Chapters 1-5| Chapter 6 |Chapter 7| Chapter 8| Chapter 9|Chapter 10| Chapter 11| Chapter 12|Chapter 13| Chapter 14|Chapter 15|
“Wake up, my love,” called a woman’s voice from downstairs.
Anthony was still sleeping but he smiled as though his mother was in the room. It was early morning. He could hear the robin and the blackbird competing for the limelight with their songs outside his window. The slits in the blinds warmed his face with thin beams of gentle sunshine. The cool morning breeze of a summer’s day sighed into his ears as he rolled over. He did not remember dreaming that night.
He opened his eyes, rubbed the sleep away, yawned and stretched. Looking around in surprise, he saw that he was in his old bed, in his old house and judging by his hands and feet, he was eight or nine again. He looked across to the bed on the left. The duvet was scrunched into a creased snail origami with the pillow hanging off the edge. He smiled. His brother was already up.
The landing was silent. Footlights slowly turned on and off as he passed each one to get to the top of the stairs. Across from him, on the front wall of the house, there was a floor to ceiling window showing him the sapphire sea and the marina. The little white boats bobbed in the morning mist. The sun was rising quickly, reaching up the stairs with warm, precise sunbeams.
He carefully held the polished wood handrail and softly glided down the stairs, gingerly laying a bare foot on each carpeted step, feeling the fibres bristle against his skin. They creaked in the exact same places as he remembered. He grabbed both rails for the last three steps and swung his body over them, landing with a solid thump on the living room’s hard floor, as he had always done.
The mechanical clock ticked quietly on the mantelpiece. It was an antique from twentieth century Earth that had been left to his mother by her mother, and her mother before that. It was eight o’clock in the morning, judging by the little ding of the clock’s bell.
He wandered through the living room, running a hand across the back of the sofa. It was red, just as he had remembered. He had been happiest in this home.
While he was standing still, a little tinkle of another bell accompanied by a meow startled him. Soft fur brushed against the back of his legs as his cat, Jimbo, made a figure of eight around his ankles. “You can’t call a cat Jimbo,” his father had protested at first. However, the little ginger kitten thrilled his son and had, by extension, worked its magic on him until he eventually accepted it. “Jimbo,” he would mutter, shaking his head in dismay as he laid the cat food down for his son’s favourite pet. Anthony knelt down and stroked his ginger tabby. Jimbo purred and closed his green eyes, letting Anthony scratch his white chin. Anthony had always loved Jimbo’s white socks in particular. He held one of Jimbo’s paws and rubbed a thumb against his cat’s pink toes. Jimbo, having had enough of the love and attention, rolled around for a moment and skipped back upstairs as though he had seen a mouse running up them.
At the back of the house, Anthony’s mother had laid out the breakfast table with eggs and toast. The tablecloth today was an old fashioned red gingham print with daisies. He had always preferred that one to the others. The chairs were wooden and painted white to match the cupboards. His mother had a habit of painting anything if it stood still for long enough.
Anthony hungrily grabbed some toast and chopped it up into soldiers. He picked up a tea spoon and smashed his way through the top of the egg. He pulled the lid off. Waiting for him inside was the runny, golden yolk. He dipped the soldiers in one by one and devoured them as yolk spilled along the edges of the broken shell. He caught the thick drips with his fingers and licked them off. He felt as though he hadn’t eaten in days.
“Steady on,” laughed his mother. She was returning from the garden with an empty laundry basket in her arms. Bed sheets and towels were already outside on the washing line, billowing in the breeze like sails on the tall ships of Neverland. She put the basket down in the next room and came to join him at the table, pouring herself some orange juice from the pitcher. He thought that she was the most lovely woman he had ever known and he loved her unconditionally.
He hadn’t noticed his seven year old brother sitting directly across from him. He was much smaller than Anthony, with a mop of blonde hair and a noticeable cluster of summer freckles across his nose. His dippy egg had also been emptied– every last morsel of white flesh gone. He was drawing a picture now, immersed in his work.
“What’s that, darling?” his mother asked, sipping some juice.
“Robot people.” the boy muttered, popping a crayon back into the cup.
“Robot people?”
“Yeah. They look just like us… but they’re not real.” He handed the piece of paper to his mother, who looked at it with sincere interest. “They just do the work and you can switch them off. I thought you would like one to help around the house.” He looked up at her and she ruffled his hair.
“Oh darling. That’s so sweet of you,” she said, holding the drawing in her hands. For the first time, Anthony had observed a flicker of something cross his mother’s face. Was it fear? Annalise Victor had never– in her life–feared anything as far as Anthony could see. Although he was a boy again, he watched her with an adult’s eyes. Now, she seemed smaller, quieter and distracted.
“Don’t encourage him, Annalise,” his father said sternly. They looked up to see that he was leaning against the kitchen doorway, finishing his cup of coffee and wearing his uniform. He was ready for work.
Roy Smith was dark like Anthony. His brow was heavy and in a permanent state of pensiveness. He wore his usual boiler suit and carried a tool bag with him to work. Anthony couldn’t recall how often his father was at home. For most of their lives, their father had worked as an engineer on various spacecraft. They later learned as teenagers that it had been their mother’s decision to keep the family at home on Atlantis rather than on the space stations.
“It’s just a picture, Roy,” she said quietly over her shoulder. He sighed and picked up his bag.
“I’ll see you all tonight.”
They listened for the closing of the front door. It clicked shut and their father was gone.
“He should be mad at Anthony,” the younger boy whispered.
“Why’s that, sweetheart?” his mother asked.
“Anthony’s a murderer.”
“What?”
Anthony, on hearing his name, froze. He stared at the younger boy with wide eyes. The hot rush of shame reached up through his core and grabbed him by the throat, making it incredibly hard to swallow his saliva. He felt as though he couldn’t breathe.
“Anthony, Mummy.” The boy pointed directly at Anthony. “He murdered me.”
The boy’s face began to melt away from his skull, his eyes dripping into the egg shell and filling it back up. Their mother, knocking her chair over as she did so, rose from the table and started screaming. “He murdered me, mummy.” The skull rolled on to the table and towards Anthony at speed. “Anthony is a murderer.” It kept talking and chattering, its small jaws opening and closing. “Murderer.”
**
Trin had built a makeshift tent with some wood, waxed canvas and rope she’d been given by the young man who had rescued the others. Unable to lift Anthony with the materials they had, they left her with what would have been his stretcher. The rain had fallen hard that morning, causing the edges of the pit to slide downwards, splatting cold, thin mud up her bare legs.
Geraint and his companion had promised to return when the mud stopped pouring in. She had no other option but to trust them. The rope that had been used to help the others climb up still hung there. She stared at it from the cover of the tent. The rain trickled through to the pit, gently pattering the surface of the canvas. She could not tell what time of day it was now.
Anthony was still unconscious with his head resting on Owen’s jacket. Trin hugged her knees and thought about her companions and what would become of them. As far as she knew, there were five of them plus the stranger. She thought perhaps there would be more people up there. Perhaps the stranger had found the captain and the bridge crew, if they were there at all. Perhaps the Demeter had left. She felt that she would never know.
Anthony intermittently stirred, sighing and muttering. She would jump out of her skin each time as his dreams ripped through her silence. He was not awake, but at least she wasn’t alone, she thought.
His nightmares frightened her; her powerlessness frightened her.
Not knowing what else to do with the time, she held his hand.
After what seemed like a small eternity for Trin, Anthony jolted awake with a gasp. Their eyes met. He then looked around at the canvas, struggling to form words.
“Hey, shh, it’s all right.” Trin was blotting his forehead with a cold compress and handed him her flask. “Drink this,” she said.
The cooling drips from the neck of the flask and gushes of water flowing down his throat were welcomed by his dry lips. With restraint, he stopped himself from taking all of it and gave the flask back to her. His hands were shaking.
“Where is everyone?”
“Up top. They’re coming back for us, don’t worry.”
“Where did they go?”
“They were rescued, would you believe?”
“Rescued?”
“Yes. At least, I think so. That’s what it seemed like. It was Geraint, I think. He had a rope but I said I’d wait with you until they brought a better sling. We’d never have left you here unconscious.”
“Geraint?”Anthony half smirked. “As in, Owen’s Geraint?”
Trin smiled. “Obviously not just Geraint.” She looked up again at the fading daylight. “He had help.”
“Christ, there are people around after all?”
“Yes. I didn’t catch his name, or see him actually. Geraint wasn’t alone though.”
Anthony pushed his arms behind his back and tried to sit up. They trembled under his weight. He groaned with exhaustion. “Best not to do that.” Trin said. “They had to tranquilise you.”
He winced. “That bad, was it?”
“You were…” she thought for a moment. “It was bad. They all had to pin you down.” She shook her head. “It was awful, actually.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Oh don’t be sorry. It’s you who’s having the hallucinations. I just meant that here we are, surviving and we have a man down.” She pulled out two vacuum packed rations from her satchel. “Now, I don’t know what time it is but you should let me treat you to dinner. Soy or pork?” she asked with a wink.
I do like that Shakespearean dream bit. Except you made me want to have soft-boiled eggs and soldiers! I haven't had them for ages (sorry).
It was really good though, this episode. Then again all of them are.
Oh, great chapter. I liked the dream/hallucination - good way to give us some of Anthony's backstory without being too info dumpy.