"If you have lived one day, you have seen everything.
One day equals all days. There is no other light, no other night. The Sun, Moon
and Stars, disposed just as they are now, were enjoyed by your grandsires and
will entertain your great-grandchildren."
Montaigne.
In the
beginning, there was silence. A rustle of dry autumn leaves, blown by bitter
October winds. Tom could smell rain was coming. His scrawny frame perched on
the edge of a steep valley, through which ran a rust orange stream. He tossed the
long striped scarf over his shoulder and pulled an arrow from the quiver
concealed under his trench coat. The chill air bit at his fingers as he aimed,
steadied, and fired.
“Yes!” Tom
whispered, punching the air and running to a tree stump. Next to it, a model Cyberman
lay on the floor beside his arrow. He lifted the figurine, replaced it on the
stump and froze. Someone was watching him. It was rare to come across anyone
this far from the path so late in the evening. There was a flash of red. A figure
stood on a fallen trunk staring across the clearing, but when Tom turned, it
disappeared. He walked to the trunk and searched the area, but there was no sign of
anyone. As he was about to return to his archery, Tom spotted something odd
about the trunk. Kneeling to examine it, he saw a strange symbol etched deep
into the bark. A staff mounted at the top with a pair of wings and entwined by
two serpents.
He had seen
it before.
*
The stranger
slipped his Morris Marina into third gear as he passed a sign reading “Welcome
to Wigan.” Rain bounced off the windscreen, rendering the wipers useless. He
glanced at his watch. His hand wrinkled with age, and scarred with the remains
of an old burn. It was almost eight PM. It might already be too late. He
glanced at the mysterious package on the back seat. The label read “For the
URGENT attention of Professor A. Collins. Department of Fortean Anthropology,
University of Wales, Aberystwyth."
The stranger
stopped at some traffic lights and leant across to open his glove box. He
reached in and checked his antique Walter PPK. The driver of the car behind
honked his horn. The light was now green. The stranger released the handbrake
and drove on.
*
As Kate
passed through the hall of the flat, an envelope slipped through the letterbox
and dropped to the floor. She leant over, picked up the letter and continued
into the living room. She went to place it with the rest of her parents’ mail,
but noticed it was for her. The address was simple handwritten capital letters.
There was no stamp. KATE MELLING. It must be another party invitation from
Susan.
Kate returned
to the hall and opened the front door. She hurried along the corridor in her
Cure T-shirt and black leggings. The sound of her bare feet echoed against the
walls. At the lifts, the doors opened and an old man stepped out. It was Mr.
Blackledge, a retired chain-smoking former miner. He spent most of his
afternoons in the pub on the ground floor. When he saw Kate, he clutched at his
heart, and recovered.
"Bloody
hooligan," he shouted, before hurrying away.
Kate returned
to the flat and closed the door. She walked to her bedroom, threw the letter on
the bedside cabinet and picked up her book, Nadja by André Breton. She lay on
the bed reading for about two minutes, and sighed. She slipped the book to the
bottom of the teetering pile next to her bed, and looked at the letter.
It was not
from Susan. Her envelopes were always pink, and her handwriting was full of
ridiculous loops. She tore it open and tipped it upside down. A folded
newspaper article fell out onto the bed.
*
The icy
downpour lashed Tom as he walked home through his estate, a maze-like warren of
red brick council houses. It was almost 10 o'clock. A group of older lads stood
on a corner drinking bottles of cheap strong cider. He knew them; they had left
his school the previous year. Tom slipped into an alley. Mud squelched under
his feet in the dark. His socks were wet, and heavy as water seeped through the
holes in his shoes. He was squeezing through a clutter of bins when someone
shouted.
"Where's
your stupid costume?”
A skinny youth
approached Tom, shoulders hunched and head
bobbing. His nose was bleeding. It was Barry McLaughlin, who until he had left
under a cloud last spring, had been the meanest kids in the school. This
reputation was due to his lack of empathy for others and a talent for turning all
situations into violent confrontations. If a fellow pupil's line of vision
passed over him for a second, he would be upon them. He was a prominent member
of the Wigan Football Casuals. Local football hooligans with a penchant for
golfing wear.
Tom pushed
over a bin and sprinted towards the light at the other end of the passage. He
was almost there, when another figure stepped out grinning. It was Gaz Reid,
McLaughlin's faithful sidekick and part-time punch-bag.
Tom pushed at
a tall garden gate, which swung open. He shut it behind him and felt for a
bolt; finding one near the top, he slid it into place. Tom was in a small back
yard, lit at the centre by the light from a kitchen window. The kitchen was
empty but someone might return at any moment. The wall into the next yard was
small, so he jumped over it and hid in a dark corner.
Tom could
hear McLaughlin kicking each of the gates in the alley.
"Nobody
makes a fool out of me," shouted McLaughlin. "It's payback time
Swift."
Tom had no
idea what had so angered the older youth. McLaughlin never needed a reason to
inflict pain, but it was as if he had a real grievance against Tom. As far as
Tom could remember, their paths had had never crossed. Tom believed he had a
talent for blending into the background. He had a knack for avoiding the school
psychos. How did Barry even know his name?
Tom crouched in
the dark corner, What did Barry mean by "stupid costume?” McLaughlin must mean
the cricket gear Tom had worn for six months. The style had never worked.
People had called him a weirdo; even complete strangers, even his Aunty Pat. He
had switched back to the overcoat and long scarf, only wearing the Deerstalker
in winter. His gran had bought him some socks with tiny golfers on them last
Christmas. He had thought they might help him fit in, but no one had noticed. Not
even when he had gone to school with the bottom of his trousers rolled up.
A few feet
away from where Tom hid the gate shook from a powerful kick. "You're going
to wish you were never born," McLaughlin shouted from the alleyway. Tom
jumped to his feet and ran for the tall fence separating this yard from the
next. Half way across he heard a deep bark, followed by a snarling and a
scramble of paws. The dark shape of a Rottweiler loomed as Tom leapt, grabbed
the top of the fence and heaved himself up. The dog leapt after him, grabbing
his foot, but Tom's momentum kept him moving forward. Tom tumbled over onto a
bush in the garden next door minus a shoe. The frustrated canine ripped it
apart as a substitute for its intended prey.
A security
light flashed on. It illuminated a neat lawn surrounded by a tidy border filled
with trimmed shrubs. A second floor window swung open, and an overweight man
leaned out. The man's Iron Maiden t-shirt revealed thick arms covered in
tattoos.
"If
you've damaged my geraniums I'll..."
Tom ran
around the side of the house, which was the end of the row, and out onto the
street.
An arm flew
around his neck and someone leapt onto his back.
"Get
off!" Tom shouted.
Tom clutched
at the arm. He could not breathe. Then he was on the floor and they were
kicking him. He curled up and put his hands over his head to protect himself.
Boots crashed into his ribs, his back and his head.
"Not so
brave now are you? Where's your mummy?"
Tom jumped to
his feet and ran straight at Barry. Screaming, his fists balled, ready to
attack his tormentor whatever the consequences. A second later, Gary charged
into him from the side, knocking Tom sprawling to the floor.
Barry and
Gary stood over him laughing. They each took a final kick. Barry knelt on Tom's
back, pain shot through his spine.
"Take
this as a warning. If you ever annoy me again, I'll put you in the Infirmary.
You'll be having your dinner through a straw, if you're lucky.
Understand?"
Barry spat in
Tom's face, and they left him.
*
The stranger
paused for a moment to look at the gloomy red brick edifice of the town hall.
The moon was bright, stretching his shadow clear across the road. He placed a
Trilby on his head and fastened his dark jacket to conceal the weapon strapped
to his shoulder. He lifted the imitation leather briefcase and strode into the
building.
His footsteps
echoed on the Victorian tiles of the empty foyer. A sign pointed along a
corridor indicating rooms 1 – 15. Another sign pointed upstairs to rooms 16 –
30. He climbed to the top of the stairs, pulled open a heavy wooden door, and
proceeded along another corridor. He checked each door until he found number
23. A handwritten sign, taped to the door, read "The High Council: Do not
disturb". The stranger knocked. Muffled sounds came from within but there was
no answer. He waited for a minute before knocking again, but there was still no
reply. The stranger pushed open the door.
Inside was a
large meeting room. The tables arranged in a boardroom layout. Pens, notepads
and glasses of water placed for each participant. At the opposite end of the
room, a flip chart stand held an agenda, bullet pointed with vivid felt tip
pens. Around the table sat 23 individuals, their faces concealed by brown
hooded robes.
“Sorry,
excuse me,” said the stranger, backing out of the door. He stood there for a
moment, considering how to proceed.
The door
opened again, and a hooded figure peered out. She pulled back the hood,
releasing a cascade of auburn hair.
“Professor
Collins?”
The stranger
nodded.
“Sorry, we
weren't expecting you so soon. I'm Elizabeth Norley. If you could follow me?”
They entered
the meeting room. Everyone was now dressed in ordinary business suits, helping
themselves to Bourbon Cream biscuits.
The
stranger’s eyes flicked to the agenda on the flip chart:
•
Councillor Holland’s report on the Robin Park
development.
•
Parking issues - Wallgate.
•
The emptiness at the heart of High Councillor
Pilkington (Conservative).
•
The creature lurking in the waters at Seven
Sisters.
•
Take-up of free school meals.
•
Any other business.
“Thank you
for coming Professor Collins,” said an obese man, spraying spit as he spoke. He
offered the stranger his hand. “I am Charles Bradshaw, leader of The High
Council.”
“Has he
arrived yet?” The stranger asked, ignoring the hand.
“Not as far
as we know. Our people are on the lookout. Can we see the item?” Bradshaw
asked.
The stranger
placed his suitcase on the table, opened it, and lifted out a small wooden
chest. It was half the size of a shoebox, and covered in mould. The box gave
off a stale musty odour. Carved into the side was a symbol; a staff entwined by
two serpents, and mounted at the top with a pair of wings. The stranger pulled
out a pocketknife. He pried open the rusted clasp. The councillors crowded
around as he released the catch and opened the lid.
*
It was the
boy in the goat mask again, or was it a goat with a boy's body?
Pete chased
him up the hillside, the goat boy stopping to let him catch up, before gamboling
off ahead again. Mist drifted from above, or was it smoke?
"Hey,
kid!" Pete shouted.
"I've
not heard that one before. I suppose you think you're a comedian."
"Wait!"
Pete shouted, stopping to catch his breath. "What do you want with
me?"
"You're
the one doing the chasing Piotrek."
This was
true.
"Of
course it's true," said the goat boy. "I don't bleat on for the sake
of it."
"Ok, I'm
going home," said Pete, turning, and walking back down the hill.
After a few
seconds, he looked back to see the goat was now a faint outline in the mist.
"There's
no smoke without fire Piotrek," it shouted. "Piotrek...
Piotrek."
There was
knocking at the door.
"Piotrek!"
Bang bang bang. "Open this door. Piotrek!"
Pete got out
of bed, his heart hammering against his chest, and unlocked his bedroom door.
His father stood outside.
"Thank
God you're ok. You might have choked on your own vomit, the state you were
in."
How did his
father know he had been drinking? He had to be more careful about the pubs he
visited. There was not much choice of venue for a sixteen year old to get a
drink.
"How do
you feel?" His father asked.
"I'm
fine. I fell asleep."
"Be
careful ok? I'm not going to mention this to your mother, but I won't cover for
you either."
"Ok dad,
thanks," said Pete, groggy and confused, but wanting to go back to sleep.
*
Arriving home
soaked to the skin, Tom let himself in, and pulled off his remaining shoe in
the hallway. His sister Sophie lay on the sofa, watching Bergerac. She did not
look up. Tom walked through to the kitchen. His dad was washing the dishes with
the radio on, singing along to Stan Ridgeway's Camouflage.
"It's my
favourite son, climbed out of the canal to see his poor dad. You'll catch your
death walking around like that." He pulled a plate out of the water,
placed it on the draining board, and looked at his son. "Jumping Jesus, have
you been scrapping again? You're no Chuck Norris lad; I'd give it a rest if I
were you."
He ruffled
Tom's hair, and soapsuds flew everywhere.
"Pass me
those dishes, and go and get yourself changed. You're dripping all over your
mum's carpet."
Tom collected
some plates, smeared with tomato sauce and the odd baked bean. He dropped them
into the washing bowl. He folded the pale blue Formica table and pushed it
against a wall of the tiny kitchen. He turned to go upstairs.
"You'll
need to watch your sister tomorrow,” his dad shouted after him. “I've got some
overtime."
"Ok dad.
What time will you be back?"
"It's a
2 -2 shift, you'll be asleep by the time I'm home. I don't want you listening
to your radio half the night."
Tom nodded.
"You're
a good lad Tom. Your mum would have been proud."
Tom walked
back through the living room.
"You
look after me. That’s a joke," mumbled Sophie. She glanced at her brother
for the first time since he had walked in. "Oh, bloody hell! Who was it
this time?"
"McLaughlin."
"Why's
he wasting his time on you? Come on, let's get you cleaned up."
They climbed
the stairs to the bathroom. Tom got the First Aid kit while Sophie filled the
sink with water. She dabbed at his face with a warm flannel, and treated the
cuts with anti-septic cream.
"You'll
live, but your modelling career is over. The good news is I'll be able to take
a degree in medicine by the time I'm thirteen."
"Thanks Sofe."
Tom pushed
open the door to his bedroom and flicked on the light. Tom had built and
installed the shelves himself, without the aid of a spirit level. They held his
Doctor Who models, and alphabetised video cassettes and books. In one corner
was a pile of old toys, he was reluctant to throw away; a Stretch Armstrong,
Big Track, He-Man and Trick-Stick. He pulled off his wet things and put on some
pajamas.
Tom lay on
his bed and switched on the radio to listen to his favourite phone-in show,
Banter with Brian. He turned the volume low. A caller was ranting about the
miners, that they were all communists. He said Arthur Scargill was going to
bring the country to its knees. Brian argued they were only fighting to provide
for their families and most of them did not have any other options left. The
next caller agreed with Brian. He said all Thatcher wanted was to help the rich
grab all the wealth. He did not know why people had voted for her rather than
Michael Foot. Brian said the caller was a gormless cretin. How long would it be
before people stopped relying on politicians? They were self-important
middlemen. The next caller claimed he had almost driven his car into a medieval
knight, riding a horse through Wigan. Brian said he should move to a town in
the twentieth century, or lay off the special cigarettes. The next caller
shouted, “Bob, you're a Fat Get!”
Tom switched
off the radio and lay on his bed listening to the clock ticking. In his mind,
he retraced his steps of the evening. Through the rain soaked streets and
gardens. Along the alleyway where McLaughlin had chased him. Up the hill.
Through the Plantation Gates and into the darkness of the woods. Leaves
crunched under foot, branches brushed against his face. He came to the clearing
where he practiced archery, to the tree stump where he had crouched to pick up
the arrow.
A figure
stood on the tree trunk staring at him, a hooded shape, and a face in shadows.
A moment later, it was gone.
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