Experiment With Destiny (30 page)

“Re-mortgage?” she offered.

“Yes, I think that’s the word…lend more money…and then they took the house off me. I was married by then, with a baby daughter. Na…” he fought to speak her name. “She left and took Tina…my wife, Natasha…left me.” He felt a tear trickle down his cheek as he remembered them, and the pain. He picked up his mug and sipped. “I lost everything…and somehow…slipped from this world…to the…other.” It seemed strange to refer to the wastelands as that. He was acclimatising too easily here.

“And there was nothing anybody could do to help you? Did you try the social security loans?”

“I tried everything…absolutely everything. But when they take away your address and your bank account, when they close you down and delete you from the books…” He sighed. “I slept rough, even stole food…for a while…and then the police got hold of me one night and gave me a beating…my first…and dumped me on the edge of town, telling me to get out. And that was it. I couldn’t sink any further.” There was a long silence and he became aware that she was staring at him, with tears in her eyes.

“My God! I’m so sorry! It’s just…shocking!” She shook her head. “Like I said…barbaric. How can we possibly call ourselves civilised? Is there really no way back? I mean…I could help you…put you up here and try and find you a job…something…just until you’re back on your feet? I mean, it probably wouldn’t be much of a job but…”

“There is no way back. I’m deleted. I don’t exist. I have no identity. Malcolm Jones ceased to be a person way back. Even if you could afford to look after me…it would only be a matter of time before I was caught…the random stop-checks…and you’d cease to exist too, as your punishment. I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy!”

They talked into the night. Malcolm told her about life on the wastelands; about Ma, Harry and about Rachel and the boy. She sobbed when he described the events in the market place, where he’d lost them both. He didn’t tell her that was why he’d come back, risking his life, and she didn’t presume to ask. He wondered if she’d guessed. Instead she talked about her own life, her growing disillusionment with it all and the gnawing loneliness he could see in her dark eyes. She talked about her husband, her divorce and her regret at not being able to have children…medical reasons. Kathryn talked about the job she hated…administration for a small, unremarkable business, tedious work with no prospects for progression, but at least it paid the bills, she said…then apologised for her insensitivity.

Night became morning and Malcolm found himself growing weary. His side, freshly glued and tightly bound, was throbbing. She gave him some pills and suggested he tried to sleep, apologising that her spare room was inaccessibly full of ‘junk’ and he’d have to bunk down on the lounge floor. He smirked, declining her offer to fetch down the mattress from the spare room and reminding her it would be so luxurious to sleep on carpet instead of damp cardboard. A mattress would be too soft for him now.

“Goodnight Malcolm Jones,” she said poignantly before climbing the stairs to her own bed. And before he could dwell on the surreal impossibility of his situation, he was fast asleep and dreaming of flickering campfires.

* * *

XVIII

MALCOLM awoke feeling queasy. It was light outside, the day obvious in the gaps between the wall and the curtains. The house was quiet. He lay on the floor for a while, enjoying the comfort of the soft carpet beneath his back and the warmth of the blankets. At ‘home’, his bones would have been aching with the cold and the hardness of the floor. Lying there, he noticed a clock on one of the bookcase shelves. Its digital display read 11:55 and he realised it had been so long since he was last aware of time. What did 11:55 even mean? He watched the last digit become a ‘6’. Twelve, he remembered, was significant. Something happened at twelve…yes…noon, they called it, mid-day. But which day? What month? And he could not even begin to guess the year. What did it matter? Time was for the citizens…it served no purpose in the wastelands. He was barely able to tell which season it was any more. Winter…well…that was easy, obvious, but there appeared to be less distinction these days between the other three. They all seemed to merge into a milder version of winter.

             
His thoughts returned to Kathryn, the woman who had rescued him last night – despite knowing he was a non citizen. Was she still asleep upstairs? Was it a work day? Had she gone to her office and left him here alone…trusting? He tried to sit up, the bandages tugging at his side and making his nausea worse. His gut twisted and his mouth began to fill with saliva. He pushed himself quickly to his feet, pain jarring every sinew and muscle. He knew he could not be sick here in her lounge. A moment later he found the kitchen and only just reached the steel basin in time. As the sickness passed, he stared down into the sink, now swimming with last night’s chicken soup. Then he noticed the deep red stain mingling at its edges…blood.

             
Malcolm frowned. He was used to vomiting. Hygiene was not first priority in the wastelands and even though Ma gave everything he brought back from the empty market place a good boil before they ate it there were occasions where it had made them ill. But he could not remember ever bringing up blood.

             
He let the tap run and watched the water wash away his bloodied, part-digested meal, then checked his bandages. They were still relatively clear with no sign of fresh bleeding. How much damage had the youths inflicted while he’d lain beneath their blows on the floor? When the sink was clear he reached out and splashed the water over his face then turned off the tap.

             
He returned to the lounge and wrapped himself around within the patchwork blanket and began to consider his surroundings. Her furnishings, décor and ornaments were modest and unassuming, and – like the blanket – had the feel of antiquity about them. There was almost nothing that reflected the new world; gadgets and technologies that even he recalled before it had cast him out. He wondered if Kathryn felt out of place…or out of time, and perhaps that was why she felt so strongly about the way non citizens were treated?

             
Malcolm remembered his reason for being here. How were they treating the boy? Was he even still alive? How could he hope to affect an escape, even if he did find him? He remembered his own rescue, and the gun Kathryn had shown him. She’d used it to save his life and maybe…just maybe he could use it to save the boy’s? Where did she keep it? Did she carry it with her all the time…or perhaps…?

             
He walked from the lounge to the foot of the stairs and stood listening. The house was still, no sound of movement. His heart pounding noisily, he began to climb, grimacing with every creak. At the top he found himself on a small landing with three doors, all firmly closed. He remembered the one to the right was the bathroom and guessed the other two must be bedrooms…one hers and the other the spare room she’d mentioned last night. He tried the first, holding his breath in case she was still at home, asleep behind the door. The room was dark, with heavy curtains drawn, but as his eyes adjusted to the dimness he knew it was the spare room, piled high with boxes, piles of clothes and sundry items. Malcolm closed the door again, knowing the gun would not be in there.

He tried the other door and knew at once this was her room. He could smell the perfume and remembered green fields of spring flowers long ago. Her bed was neatly made and everything was in its right place. And he swooned with the recollection of a home with a woman’s touch…that soft, gentle femininity. Malcolm was suddenly aware that he was a stranger, almost naked, intruding into the most intimate part of Kathryn’s home…the home of the woman who had rescued him, bathed him and tended to his wounds then fed him, trusting him alone…here…with her belongings. He shouldn’t be here…but the gun…?

There was a rattling noise downstairs in the hallway, a sound that took him instantly back to childhood and memories of being up to mischief home alone when his parents arrived unexpectedly and turned the key in the lock, prompting blind panic. He pulled the door to on her beautiful, intimate world as quickly and quietly as he could and then stepped into the bathroom. No sooner had he closed the door behind him, he heard the front door open.

“Malcolm?” he heard her call. “Are you awake? Is that you up there?”

“Yes…I’m…” he shouted, “…I’m in the…loo.”

There was a moment of hesitation. “Oh, sure…okay. Don’t forget to flush…and wash your hands! I’ll get the kettle on.”

When he returned downstairs, making sure he remembered to flush and wash as she’d asked, she was in the middle of making tea. He made sure the blanket was guarding his modesty and against her blushes. She glanced up with a broad smile that warmed his heart and gave him a pang of guilt.

“I’m so glad you slept well,” she said, stirring in the milk. “You must have really needed it. You were out cold…didn’t even stir when I came down and clattered around in the kitchen for a bit and then went out. I thought it best to leave you…sleeping helps the healing.” She gestured toward the area of his wound with the spoon. “You didn’t mind, did you?”

“No! No, of course I didn’t…I…just hope…you didn’t mind having to leave me here…in your home…”

“Not at all. I trust you.” Kathryn winked at him and he felt his insides jump, a sensation he’d not felt since…he couldn’t remember when. How he used to long for companionship, remembering how things were so far back, with Natasha, before… It was not like that with Ma…not close, and sensual…not feelings like this. “Besides, where were you going to go without your clothes?”

“My clothes! Of course…I…” Malcolm glanced around, his eyes searching, remembering she’d said she would soak them and wash them. “Where…?”

“Here,” Kathryn tossed the spoon into the sink and reached across to gather the bags on the sideboard. “I popped out to get a little shopping. These are for you. I hope they’re okay! I had to guess your sizes.” Her face was beaming with pride and joy as she held them out to him. “I did try…with your old clothes…but they were…” She screwed up her nose and he knew immediately what she meant, feeling embarrassed at what she’d had to endure because of him…such a kind, elegant and fresh-smelling woman. He looked down at the bags and back at her face…such beauty…such compassion…such generosity. This was all too much! Malcolm tried to speak but his words stuck in his throat. A moment later his vision blurred as the tears began to stream down his cheeks and he began to weep like a child.

* * *

              Malcolm felt like a new man. He was bathed, shaved, trimmed and dressed from head to toe in his new clothes. Most fitted, with perhaps an inch or two to spare, and Kathryn had ensured he would want for nothing – underpants and socks, several pairs of each, two plain T-shirts, two button-up shirts with collars, a thick jumper, a lined and waterproofed coat, winter gloves and scarf and walking boots, the kind preferred by hill-climbers. She’d also bought him cigarettes and a lighter.

             
“It’s a terrible habit, and I shouldn’t encourage you,” she said with a scowl, “but I guess dying of cancer is probably the least of your worries…out there. Those are better for you than what you have been smoking!” Kathryn pulled a face. “I resisted the urge to throw out your tobacco tin though. I put all the things that were in your pockets over there in that canvas bag…but I had to throw your old clothes…and boots…I’m sorry!”

             
“Don’t be sorry. I’m just sorry for you…having to…well…you know…and…” he could feel himself choking up again. “…spending all your money like that…I…”

             
“Like I said, it’s not as if I’ve got better things to spend it on. It’s not the best quality stuff or anything, top brands and that, but…”

             
“I just don’t know how to thank you. It feels like you have rescued me twice over…given me back my life! I’m…overwhelmed!”

              They ate lunch together, cold meat and salad sandwiches. Malcolm had started to wolf down the food then remembered earlier and took his time. He wondered if he should tell her about the blood…but decided it was best not to, particularly while they were eating. After lunch she suggested he smoke one of his new cigarettes on the back step while she cleared up. It tasted nicer than his roll-ups but the smoke felt weak and didn’t kick at his chest when he inhaled. Afterwards they drank more tea and talked…about everything and nothing in particular…and while Malcolm was enjoying learning anew the art of polite conversation he also sensed the awkwardness of avoiding the topics he knew they really should discuss. He knew he should be on his way…every minute he delayed could be crucial if he was to save the boy. And he knew that her gun might give him a chance to do so. Yet the rediscovery of homely comforts and the charm of her wonderful company was lulling him toward a dangerous complacency he could ill afford.

             
Kathryn hinted that he should stay longer, to recover his strength sufficiently to make his way safely ‘home’ again. Malcolm had smiled with sadness, knowing it was not to be.

             
“I can see you’re thinking about your friend again,” she said at last, confronting the unspoken issue they had both been circumnavigating.

             
“Sorry?” her directness caught him by surprise.

             
“Your friend…the one you said you’d risked coming here among us to find?” Malcolm nodded, not knowing what else to say. “Well, if you won’t…can’t stay…then maybe at least you’ll let me help you find your friend? I can do that much for you, surely?”

             
Kathryn could not know what she asked, Malcolm thought to himself. She could not know because he had not told her.

             
“It’s not possible,” he said quietly. She looked wounded by his refusal. “In the same way as I would put you in danger if I stay here, you will be in even greater danger if you try to help me. I cannot allow that to happen, not after the kindness and generosity you’ve shown me. I cannot let you save my life, only to lose your own.”

             
“Why not? Surely that’s my choice…my decision to take such risks? Besides, how can it be so dangerous for me to help find your friend? It will be more dangerous for you…”

             
“Believe me,” he cut her short, denying himself the tempting seduction of her offer, “I would love you to help me, I really would! In the same way as I’d love to stay and never have to return to my life…out there. But I could not live with myself if anything happened to you, or if I failed to…at least…try…”

             
“It’s the boy, isn’t it?” It was his turn to be silenced. “The one you told me about last night, in the market place…when you lost Rachel. You came back to try and find him…to rescue him! Of course! It all makes sense! You feel guilty!” Malcolm bowed his head. He didn’t need to say anything. Kathryn suddenly leapt to her feet, her face overflowing with enthusiasm. “Please Malcolm! You must let me help you! It’s the only way! You can’t do this alone, can you?”

             
“I must…try!” he moaned. She had already done too much for him and still she wanted to do more.

             
“You asked me if I believed in angels, remember?” He studied her quizzically. “Last night, you said ‘do you believe in angels?’, remember? Well…maybe this was meant to be! Me…meeting you…rescuing you. Maybe it’s my…destiny…yours too! And the boy’s! Let me be your guardian angel! Please Malcolm! Let me achieve something with my life! Make it all…worthwhile!”

             
For a moment she looked like Rachel, full of youthful hope and optimism that denied her years. It puzzled him that she had so much…so much more than he could even dream of…and yet her plea made it clear that her comfortable life…here…among the citizens…seemed empty to her…meaningless.

             
“How? What can you do? How can you help? If it was as easy as walking into their police station and asking for him, don’t you think I’d have done that? Even a citizen…they wouldn’t…it makes no difference. We would just both be risking our lives for nothing!”

             
“I could say…I could tell them he’s my son! That I’d lost him.” She refused to let her enthusiasm or determination diminish and he loved her all the more for it.

             
“They would insist on proof…insist on seeing his identity…and yours! They would know you’re lying and that would be the end of it…of him…and you! You would lose everything you have…everything you are…and become like me!”