The Unlikely Heroics of Sam Holloway

by Rhys Thomas

  He picks up the KitKat and inspects it with his Maglite. It is too dirty to salvage. Looking out across the graveyard, he crushes the chocolate bar in his fist. Whatever that thing is out there, it has his attention.

  The grass is slick from the day’s rain. Need to be careful. The groaning has stopped. Cold air washes over him like ghosts, and a sixth sense warns him of a presence nearby. And yet there is nobody in sight. Was it a trick of the mind? Just the trees aching in the wind? A stray cat?

  Then his blood freezes. It’s behind him.

  He spins round. Nothing there.

  The chemicals of fear surge through him and again the call to flee is strong. There is a dark area before him, where a tall tree has blocked the light from the lamp post skirting the graveyard. He teases the Maglite over the space but it lands on nothing. Composing himself, he steps forward. The headstones here are tight together but there is a clear path through. At the end of the path he sees a missing spoke in the railing – and the safety of the street beyond.

  And yet it seems a hundred miles away. And then, louder, the noise returns. Something is groaning, and he realises with horror that it is coming from under the ground. Rooted to the spot, he looks down and finds himself unable to move. The bodies. All the bodies. Then, when the groaning comes again, he starts to run. The ground is slippery and he almost falls, but he uses a headstone to stay up. He slips again but this time he can’t right himself, for he has fallen, and the rules of logic dissolve: he can’t stop falling. He has pierced the veil of the worlds and is plummeting downwards, into the Underworld.

  For six feet.

  He lands on his legs, which buckle. He tries to fall sideways but is propped up by a wall of sheer earth. A shiver runs through him. It accompanies visions of Hades and Satan. He is in pitch blackness as his mind catches up. He has fallen into an open grave.

  He pauses and thinks. No need to panic.

  ‘Geeerrrggghhhh.’

  PANIC!

  The thing is in there with him!

  He scrambles up the side of the wall but it’s too high. It’s so sheer that there’s no purchase. His guts in his throat, he initiates a huge star jump to get a hold of the edge but he’s not tall enough and slips back down. Oh God, he thinks. Oh God oh God oh God.

  The presence of the creature is so strong he presses himself up against the far side of the grave and grits his teeth. But he quickly realises he must face his adversary. It becomes apparent: this is a test, a rite of passage.

  Calm as an ocean, he grips the Maglite, hoping to blind whatever beast shares this sacred space. He takes a deep breath, turns, and points the light. The sorry thing in the grave with him puts up its pale but muddied talons to block the light, as if the photons themselves are causing it pain. His first thought is, there is UV light in this torch, I have happened across a vampire and the UV is burning it. His second, more accurate, thought is, it’s a drunk man who’s also fallen into the grave.

  The man is bald, mid-forties, overweight, and wearing nothing but an orange T-shirt and jeans. Must’ve been taking a short cut towards that gap in the railings.

  ‘What on earth are you doing in here?’

  His sense of control coming back, he is able to speak in his official Phantasm voice.

  ‘Errr?’ says the man. He is absolutely hammered.

  The Phantasm goes into his backpack and fetches his foil blanket, drapes it over the drunk.

  ‘Helen’s left me,’ he says.

  Face-to-face, the Phantasm shakes his head solemnly. ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’ He pours a coffee into the lid of his flask. ‘Here.’

  The man drinks, and the caffeine revives him a little. ‘Have you got any sugar?’ he slurs.

  The Phantasm goes into his utility belt and withdraws a sachet of white sugar, pours it into the flask lid and swirls it around before handing it back. It is only then the man realises that the presence come to his aid is wearing a mask. But he does not seem perturbed.

  ‘Batman?’ he says.

  ‘I’m not Batman,’ the hero whispers. ‘I am the Phantasm. And how may I address you?’

  The man’s head wobbles on his shoulders. ‘Colin,’ he mumbles.

  Colin is bereft after the loss of his Helen.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ the guardian says, kindly.

  He knows that getting Colin out of this grave is going to be difficult. From his pack he takes a length of rope. Here, his training is called for. With the Maglite in his mouth he makes a lasso knot, remembering the YouTube tutorial he watched. Then he searches his memory. There was a headstone just outside the grave, no doubt inscribed with the name of whichever poor departed soul will be spending eternity in this hallowed spot. He knows he won’t be able to pull Colin up, and so the plan will be for the big man to go first, with the Phantasm pushing him from beneath. He tosses up the lasso but misses with his first attempt. Stepping back to give himself space, he twirls it above his head and misses again. But he is nothing if not persistent.

  Behind him he hears the trickling of water. And a few seconds after, the sound is joined by an odd aroma.

  ‘Colin? What the hell are you doing?’

  Colin is standing behind him now, facing the opposite wall.

  ‘I gotta have a piss, I’m busting.’

  ‘Colin! This is a grave!’

  But Colin just shakes his head, his large frame swaying. Steam is rising from the ground. He leans his one hand on the wall of the grave, above his head. It is unbelievable.

  Success! The rope holds tight.

  ‘OK,’ he says. ‘Colin? I need you to pull yourself up. I’ll help you.’

  ‘I can’t believe she’s left me,’ he whimpers.

  ‘Colin, forget about Helen for a second.’

  This snaps him to life. He sniffs, shakes his head and takes the rope, not even looking at his saviour.

  ‘Can you climb up?’

  Colin doesn’t even need to reply. Up he goes. His mighty arms pull, hand over hand, and the Phantasm crouches beneath him. Colin’s deep-tread shoes claw painfully at the avenger’s back, but it’s fine. He ratchets his legs up to elevate Colin, who is making constipated gasping sounds with his struggle.

  It is going very well, until there is a loud groaning sound again. This time, it is not born of a living creature. The knowledge of what’s happening is immediate. With the rain and the weight the headstone is subsiding.

  ‘Colin, get down!’

  The Phantasm leaps clear and Colin falls. In one smooth motion, the masked avenger loops his arms around the big man and drags him away just as the headstone topples into the grave and impacts the ground with a heavy thunk! On his back, the heavy man on top of him, a pool of the heavy man’s urine seeping through his costume below him, he stares at the stars overhead and exhales a long breath.

  ‘Oh man,’ he says. ‘I’m getting too old for this.’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  The red tail lights of the cars whizzed past as blurs through the rain-soaked windows. He could see the bright neon sign of the noodle bar reflected in the puddles on the street, as people hurried past with umbrellas turned into the wind.

  Sarah arrived with a gust of cold air from the open door and he waved to her from his seat. She took off her coat and laid it over the back of her chair without making sure there were no creases. The front of her hair was wet and her glasses were all steamed up. As it had so often over the fortnight, his heart skipped a beat.

  She wiped her glasses in the sleeve of her sweater and moved the wet pieces of hair off her face before picking up the menu.

  ‘I’m starving,’ she said.

  ‘They do really good noodles here.’

  Sarah scanned the menu and said, ‘I want something spicy.’

  ‘How was your day?’

  ‘It was a bit weird, actually. My old boyfriend messaged me on Facebook on New Year’s Eve,’ she said, not glancing up from her menu, as if it was nothing.

  ‘Oh.’
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  ‘But I didn’t see it because the app’s not on my phone, so I only check it on my laptop.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t on Facebook.’

  ‘I’m not. I’ve got a page but I’ve hidden it. I just use it for Messenger.’

  He tried to make his voice sound normal. ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Nothing really. Just that he was sorry and hopes that I have a good new year.’

  Sam felt suddenly cold. He wanted to be friends with her on Facebook. And what else was she keeping from him?

  Sarah picked up both menus and slid them into the holder behind the condiments, out of the way. ‘It must have been weighing on his mind.’

  ‘What’s weighing on his mind?’ Sam noticed a stray noodle from the last customers near the condiments and swept it away with a napkin, trying to ignore the sudden out-of-depth feeling.

  ‘You know, the drugs and everything.’

  ‘You’ve never told me, though.’

  ‘Told you what?’ Her voice tightened. ‘I did tell you about him. The dealing stuff. It’s not a good life, all that paranoia all the time, and he feels bad for putting me through it I guess. We used to have to take different routes home to make sure we weren’t followed and things. It takes a toll in the end. Kinda screwed me up.’

  Sam looked around for a waiter.

  ‘That OK with you?’ she said.

  ‘Yeah, it’s just . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There must be something else. Kabe mentioned it up at Arcadia.’

  ‘He what?’

  She was sitting up straight and there was an edge to her he hadn’t seen before.

  ‘He just said how you deserved better.’

  ‘What exactly did he say?’

  ‘Just that.’

  Sarah picked up the menu again.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, dodging. ‘I think I’m hangry. I need some food.’

  A waiter went to the next table and the couple sitting at it leaned forward in unison. Sam didn’t know what to say so he leaned way out into the aisle to grab the waiter’s attention, nodding his head and pointing at his table.

  ‘He wasn’t a bad guy, he just got mixed up. It kinda just runs away with you.’

  ‘Maybe it was because it was New Year’s Eve and he was lonely.’

  ‘You’re not jealous, are you?’ she said. ‘I’m telling you, aren’t I?’

  ‘I’m not jealous.’ He laughed. His stomach hurt. ‘OK, I am.’

  Sarah winced. ‘Look, Sam, don’t be one of those guys. I’m with you, OK? I know this is new to you,’ she said, ‘but you don’t want to go down that line.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ he said. ‘It’s just, you said he was a bad person. You seem to be changing your mind.’

  Her face flickered with irritation and she exhaled slowly.

  ‘You can’t keep worrying about the past,’ she said. ‘Eventually, you have to just accept it and make a future.’

  He relented.

  ‘I sometimes think my whole last six years was spent facing the wrong way,’ he said. ‘Always into the past.’

  ‘Let the past inform your future, but not define it,’ she said.

  ‘You remembered,’ said Sam, trying to smile but failing.

  They were both trying to act like things were normal. Why had her ex-boyfriend started messaging her out of the blue? And who was he? The waiter arrived at their table and Sam smiled at him, feeling Sarah’s eyes boring into him.

  Sipping beer abjectly, Sam looked at Tango and Blotchy. They’d managed to get the best table, the one tucked away in the corner, in the alcove near the fire.

  ‘All we’re saying is,’ said Tango, in the seat opposite him, ‘it’s great you’ve got a girlfriend but we’re still your friends too.’

  He’d been looking forward to seeing them after Christmas away, but now he wasn’t sure why.

  ‘What do you want me to say?’

  ‘We didn’t know where you were,’ said Tango.

  ‘I told you. I was away. I don’t get why it’s such a big deal.’

  The way they were looking at him made him feel small. And more than a little confused.

  ‘This guy,’ said Blotchy sitting next to him, the pores on his cheeks wider than Sam remembered, ‘up at the house. Sounds like a cult leader.’

  ‘Are you guys jealous?’

  ‘Pfft. Don’t be so ridiculous.’

  Tango reached across and put his hand on his shoulder. ‘We miss you.’

  Sam looked at the hand. ‘And you’re saying they’re like a cult?’

  ‘OK, let’s just drop it,’ said Tango.

  ‘It’s fine,’ said Sam. ‘I don’t mind. If you guys have something to say you should say it.’

  ‘ “Guys”?’ said Blotchy, face screwing up. ‘Since when do you say “guys”?’

  Sam rolled his eyes. Why weren’t they happy for him?

  ‘All we’re saying,’ said Tango, ‘is that all of sudden it’s Christmas time and you drop off the radar for a week. What are we supposed to think?’

  ‘Oh, I get it. Don’t worry,’ he said, ‘I’m not going to get lonely at Christmas and throw myself off a cliff.’

  ‘No, it’s just . . . you haven’t been yourself lately. We don’t want you rushing into something you’re not ready for.’

  ‘Jesus Christ, are you listening to yourself?’ His voice was wavering as his frustration with them grew. ‘How come you guys care so much about my feelings all of a sudden? You never did before.’

  ‘You need to check yourself,’ said Blotchy.

  ‘Oh, come on. You don’t own me and I don’t own you. Can’t you see how shit like this holds us back? All of us. We’re all too scared to do anything new because we make fun of each other. Constantly. We should be happy for each other occasionally.’

  Blotchy said, ‘I see during his absence he’s become a Professor in Sociology.’

  ‘Very good, Blotch, but at least I’m not fat.’

  ‘Resorting to insults.’

  ‘Better than resorting to lasagne.’

  ‘Sam.’ Tango looked at him. ‘We’re not trying to hold you back – that’s not what this is about. We’re just looking out for you.’

  ‘Why the hell is this table so sticky?’ Sam said, trying to dislodge his beer mat from the wood.

  There was an uncomfortable silence.

  ‘Well now, gentlemen,’ said Blotchy at last. ‘We’ve said what we wanted to say and now I would like to show you one of my Christmas presents.’ From his man bag he produced a small remote-controlled drone. ‘This, my friends, is capable of flight.’

  Sam noticed Blotchy and Tango exchange glances, and the anger he’d been feeling dialled back. The tiny craft was square, about an inch long, with small propellers at each corner. Their plan was to state their point then bring out the drone to sweeten the mood, like a cat being given a treat after taking some medicine. He imagined them plotting in their WhatsApp chat and it was almost sweet. Blotchy put the drone on the table and fiddled around with the remote.

  ‘You can’t fly it in here,’ said Sam.

  ‘Watch me,’ said Blotchy, winking.

  ‘Clear for take-off!’ said Tango.

  ‘Take-off imminent!’

  Sam stared at them incredulously. Blotchy’s tongue popped out, as it was wont to do when he was concentrating. The drone rose up off the table quickly and Sam jumped back.

  ‘Oh wow,’ he said.

  A tiny red light blinked on and off on the undercarriage of the drone. But Blotchy’s piloting skills weren’t honed.

  ‘Shoot,’ he said, as the drone hit the ceiling and tumbled out of the air towards Tango, who tried to get out of the way and instinctively batted the drone away, straight into the fire.

  ‘No!’ said Blotchy, jumping up.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ said Sam, laughing.

  Blotchy grabbed a brass shovel from the poker stand next to the fire and tried to dig the drone out of the logs.
He turned to Sam desperately. ‘I pushed it further in!’

  The people on the tables nearby were looking over at him as the sparks drifted up out of the fire.

  ‘Let it go, Blotch,’ Sam said. ‘It’s gone.’

  Tango caught Sam’s eye and they looked at each other across the table and many messages tying in across the years drifted between them in a single moment of time.

  A few years ago he set up a little widget on his computer so that when a new email arrived there was a whooshing sound and an American female voice said, ‘You’ve got mail.’ Sam loved it. He’d turned it right down following many complaints from Linda but refused to mute it completely. It reminded him of the nineties when the Internet was new, and it always made him feel nostalgic. He clicked the email from one of his clients and his stomach tightened.

  Hi mate,

  Writing about Invoice #ED0041765 dated 5th Dec. There’s an air shipping bill for £3518 and then another one on Invoice #ED0041799 for £1845. Is this an error?

  Cheers,

  Phil

  ‘Sam, hun,’ came Linda’s voice from the other side of the blue felt partition. ‘Your leg’s shaking and you’re wobbling the floor, my love.’

  Sam quickly turned his monitor off so he didn’t have to look at it. He spun his chair forty-five degrees and saw Rebecca leaning over her keyboard, squinting at an Excel spreadsheet all the colours of the rainbow. Sam stood up and went to the warehouse, being sure not to glance across the office to Mr Okamatsu, whose eyes followed him all the way through the door.

  That night Sarah had invited him for dinner and he’d be staying the night. He stopped off in the local Spar on the way to buy a Viennetta for dessert, and by the time he got to her place it was almost seven. She’d given him a spare key and so he let himself into the flat through the narrow front door at the base of the stairwell.

  ‘Hello?’ he called up.

  There was no answer. As he neared the top of the stairs he heard voices coming from behind the living-room door. He did a quick calculation to try and remember if she’d said there would be other guests and for a second the idea that it might be Francis flickered in his mind.