by Silk, Avril
Burnley.
Panic gripped Jo’s mind as Everard Burnley yanked her towards the bed. Desperately she recoiled but could not break free of his iron grasp. Her arm felt like it was yanked from its socket by the powerful entity that stalked her dreams. Desperately, she emped.
Matthew! Help me!
As Jo screamed Everard Burnley’s laughter grew all the more powerful.
Got you.
Matthew appeared beside them.
Jo! You must fight him!
Burnley laughed all the harder as outside the window an atomic blast tore the dream to shreds.
Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. She instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.
As her eyes took in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe full of her clothes, the pretty dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves, she found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis?
She snatched up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. To her relief there was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.
And with that Jo ran from the room and down the deserted corridors and took the elevator straight to her mother’s room. She wrenched the red door open and stood in the doorway.
‘Mum?’ she asked tentatively.
The only reply was the intermittent artificial beep of the life support machine. The silence between each beep only grew louder until Jo could bear it no more. She went to her mothers’ bedside and looked.
The bed was shrouded in shadow, the light was dingy. As Jo peered into the gloom, Ali weakly reached out her hand. Gasping for joy, Jo reached out and grabbed it with both hands.
Mum!
Her mothers’ hand felt warm and soft as Jo squeezed as hard as she could. She poured her heart and soul into their connection and emped, You’re alive.
And then Everard Burnley chuckled to himself. Jo screamed as the hand beneath the bedsheets crushed her fingers together.
Ali opened her eyes and rose from the bed, lifting Jo clean off the ground as she did so.
I’m alive! boomed Everard Burnley
Mary! Help me! pleaded Jo and immediately Mary Montgomery was standing there beside them.
Fight, Jo! She emped. Burnley just laughed at Jo while wearing her own mother’s face. With effortless ease Jo was thrown at Mary as if she were a punch. Mary crumpled before her, bouncing across the room before colliding with the wall. Listlessly she slid to the floor.
‘No!’ cried Jo in horror as her grinning mother bore down upon her.
Mum! Emped Jo. Where are you?
Ali threw back her head and laughed the laugh of Everard Burnley. Outside the sky was split asunder by the piercing blast of an atomic bomb. The room shook violently as the pressure wave tore through the room as a howling gale strips dead leaves from a tree.
Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. Her hand instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.
It took a while for her eyes to adjust and take in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe, the dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves. She found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis? Her head throbbed and her mouth felt dry and parched.
She leaned over and picked up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. There was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.
Jo rose slowly, peering blearily at the world around her. She felt exhausted. The hospital was dark both inside and out. It was night time and the generators still weren’t working. She pulled on her dressing gown and fluffy slippers and shuffled into the hall.
She made her way past the sleeping wards full of patients, smiling kindly at the night staff who all greeted her politely in return. Out of a window Jo caught sight of several large relief helicopters in the car park. She carried on down the corridor as a young man softly sung along to his headphones while polishing the floor.
Hush, little baby, don’t say a word…
Jo stopped in the corner shop which was a bustle of activity. GLORY orderlies were unloading a large shipment of supplies; medicine and linen for the wards, portable generators for power, fresh food for the cafeteria and gallons of fresh water. In the middle of all that, the wrong box had been delivered to the shop.
‘This isn’t a newspaper!’ exclaimed the shopkeeper in explanation while waving a stethoscope at a man holding a clipboard. Jo had wanted to buy a chocolate bar but as the man was obviously busy, she didn’t wish to bother him. She waited patiently for the elevator as people bustled around her. Finally there was a ping and the doors parted and a group of people stepped out of the crowded elevator.
Jo looked around before entering the now empty carriage. The bustling continued unabated. She stepped in and pushed the button to close the door.
Music played softly as the elevator gently rose. Jo slumped against the wall and let out a mighty yawn. The lights flickered briefly as the music skipped a beat. Jo felt the elevator slow briefly for a moment before regaining momentum. With a ping the elevator reached the top floor.
The door did not open. Jo leaned across and pushed the button. No response. Sighing wearily, Jo pushed the button again and the doors parted. On the other side people were waiting for the elevator. One man impatiently pushed past the others as Jo stepped into the corridor.
‘Jo!’ exclaimed her dad as she opened the red door to her mother’s room. Matthew and Mary were sat either side of the bed. ‘Good morning! Or is still night time?’
‘It’s night time, Dad. Trust me.’
Jo’s eyes were drawn to the windows. In the distance large pylons bearing artificial lights illuminated a heavy construction crew hard at work rebuilding the bridge. A few drops of rain settled on the glass.
‘Wonderful news, Jo!’ grinned Matthew. ‘Your mum squeezed my hand!’
Jo’s face lit up. Mary smiled back at her. ‘I felt it too!’ and with that Paul danced over and gathered his daughter in his arms, he swung her around until she felt giddy singing, ‘Your mum’s going to live! Ali’s alive!’ and he was crying with eyes full of relief and hope and joy.
Jo just laughed and laughed and laughed as the room spun past her over and over as her mother lay still upon the bed. As Paul swung her faster and sang even louder Jo kept her eyes on Ali. The world whirled away as Jo spun through the air and then Ali opened her eyes and Jo saw that they were the glaring evil eyes of Everard Burnley. A flash of light outside the window and the next moment they were all gone.
Jo woke up in a warm and cosy room, curled up in an armchair. It was still dark. Her hand instinctively reached for the bedside light. Blinking, she sat up and looked around.
As her eyes took in the elegant furniture, the wardrobe full of clothes just right for her, the pretty dressing table and well-stocked bookshelves, she found herself holding her breath. Could this really be true? Was she finally back at the hospital, listening to the torrential rain on the windows, still needing to complete her homework on the Cuban Missile Crisis?
She snatched up her text book, carefully scanning the pages to see if the words had been changed. To her immense relief there was no mention of Castro and Khrushchev having triumphed.
She checked the time, wondering if she could go and see her parents, but decided that three o’clock in the morning wasn’t an ideal time to visit, so with a great sigh of relief, she undressed and slipped in between the covers and slept a deep, dreamless sleep.
The next morning she went straight to the coma ward. She was half expecting people to say, ‘Where on earth have you been all this tim
e?’ but no-one did.
Jo hesitated when she reached the room with the red door. One of the nurses looked up at her and smiled. ‘You did your Dad a power of good, Jo! He went for a jog around the grounds before breakfast, and floods or no floods, he’s gone to the recording studio. Said it was time he got on with some work.’
At first Jo was delighted, then she felt a little clutch of fear. ‘Did he leave Mum on her own?’
‘No, not at all. Mr and Mrs Jamieson are with her.’
After greeting Matthew and Mary, remembering to act as if she had only seen them the day before, not decades ago, Jo went and kissed her mother.
‘Any change?’ she asked hopefully while staring down at the motionless Ali.
Mary shook her head regretfully. ‘Sorry, Jo. We’ve tried everything we know, but we cannot get through to her. I even slipped down to the chapel and lit a candle, just in case there’s anything in this religion malarkey…’
‘It is better to light a candle than to rage against the dark.’ Jo had spoken the words aloud before she realised.
‘Matthew’s always saying that,’ laughed Mary. ‘But rage has its place!’
Jo wondered if it was Matthew she had heard, comforting her as she went deep underground in a world ravaged by nuclear war. She had been overwhelmed by sadness and fear, afraid that she had brought that bleak world into being by trying to change the future. Or maybe it was a Spirit Guide. Summer Moon had spoken to her of guardian spirits in a tipi fragrant with sweet grass incense and smouldering sage. Initially Jo had been unconvinced, but her visions had left her more open-minded.
‘I had a dream,’ she said slowly, watching Matthew’s face carefully. Was it her imagination, or had he just winked at her? She carried on. ‘Someone said It is better to light a candle than to rage against the dark. Then I had a vision about Mum. She was like she is now – so pale and still. The vision reminded me of a silent film - no colour or sound. It made me cry. Then as I cried, everything began to change. I could hear music and laughter, and there was movement and colour. Then Mum opened her eyes.’
The vision was crystal clear in Jo’s memory.
Ali opened her eyes. She sat up in bed and smiled directly at her daughter. The colours grew ever more intense, until a white aura surrounded Ali, her red-gold curls turning to silver and pearl, gleaming softly like the petals of the healing lotus. As the light grew more dazzling, and the music more wild and haunting, Jo thought she would faint with joy. She stretched out her arms towards her mother.
Then, as the music reached an exquisite note of crystal purity, there was an explosion of stars, softly cascading down, swirling like snowflakes. Sadness clutched at Jo’s heart as the vision faded and the shadows slowly returned, but now a small candle glowed steadily in the heart of the darkness.
‘That’s beautiful,’ said Mary, and Matthew smiled in agreement. Jo realised she had not spoken out loud – her old friends had emped her. It seemed strange, paradoxically, to be back on familiar territory, with her special abilities intact.
‘Why don’t you tell Alithea about your dream?’ suggested Matthew gently. ‘It is very possible she can hear your voice. If she can, hearing you talk might comfort her.’
‘Could it bring her back?’ asked Jo, her voice shaky as, suddenly and unexpected, tears threatened.
Mary spoke gravely. ‘If you assume no, you won’t be disappointed, Jo.’
‘’How about if we give you some privacy to be with your mother,’ suggested Matthew. ‘I could do with stretching my legs, and the cafeteria does a delicious range of Danish pastries…’
‘My favourite,’ said Jo. ‘And I’ve had no breakfast…’
‘We’ll bring one back for you,’ promised Matthew.
After they’d gone, Jo sat down on the bed and took Ali’s limp hand. ‘In my dreams I travelled back in time and saw you when you were a girl,’ she began.
Jo described the visit to Stigmurus Enterprises, trying to paint a vivid picture of the amazing events of 1957. She looked for humour where she could. ‘Aunt Lethe was an absolute nightmare,’ she laughed. ‘Ungracious, bad-tempered and spiteful. You just ignored her and kept right on reading your book – until she nicked it. The book was The Whale - Moby Dick… she threw it away, and I picked it up…’ Jo hesitated, debating whether to explain how and why she had failed to return the book.
Just for a fraction of a second Jo thought she felt Ali’s hand move in hers. She gasped, and stopped talking, staring intently, but her mother seemed as still as ever.
With a sigh, Jo picked up her story, wondering if this was really such a good idea. After all, the ending was tragic.
Jo chattered on about Silver Lightning and his anger at the effect of the nuclear industry on his tribe. She glowed with pride as she described her grandparents’ rigorous challenges to Titus’s smooth-talking snake-oil salesman.
‘Matthew was there as well; oh, and Sebastian, in a way…’ She explained about the test-tube. ‘I think Aunt Lethe believes she’s the reason Sebastian looks so strange. I think she feels she has to make it up to him. Anyway, Matthew was just about to help me to get out of the dream, when there was a terrible explosion. Your father – my grandfather – tried to save you.’
This time Jo was sure Ali’s hand moved slightly.
He died. That’s why Lethe hates me.
Mum? Jo was electrified. At last! She had missed her mother so much. She hardly dared hope. Mum?
There was no further response from Ali, however, so Jo started to tell her about her dream of Bayne. She glossed over her time in Madame Mirabel’s brothel but that made her description of the Barabbas Ball rather sketchy.
‘Anyway, you and I were facing the firing squad, when Matthew came and saved the day.’ Jo omitted to mention that Matthew’s rescue only involved her. It seemed awful to say, And you died.
Was that the ghost of a smile on Ali’s face? Or just a trick of the light? Or was Jo just so desperate for her mother to come out of the coma that she imagined signs of life where there were none? She emped me, thought Jo fiercely. Hold on to that.
‘After Bayne, Matthew and I ended up back at the Lost Funfair of Forgotten Dreams. This was in the Sixties, when you were all at college, and hey! I saw you when you were hippies! Well, Aunt Lethe wasn’t a hippie – but you and Dad, and Quinn were – all long-haired and psychedelic. You were wearing that cheesecloth dress. Mum, it’s time to let it go!’
‘Your mum knows I love that dress.’ Jo had not noticed Paul come in. Her mind raced. She felt she needed to tread carefully. She had said this was all a dream, but in her heart of hearts she knew what she had seen was true. Knowing the exact nature of how Lethe had betrayed Paul, Ali and Quinn made Jo feel very uncomfortable. She felt reluctant to go into such intimate and private matters, so she contented herself with saying, ‘Aunt Lethe was up to her usual tricks – trying to cause trouble between you two. She was also really catty about your clothes, Mum, and your patchouli oil.’
‘The dress still has a faint smell of patchouli,’ said Paul. ‘One sniff and it’s like time travel. One of the reasons I love it. So what did you think of your old dad when he was a cool young dude?’
Jo laughed. This felt easier. ‘The moustache was amazing, Dad!’
‘Ah yes – inspired by Emiliano Zapata. He was a key figure in the Mexican revolution … so what was I wearing?’
‘Oh, you had a blue tie-dye T-shirt with a rainbow explosion, and purple sunglasses…’
‘I loved those sunglasses,’ smiled Paul. ‘I used to say I looked at the world through a purple haze. I was three years ahead of my time!’ He paused. ‘You look puzzled, Jo. It’s just that three years later Jimi Hendrix brought out a rather wonderful record called Purple Haze.’
‘I know that, Dad,’ said Jo, still looking mystified. ‘It’s just that I got it the wrong way round. It was the T-shirt that was purple, and the glasses were blue.’
‘You’re absolutely right! I used to say they
were my Blue Dazer Gazers… after the Miles Davis album, Blue Daze. Oh man, I thought I was so cool!’
Jo was completely stumped. What was going on? It was as if whatever she said to Paul about the past became real to him. She tried another tack. ‘And you had a great bass guitar…’
‘I loved that bass! It was an Airline Pocket. Ice-Tea sunburst. Wish I still had it. It would be worth a fortune.’
‘… or was it a twelve-string acoustic?’
‘Yes! Of course! Mind you, I would have sold my mother to get my hands on an electric Rickenbacker twelve-string… but that acoustic guitar was great for some of the early Dylan stuff I used to like…’
Jo threw down a reckless wild card. ‘Come to think of it, it wasn’t a guitar at all. You had a saxophone.’
Paul didn’t miss a beat. ‘You bet. I wanted to be John Coltrane. I played my Impressions LP so much it was practically smooth!’
How deep does this go? Jo wondered. Aloud she said, ‘How old were you when you started to learn the saxophone, Dad?’
‘I must have been about thirteen. My uncle died, and I inherited his Selmer sax. It came in a tan coloured case with a red velvet lining. I thought I’d pick it up easily, but I found it really difficult to learn, and I was not keen on practising. But little by little I began to improve. As soon as I heard Coltrane I just wanted to get as good as I could. He blew me away!’
Jo wondered what on earth was happening. It seemed that whatever conversational ball she lobbed, her father picked it up and ran with it. Dozens of questions crowded into her mind. Would this work with anyone else? Was it permanent? Did she just plant a seed, and the person’s imagination made the plant grow? Was there anyone else who could plant false memories? If enough memories were altered would history be changed?
Jo had an idea. ‘Hey, Dad! You had these really cool sunglasses – but I can’t remember what colour they were.’
Paul’s answer was immediate. ‘They were blue.’
