was no doubting the disappointment in that single syllable.

‘It might have been one of them, I guess,’ I said, but I could see that this answer was unsatisfactory. I’d lured her in, but hadn’t delivered the goods. A bit like when she’d disappointed me with her weak tale of stolen children.

The sudden ringing of the school bell - signaling the end of lunchtime, instructing us to return to our respective classes - brought our time together to an end. Worrying that I had lost her interest, I found myself rushing out a key part of my story – the part I’d told old Merlin – to ensure I kept her intrigued.

‘He disappeared, Tilly,’ I hurried, as we entered the main entrance, walking at the fastest pace allowed – anything above trot was punishable with lines, and running resulted in the sting of the cane across your knuckles, both hands.

‘What do you mean?’

‘He vanished,’ I repeated, but she’d reached her class and was naturally dragged inside by the unrelenting current of her fellow classmates.

I saw her turn head again and mouth a perplexed
What?
But my full conclusion would have to wait till later.

‘Continue,’ she instructed on our journey home.

We sat at the very back of the school speedboat, leaning in close to each other, so I could whisper, but still be heard above the roar of the engine and the hissing spray of the water.

‘Okay – are you ready?’ I said, a question I imagined Tristan would ask, gearing up for a big finale…