Resonance (28 page)

Matthew

T
HE MAN BY
the window runs his fingers across something on the windowsill, a scar or an ornamentation in the wood; I cannot tell from where I am lying. He traces the shape tenderly, then lifts his eyes to take in the slowly brightening sky. I am unsure of how long we have been here. He appears to be waiting for me to wake.

I close my eyes and remember. The underground theatre. The creature. Tina.

I search and find her nearby, a fizzing brightness, like a silent Catherine wheel on the edge of my thoughts. She is dreaming. I reach for her, and she draws me in. There is a surge of nausea, the world shifting suddenly around me in colours my eyes can’t understand, sounds my ears can’t hear. I am afraid, but Tina squeezes me tight, wrapping me around her, and we are no longer Tina and Joe – we are something
other
: one and the same, separate but inseparable. We.

We bend and flex together, sure and certain, performing familiar tasks. There is a calm sense of order to Us. We are doing Our duty. It is a matter of routine.

I realise I am a memory. I am the living memory of something long ago. We are tearing through purple and yellow vastnesses, faster and further than I could ever have imagined possible. We carry a burden with Us, terrible and urgent. Our duty is to return it from whence it came; to push it through to its own space; to close the door behind it; to repair the world. We know there is no danger – as long as We live, it will sleep. Still, We wish the journey was done. Somewhere down deep in Our shared soul, We must confess We are frightened.

I try to disentangle from this – it terrifies me to be so little myself – but it is impossible to pull away. The other half of Us does not want to let go. We should never be parted! How can We survive if We are parted?

Then Tina releases me, and my mind almost splits at the dislocation. It is a terrible, painful rending, the division of something that should never have been divided – blinding in its horror.

But then I am myself again, and I can breathe.

I open my eyes a slit. The man is still watching the sky. I can recall him carrying me here. He removed my clothes. I think he washed and combed my hair. Then he dressed me again. The boy I used to be would have been appalled at that – how
dare
he – but the thing I am now sees it for what it was: a desperate attempt at transformation.

Something heavy is resting on the bed behind me. I can feel it weighing the mattress down at my back. The man’s eyes glance to it, then drop to me. He frowns, and comes to sit on the edge of the bed. Watching from beneath my lashes, I can see that he has a book in his hand. It is Jules Verne’s
From the Earth to the Moon
. He places it on the pillow by my head.

‘I have brought you my copy,’ he says. ‘To replace yours that was ruined. You developed the habit of reading while you were away, I suppose?’ He pauses, as if considering the thought, then whispers, ‘Yes. That must be it.’

The weight behind me shifts as he adjusts the object on the bed. ‘You …’ he whispers. ‘You
have
been gone for over seventy years. After all this time, I probably look very different, too. No doubt you hardly recognise me. I am sorry I thought that American was you … Can you imagine it? That short, bull-shouldered boy? It gave me quite the start. For a moment, I thought this would be like the other times – those other boys.’ A hand tentatively brushes the hair from my face. ‘You are real, Matthew? You are …’

Something makes him pause, and get to his feet. ‘Ah!’ he whispers. ‘Cornelius.’ He crouches by the bed, urgent now. ‘Cornelius is on his way up from the kitchens, Matthew. I do not want him to catch me in your room. I must leave you alone for the moment, but I will be back. Please try not to wander about until I have laid the groundwork for your reconciliation.’

He locks the door behind him when he leaves.

I wait, as I know that he is waiting in the hall.

He speaks warmly, as if greeting a friend. ‘Cornelius,’ he says. ‘You look tired.’

‘There was a disturbance with the Angel in the night – you do not feel it?’

‘You have investigated?’

There is a hesitation, and the new arrival says, ‘I am attempting to stay upside for a while.’

‘Why, that is wonderful, cully! I am pleased to—’

‘What are you doing here?’

‘I was worried for the seer. The children were prying at her door and—’

‘They shall not bother us. I left them with Luke, burning things in the kitchen. Raquel … Raquel has retreated with her dolls.’

The man who was with me speaks gently. ‘She will return to good spirits soon, Cornelius. I promise. Very soon, we—’

Again his friend cuts him short. ‘Let us go inside.’

There is the sound of a door being unlocked. They go in to where Tina is. She seems undisturbed by their presence, so I let her go and sit up.

Every inch of me feels creaking and unused, as if my limbs have been assembled the wrong way around. I run my hand through my hair and am thrown by how soft it feels. I recall it being coarse and stiff, the legacy of years of scrubbing with carbolic soap.

I drop my hand and a movement across the room startles me. It is my reflection, staring from the dressing-table mirror. I touch the cravat that swaddles my throat, the high collar, the rich fabric of my fine blue jacket. I look like a drawing from a book by Dickens.

I lift my eyes to the thing that dominates the bed behind me and recognise it at once. I recall the man holding me against a wall on the staircase beside it, his eyes hopping between me and it, his dark forehead creased in uncertainty. He must have carried it here as I slept, and propped it against the headboard, all the better to compare me with.

It is a painting so large and bulky that I am astonished he could have lifted it from the wall. The boy in it is wearing the clothes I now find myself in. There is mischief and worldliness in his eyes, an open, honest adventurousness to
his expression. Next to him, I see myself as I am: an underfed, over-hungry, wary-eyed alley-haunt. We are nothing alike, Matthew and I, and for the first time I truly understand the insanity of the man who has saved me.

I listen at the door. There is nothing. I try the handle, and the door is locked. I go to the window: it looks down on a riot of crumbling stable yards and overgrown orchard. The ruins of an ancient castle crouch like a monument over it all.

I can sense the creature beneath us. I sense it because Tina senses it. They are dreaming – the creature lost in hopelessness, Tina exhausted. The currents that pass between them are barely perceptible to me, but they are as strong and as deadly as the ocean’s tides.

Tina reaches for me, and I close my eyes as if she has caressed me. She is beginning to wake, and as she does so our need to be together grows. It is an almost physical desire – the need to be in contact; the need to be close.

My fingers brush the windowsill, and I look down at what had so absorbed the man. It is a carving, barely the breadth of my palm: a heart. Within it, the initials ‘M&C’ entwine. The man’s fingers have cleared the dust from it, and it shines like gold against the neglect that surrounds it.

I am aware of the boy again, watching from the bed, and am suddenly embarrassed to be here: a stranger wearing his clothes, intruding on the quiet ghost of his life. I rip off his necktie and fling it to the floor; I struggle free of his jacket. I replace his expensive boots with my own, and it feels good to do so. The rough leather, the mended soles: these things are mine. I
know
who I am.

I glance up as I jerk the laces tight and see a second door, half hidden beneath a wall-hanging. I lurch to my feet,
hoping to escape through it. It leads to another bedroom, a man’s by the look of it.

I am halfway across the next room when something makes me stop. I glance back at the boy. He is almost lost in shadow, but I can just make out his face, the mischief in his teasing smile. I step back into his room, and stay long enough to gather his jacket, the fallen banner of his necktie, and fold them carefully on the end of his bed.

All Together Now

V
INCENT PAUSED ON
the threshold of the seer’s room, struck by the atmosphere within. Overhead, the old ones were restless, and the room was filled with the whisper of their papery sighs. The girl was laid out in the bed like a corpse, her hands folded, her dark river of hair spread around her face. She was so motionless Vincent had to look carefully to be certain she was breathing. In some obscenity of balance, the remains of the old woman were huddled beside her: it was as though Snow White had been laid out next to the carcass of the witch.

Cornelius had brought a tray, and he carried it to the dresser. It was loaded with a covered dish of food, one of the house’s fine china teapots, a matching cup and saucer. The American boy, rising from his chair by the window, cocked an insolent eyebrow at the single setting.

‘Where’s mine?’ he drawled. ‘Surely you don’t expect Miss Kelly and me to eat from the same plate?’

Cornelius scowled, then startled when he recognised his own clothes on the boy’s shorter, stockier body. The boy grinned, and made a show of adjusting the rolled-up sleeves.

‘I think I’ll wear my cuffs turned back like this from now on,’ he said. He flourished his fingers like a conjurer and smiled slyly at Cornelius. ‘They emphasise my nimble hands.’

‘How did you get my clothes?’

‘I gave them to him,’ said Vincent quickly.

The boy held Cornelius’ eye. ‘I helped myself,’ he contradicted.

‘Do not pay him any mind, Cornelius,’ said Vincent. ‘The boy is playing childish games. His own clothes were wet, and I gave him some of yours.’

He speared Harry with a look.
Betray me again, boy, and I will have you throw yourself out that window
.

The boy made a show of slowly meeting his eyes, but said nothing.

Cornelius turned to the bed. He was apparently intent on seeing to the girl, but was brought up short at the sight of the murmuring thing beside her.

‘Oh no,’ he said. ‘No.’ He pushed the boy aside and bent towards the creature. ‘This cannot be here.’

He was frozen in mid-action by the boy’s hand on his wrist. ‘You’re gonna leave that poor thing alone,’ said the boy.

Cornelius straightened to meet his eye. ‘Release my arm.’

The boy tightened his grip. ‘Leave that poor thing alone.’

Vincent stepped forward, amazed to find himself utterly offended. It had been bad enough from the vermin in the city – this appalling, this
galling
disregard for their authority – but here?
Here?
In the very
house?
‘Release his arm!’ he ordered.

The boy ignored him completely. He kept his eyes locked on Cornelius. ‘Have you no shame?’ he asked. ‘Don’t you understand how
wrong
this all is? It is not the place of mankind to make slaves of angels.’

Cornelius jerked back as if stung, breaking the boy’s grip on him. The boy pressed on.

‘You can’t just bend God’s order to your own benefit and the expense of others! Look around you. Can’t you see how broken this place is? Those evil brats? That woman and her
dolls
? And you two?’ He flung his hands out. ‘Your eyes
glow
in the dark
. Did you know that? What are you? Wolves? And your skin is hot like coals – you burn to the touch.
Vey iz mir!
This is
wrong
! You are all wrong here.’

That is enough, boy!

Vincent roared this directly into the boy’s head, and the boy flinched, clutching his temples.

‘What do you know of the Angel?’ asked Cornelius. ‘You have not been underground. You have no concept of its existence. What did you see under that water? Is there …’ He stepped forward, his voice lowered. ‘Is there another presence there? Were the seers correct?’

Still hunched over, the boy ignored him. Cornelius grabbed his arm, seeming to startle him. ‘What did you
see
under that water?
Answer me!’

A whisper from the bed stilled them all. ‘It is the Demon.’

They turned to find the girl watching them.

‘It is the Contagion. The … the Contagion of Worlds …’

She squeezed her face up in confusion, pressed her head back into the pillows.

‘Joe,’ she whispered. ‘My mind hurts.’

Overhead, the old ones grew agitated, and the room filled with distressed moaning. The thing in the bed squirmed like an overturned beetle, and Vincent realised that it was trying to turn to face the girl.

‘Joe,’ cried the girl. ‘I need you … I can’t think!’

‘Who are you calling?’ whispered Cornelius.

‘No one,’ said Vincent. ‘Her beau, from the city. No one.’

Then the door opened, and Vincent’s heart dropped like a stone as that boy – that boy? Was that how he thought of him? Yes, already he was admitting to himself he had been wrong –
that boy
, wearing Matthew’s trousers, Matthew’s fine lawn shirt and Matthew’s gold-and-cream embroidered waistcoat, and looking nothing at all like Matthew, stepped into the room.

Cornelius knew at once. He knew
at once
what Vincent had done. ‘No,’ he moaned. ‘Not again.’ He turned to Vincent. ‘Not again,’ he said.

Vincent could find nothing to say, and when Cornelius pushed past the boy and fled the room, he did not even try to stop him.

How can I have done this?
thought Vincent, staring at the boy.
How? What is broken in my perception, that every single time I make the same—

These bitter recriminations fell away and fascination took their place as the boy in Matthew’s clothes crossed the room. There was something different about him. What was it?

He was still the same tall, raw-boned youth, but all his furtive caution seemed to have been burned away somehow. There was a strange calm to him, a stillness, as he approached the seer. She was huddled tight, her hands pressed to her temples. Without a word, the boy put his arms around her, and to Vincent’s astonishment, she instantly relaxed.

‘Joe,’ she breathed.

The boy called Joe looked across at the American standing on the opposite side of the bed. ‘Harry?’ he asked.
The American nodded warily, and the boy seemed pleased. ‘I knew that.’

Joe glanced at Vincent, and his arms tightened protectively around the seer. A strange expression crossed his face – an oddly embarrassed kind of sympathy – and Vincent realised with a flare of outrage that the boy was sorry for him.

‘You brought me back,’ said Joe.

‘An act of gross stupidity. I am mortified by it.’

The girl glared at him from beneath her dark hair. ‘Your angel is dying.’

‘We will fix that, soon enough.’

She laid her free hand on the brittle creature beside her. ‘You have no right to do this.’

Vincent huffed. ‘We are not responsible for that. That is your so-called
angel
. That is what it does to keep itself alive. It is no fault of ours.’

The girl shook her head. ‘You let him feed through you. But you know he needs more than you alone can give him.’

Vincent shifted uncomfortably.

She smiled, guessing perhaps how long he had suspected this. ‘He needs
bigger things
.’

‘A spectacular,’ said Vincent, almost hating the word. ‘Yes. I know.’

‘He needs you to be—’

‘Entranced,’ he interrupted. ‘Captivated.
Awed
. Teach me something I don’t already know, girl!’

‘And so you
use people up
,’ she said.

‘That is
life
! People get used up. Do not be so—’ Vincent bit back the words. What was he doing, justifying himself to this scrap-of-nothing girl?

She gazed down at the burbling thing by her side, stroked its wispy hair. ‘It didn’t used to be like this,’ she whispered. ‘People didn’t used to have to wither just to feed Us. Before Joe died …’ She paused, frowning. ‘No … not Joe … before the creature in the box died …’

She pressed her hand to her head, clenched the other in the waistcoat of the boy called Joe. He gazed down at her: calm, supportive, silent.

‘I’m confused,’ she whispered.

‘The creature in the box?’ prompted Vincent carefully. She seemed so fragile. He must try not to break her too soon. ‘The creature from my laboratory? That is what you were carrying with you last night? That is what you brought to the caverns?’

‘It is dead! How can We survive without it?’

Vincent stared into her desperate, slightly feral face and wondered if the child had already been driven insane. ‘How do you know this?’ he asked.

Her hand tightened in the boy’s clothes. ‘I
remember
. We … it … We remember.’

‘You
remember
? You remember what the Bright Man – what the Angel – remembers? Is that it?’

The seer nodded tightly. Vincent could barely contain his excitement. The seer shared the Bright Man’s thoughts. So many possibilities opened at this revelation. The amount of knowledge that could be gained from it! He leaned across the foot of the bed.

‘What else do you remember?’

‘We must contain the Contagion,’ she cried urgently. ‘The
Demon
. It must not wake!’

Vincent straightened. Again they returned to the Demon.

The American had retreated to the corner of the room as
they spoke, his eyes hopping from one to the other of them.

‘What did you see down there, boy?’ Vincent asked. ‘You said it was a machine. What kind of machine?’

At the boy’s silence, Vincent lifted his hands in exasperation.

‘Spit it out! What are you afraid of?’

The boy just kept staring, and Vincent dropped his hands, suddenly understanding. ‘You saw nothing,’ he said. ‘You wanted my attention, and you said what you thought I wanted to hear – but in reality, you saw nothing. I am right, aren’t I?’

The American’s eyes flicked from him to the others, then back again. He nodded.

Vincent groaned in disappointment. Striding to the window, he stared down at the distant pond.

‘The green light, the pulsing beat: your mind put these two things together and came up with a machine. A good guess, for someone whose perception is addled with angels.’

He glanced back at the American, suddenly fascinated.

‘Why
do
you see an angel? Were you told it was so, before you witnessed it? Is that it? Answer me, boy. I am fascinated by this. Why do so many of you see the Bright Man as a creature of the divine?’

‘It’s not an angel.’

Vincent spun to face the boy called Joe.

‘It’s not an angel,’ repeated the boy. ‘Angels don’t exist.’

Vincent nodded fervently.

‘God doesn’t exist.’

‘Yes!’ cried Vincent, overcome to have, at last, someone who might confirm his own vision. ‘Yes! So what did you see? What is it?’

The boy seemed to struggle for a word. After a moment, he shrugged. ‘Something other?’

‘Other.’ Vincent nodded.
Other
.

He looked back down at the pond. ‘I am going down there,’ he murmured. He looked across at the American. ‘Thank you, boy. For all it was a deception, I think you might have taken a step towards solving a centuries-old mystery. I am grateful to you.’

The boy regarded him with an uncertain frown and then nodded, slow and wary, as if afraid of what he might be agreeing to.

What an amusing group these three were: the pugnacious little magician, the fey, defiant girl, and …

Vincent hesitated. He made himself look again at the boy called Joe, made himself acknowledge exactly who he wasn’t and exactly who he was: a gutter-boy with ragged clothes, and a love of books, and an unusual disregard for angels.

For a moment, Vincent almost felt sad for these children. For a moment, they were almost real to him.

Then he shook them off and left the room, locking the door as he went.