The Pages of Time

by Damian Knight

  Over the next couple of days the full extent of Trent’s smear campaign became apparent as the dumb questions started.

  Is it true you had a threesome with Trent and Brandon?

  Is it true you have genital warts?

  Is it true your father was arrested for possessing indecent images of children?

  Is it true? Is it true? Is it true?

  After a while she gave up denying the things that were said, instead exaggerating them to even more outrageous proportions.

  Just Trent and Brandon? What about the rest of the football team?

  Genital warts? You forgot to mention Chlamydia, Gonorrhoea and HIV.

  Yep, and it’s sure gonna put a dampener on family finances, since sex trafficking was our primary source of income, y’know?

  Although it made Eva feel better, such retaliation in no way improved matters and further alienated her from her peers. Her standing at Montclair High was damaged beyond repair, but she found it hard to care.

  The news came that Matthew had been killed in the crash, while Sam and Rebecca were on life support. Doug took it especially hard, blaming himself for bringing the family over in the first place. He now drank even more than Colette and hardly slept at night. Eva often woke to the noise of him crashing about on the ground floor. His personal hygiene deteriorated and he started getting up late and arriving home early from work, something Eva had never previously dreamed possible.

  Then, in early November, the tension that had been cranking up like two tectonic plates pushing together finally came to a head. For as long as Eva could remember her parents had led separate lives, orbiting each other at a safe, consistent distance, but when Doug came home early to find Colette in bed with Paul, the guy who mowed their lawn, they collided with the cataclysmic force of two planets smashing together. Eva arrived back from another miserable day at school to find her mother sitting on the kitchen floor in a pile of broken crockery, an empty bottle of wine in her hand and tears streaming down her face. Doug’s clothes were no longer in his wardrobe and his car had vanished from the garage. Her father didn’t come home that night, and when Eva rang the next morning he told her he wouldn’t be back at all. He needed space to think, he said, and would be in touch soon. Two days later he called to explain that he was taking a position overseeing a restructure at the bank’s London branch and would be staying there for a few months.

  Although Eva was old enough to understand the futility of her parents staying together just to maintain appearances, the split affected Nicole badly. She became reclusive and even more sullen than usual, showing no interest in her activities or her expensively assembled collection of toys.

  Colette swung between extremes of manic hyperactivity and bouts of debilitating self-pity. On returning home each day, Eva could never be sure whether she’d find her mother vacuuming the skirting boards in high heels and full make-up, or lying in bed, still wearing the same clothes as the night before. Although it was a situation Colette had undoubtedly brought on herself, Eva couldn’t help but feel for her. Doug was hardly an innocent party, and there was only so much boredom and neglect a person could take before they started to go a little strange in the head.

  As December approached the news came that Sam had regained consciousness. With only a week of the semester left, Eva decided she could do with a change of scenery, so she rang Doug to ask if she could come to stay over Christmas. Obviously delighted, he’d booked her a ticket on the next available flight. The fact she’d miss the last three days of school was an additional sweetener.

  The flight was less than half full, with airport security still on high alert and electronic devices prohibited on all flights since the crash. Once they touched down, Eva heaved her hand luggage from the overhead locker, elbowed her way past a fat man in a sweat-stained shirt and stepped through the hatch onto the metal ramp that descended into the belly of Heathrow Airport. She felt tired and dirty, her clothes clinging to her body like cobwebs, and wanted nothing more than to shower and collapse into bed for the rest of the day. It seemed to take an eternity to get her passport stamped and then pass through baggage reclaim, but Doug was waiting in the arrivals hall, waving from the other side of a barrier.

  ‘Boy, is it good to see you!’ he said and hugged her so tightly she could hardly breathe. He had dark circles under his eyes and was sporting an ill-advised beard on his chin. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

  As he wheeled her case to the car, Eva gave him a less-than-flattering critique of his facial hair and told him it looked like he was working too hard. He laughed as he threw her case in the trunk of his car and said, ‘You’re probably right, sweet pea, but what else am I going to do to occupy my time?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said, ‘have some fun for once? Socialise? Relax? Maybe shave?’

  ‘I was thinking we could do that together,’ he said. ‘Have some fun I mean, not shave. I’m taking the next few days off work in your honour.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Eva said and climbed into the passenger seat. ‘Maybe we could hit a few singles’ bars together.’

  ‘Nice try, young lady, but even over here you’re not old enough to drink.’

  ‘Maybe not,’ she said, ‘but I’m closer to eighteen than twenty-one. So, how are Mrs Rayner and Sam doing?’

  The good humour washed from Doug’s face. ‘Not well,’ he said. ‘It was Matthew’s funeral the other week. Sam had some sort of seizure and was rushed to hospital, the poor kid. You should look him up while you’re here. I’m sure he could do with some company.’

  ‘You know, I might just do that,’ Eva said. For the first time in months the world felt full of possibility again.

  7

  Sam visited the Tempus Research Facility every day that week and almost grew used to the headaches that accompanied his training. He underwent a bewildering array of brain scans, many similar to those he’d already been through in hospital, and was made to complete several memory tests in which he was asked to repeat an ever-increasing sequence of numbers that were read out to him. He also got to work on the random chance generator again, although only after insisting Fairview disconnect the electrified plates on the joysticks, which he agreed to with a disappointed huff.

  With each session Sam felt his ability grow as the Tetradyamide sharpened his senses. On Tuesday he beat his previous score on the random chance generator before the headache got too bad, notching up fifty-two correct identifications, and beat that again the following day with a score of seventy-five. On Thursday he broke the one hundred mark, at which point the counter in the bottom corner of the screen rolled from 99 back to 00 and McHayden stepped into the room. ‘That’s enough,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve proved our point here.’

  Sam’s training with the Tempus Project left him drained, exhausted and unable to manage anything more demanding than shovelling food into his mouth before falling into bed when he got back each evening. On Thursday he arrived home to find Chrissie and his grandparents sitting around the table while Lance washed up at the sink.

  ‘How was it?’ Chrissie asked. ‘You look terrible.’

  Sam had told his family that he was still helping the police with their investigations, which was true, in a way. Chrissie made no attempt to hide the fact that she thought Sam was overdoing it, but because he hadn’t had another seizure since the funeral and made a big show of taking the bogus epilepsy tablets McHayden had given him, there wasn’t really much she could say or do.

  ‘I’m fine,’ he said, ‘just a bit tired. And hungry.’

  ‘There’s lasagne in the oven,’ Grandma said. ‘I wasn’t sure what time you’d be back, so we’ve already eaten.’

  Sam filled a plate from a baking dish and took a seat at the table.

  ‘Any breakthroughs in the investigation yet?’ Chrissie asked.

  ‘Nothing solid,’ he said, hating himself for lying to her. ‘We just went through some mug shots. It was pretty boring, actually.’

 
She narrowed her eyes. ‘I thought you looked at mug shots already.’

  Sam put a forkful of lasagne in his mouth and chewed slowly to buy a few extra seconds. ‘I did. These ones were different, I guess.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ she said, looking unconvinced. ‘I don’t like the idea of you taking on so much after your injury, especially with your interview tomorrow. You need to be taking it easy.’

  Dr McHayden had insisted Sam do everything in his power to portray the appearance of normality, so he’d contacted Fraser Golding College earlier in the week hoping to start his A-levels in the New Year, and had been invited to attend an interview with the Principal on Friday, the last day of term.

  ‘I appreciate your concern,’ he said, ‘but I’m fine. Really, Chrissie, you worry too much.’

  ‘Well someone’s got to. You don’t seem very interested in your own wellbeing.’

  Lance turned from the sink, a damp dishcloth draped over his shoulder. ‘Lay off, Chrissie, he’s not a baby anymore.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Sam said, ‘I just want to get on with my life instead of everybody treating me like an invalid.’

  ‘But you are an invalid.’ Chrissie reached across the table and took Sam’s hand. ‘I just don’t want you taking on too much. I understand you wanting to go back to college, just like I understand you wanting to help the police. Really, Sam, I understand those things better than anyone, but you need to remember that your health is more important than any of that.’

  ‘I do,’ he said, wondering how many promises he would have to make that he didn’t know if he could keep.

  His grandmother covered the lasagne with aluminium foil and transferred the baking tray to the fridge. ‘Oh, I almost forgot,’ she said. ‘You had a visitor while you were out. A young lady. Pretty thing, I must say. Foreign – Canadian or American, I think. Said her name was Eve. Or Evelyn. Something like that.’

  Sam paused, his loaded fork an inch from his mouth. ‘Do you mean Eva?’

  ‘That’s it! Anyway, she left a telephone number on the pad in the hall and asked if you’d call her back.’

  Sam returned his fork to the plate. Suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore.

  8

  Sam woke on Friday morning to the view of falling snow through a gap in his curtains, but when he looked out of the window he saw that it was melting away to a muddy slush on the ground instead of settling. Once again he hadn’t slept well that night, his nerves bubbling over like a shaken fizzy drink.

  On the first two occasions Sam had tried to call Eva, he’d hung up before the phone even started to ring, but on the third he had managed to hold his nerve. Doug had picked up and put Eva on, and as soon as Sam heard her voice his anxiety had disappeared, the Night of The Broken Coffee Table instantly forgotten. Eva had said she had plans with Doug in the morning, sightseeing and such, but would love to catch up, so Sam arranged to meet her after his interview by the tube station near Fraser Golding.

  Lance drove him to college in Victor, his old Volvo, and Chrissie insisted on coming too. Sam’s meeting with Mr Tilbert, the Principal, was at 11 o’clock, after which he’d arranged to meet Lewis for lunch, leaving a couple of hours with Eva before McHayden picked him up for his next session at the Tempus Research Facility. It was by far Sam’s busiest day since his injury and, as the car rattled to a stop outside the gates, he began to wonder if he really was taking on too much. As if reading his mind, Chrissie unclipped her seatbelt, leaned over from the front and asked if he wanted them to wait.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he said.

  ‘Are you sure? We can come back and collect you, if you like?’

  ‘Thanks, but it’s okay. I’m supposed to meet someone afterwards.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if you came straight home,’ she said and bit her lip in a way that suggested she was holding back.

  Lance rolled his eyes in the rear view mirror. ‘Chill, Chrissie. He said he’s fine.’

  ‘He’s my brother,’ she said, glowering at him. ‘I’m allowed to be concerned, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’d better go,’ Sam said before he could get caught up in their spat. ‘Thanks for the lift.’

  He climbed out, his jacket flapping in the cold wind, and made his way towards the entrance. Sam wondered if Chrissie would revert back to the role of sister if their mum ever woke up. She only had his best interests at heart, but he almost missed the sullen bully he’d spent most of his life trying to avoid, compared to this clucking mother hen only three years older than him. It was as if the crash had changed Chrissie more than Sam, and he was the one who’d been injured.

  Fraser Golding Sixth Form College educated over two thousand students and was set over a sprawling campus with several different faculty buildings scattered amongst courtyards and sports fields. Sam signed in at the front desk and was given a visitor’s badge and directions to the Principal’s office.

  Mr Tilbert was sitting in a high-backed leather chair that dwarfed his narrow frame. He had a thin, ratty face and a beard that was a blatant attempt to hide an overbite. There was an executive toy on the surface of his desk: five metal balls suspended from a frame. As Sam entered, Mr Tilbert lifted the first ball and released it, sending the last rebounding into motion.

  ‘Hello. Sam, is it? Please, have a seat. I’ve had a quick look through you file and it appears we offered you a place back in April.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Sam said and sat on one of the cheap, plastic chairs reserved for visitors.

  ‘The thing is, this offer was conditional on you taking the place in September. It says here that our offer was initially accepted and then later declined.’

  ‘My family moved to America in the summer,’ Sam explained. ‘It all happened at the last minute, which is why I accepted and then had to decline.’

  Mr Tilbert studied the file like he was checking a script for his next line, then pursed his lips and emitted a low whistle. ‘This presents us with something of a problem, you see. When you declined our offer, your place was automatically allocated to the next student on the waiting list. Unfortunately, at this particular moment, the college is fully subscribed.’

  Sam stared at him, unable to believe the man had invited him all the way down here just to say he wasn’t going to let him in. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘there must be something you can do. Fraser Golding was always my first choice. Loads of my friends go here.’

  ‘You know, Sam, where your friends go should never be a deciding factor when choosing a sixth-form college.’ Tilbert paused, rested his elbows on the desk and placed his fingertips together. ‘I do, however, understand there have been some extenuating circumstances in your case.’

  ‘Extenuating circumstances?’

  A jewel set in the chunky gold ring on the principal’s little finger glittered in the light. ‘I’m talking about the plane crash,’ he said. ‘A truly terrible business.’

  ‘Oh, right. That. What’s it got to do with anything?’

  ‘Well, when dealing with such a high-profile…’ He sniffed, trying to suck the word he was looking for from the air. ‘…situation as yours, I don’t think it would be wise for the college to turn you away. Above all, I have our reputation to consider and, although this is strictly off the record, I might be willing to bend the rules in this instance.’

  ‘You mean you’re letting me in?’ Sam asked.

  Tilbert twisted his ring and smiled. ‘You’d have a lot of catching up to do, you realise. You’ve already missed the first term of the academic year and I wouldn’t want you falling further behind.’

  ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’

  ‘Good.’ He rose from his chair and offered Sam his hand. ‘I’ll have a word with admissions and get you enrolled for the new term. In the meantime, I’ll have your teachers prepare some work to get you up to speed over the Christmas holidays.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Sam said. ‘You won’t regret this.’

  ‘I sincerely hope not. And remember, if you ever need someone to ta
lk to, my door is always open.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘About the, you know, situation. I’ve been told I’m a very good listener.’

  Sam thanked him again and left. While he would have loved someone to confide in, Mr Tilbert was just about the last person he would choose.

  9

  Lewis stood outside the cafeteria with his bag slung over his shoulder. It was freezing and he had to keep stamping his feet to maintain the flow of blood to his toes. He glanced at the clock across the courtyard, set high on the wall of the main building, which was the oldest part of Fraser Golding College and dated back to some point in the late 1800s. Sam’s interview should have finished ages ago, so what was keeping him?

  A group of people passed by on their way into the cafeteria. ‘You coming?’ Mo, a boy in his Politics class, asked.

  ‘Waiting for someone,’ Lewis said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘My friend. He might be starting after Christmas. He’s got an interview with Tilbert the Dilbert.’

  Mo made to leave, then turned back, his eyes round. ‘Oh, you mean that kid, don’t you? The one in a coma.’

  ‘His name’s Sam. And he’s not in a coma anymore, otherwise he wouldn’t be here for an interview, would he?’

  ‘Deep,’ Mo said, nodding like it all made sense now. ‘Catch you later.’

  ‘Muppet,’ Lewis muttered, watching him go. He wished Sam would hurry up: it had now been close to two hours since he’d last eaten and his stomach was beginning to rumble.

  Lewis still didn’t know how to explain what had happened after Sam had collapsed on the day of Matthew’s funeral, and it bothered him like an itch in the middle of his back that he couldn’t quite reach. Sam had been out every night that week – helping the police with their investigations, he’d said – but when Lewis had managed to corner him and bring it up again, his friend had changed the subject so quickly it was almost suspicious.

  A few more people went by, then the door to the main building opened and, at long last, Lewis saw Sam come out and cross the courtyard. Although he wasn’t exactly nimble on his feet yet, it was hard to believe that Sam had been on crutches only a couple of weeks earlier.