Kingdom

by Andy Tilley

  ‘It’s so good to see you son. Come on, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.’

  There’s no hug (which I am thankful for) but there’s a warmth in his tired face that I recognize and have to admit that I’ve truly missed. His eyes look poignant and teary too, shined by that kind of sadness usually reserved for airport departure gates where people wrestle emotions to reconcile what is best for the friend that is leaving with their own sense of loss. Strange to see such sentiment at our reunion, as though my father is already anticipating the journey I am about to embark upon. Or am I? Only moments spent standing with my family again like this and already I’m forced to reconsider where I do indeed belong and where I want to be. I wonder if blood really is thicker than water, even if that water has the ebb and flow of a silkie spirit within.

  ‘This is Cristian princess. Say hello to your brother.’

  The little girl in front of me is one full of contradiction. Her hand, (placed in mine by our father) is chubby and childlike but her face is old beyond her years. Her jeans are hip and her hoody loud but the dirty blonde hair that falls onto it is lifeless and laced with grey, splitting ends. My sister has dark, deep set rings around eyes that are semi closed over. I wish they would close fully, shut away the slithers of sightless white that I can see, scarred by jet black streaks perhaps left there by the panicked silkie behind them. But her aura is bright and cheerful and she is my sister and we instantly connect.

  ‘Hi bro’. Done you a picture if you wanna to see it?’

  It’s obvious that my father has rarely (if ever) heard his princess talk like this and the awkwardness with which she delivers her street talk forces us to smile at each other. She doesn’t wait for my reply though and pulls me eagerly to one side, away from Thomas before confidently handing me a fold of paper. I dread opening it. I mean, what the hell is it going to look like, a picture drawn by a ten year old blind girl? I’m anticipating the kind of result you could reasonably expect if you were to give a chimpanzee a pencil and paper, then put the cheeky little monkey on a trampoline whilst he sketches away. Preparing to lie I force my face straight then I kick myself again; she won’t be able to see even if my face screams with laughter as long as I do it quietly! So the final fold is undone and the picture revealed. I needn’t have worried about my reaction being kept quiet though because the detailed imagery that pours into my mind occupies it completely, leaves nothing for the world outside to see or hear and bringing with it a strong sense of déjà vu.

  In the centre of the picture there is a man standing atop a semi circular mound of grey rock. He is wearing jeans and a tee shirt and there’s nothing particularly striking about him. At his feet lies a woman; black haired and cherry lipped, bright blue eyes turned upward to watch as he stretches his arms high above his head. Just beyond his high reach is a young boy. But the boy’s image is ethereal and somehow my thoughts have a hard time holding on to him. This could be because of the streams of starlight that are tumbling out from a huge black void in the sky above and behind them both; the tails of a dozen or so galaxies that are spinning there, each dropping a wisp of white light to coil around the boy and draw him toward them perhaps? It isn’t clear what is happening up there but beneath the sky there is no doubt. Inside the mound, which I suppose must be some kind of cave, there are three men holding hands. Each has a bright diamond dagger slung from their neck. Surrounding them and filling every remaining inch of paper Christine has drawn death; a macabre panorama of screaming corpses (both animal and human), each with a ghost like shadow straining to separate but also tethered and condemned. Above all else the feeling that this image gives me is one of struggle, as if the picture is still in motion; a snap shot clipped from an animated scene that’s yet to be resolved.

  ‘Wow! And you’ve done this all by yourself ?’

  Christine nods vigorously and beckons me down to her level so that she can feel for my ear, place her hands around it and whisper.

  ‘Yes. Well, Tinkerbell did most of it but I helped too.’

  ‘It really is beautifully drawn and coloured in Christine. So tell me, who’s Tinkerbell then?’

  I think I already know but it would be good to have my sister explain so that I can be sure not to put my foot in it.

  ‘Oh she’s my silkie. She isn’t very happy with me at the moment though because she didn’t want to give it to you but I made her. But Cristian, you mustn’t show it to that one. Promise?’

  I stand and unquestioningly turn to see where my sister is pointing; Keltz has joined us on the island, Aunt May slung around his neck like some Halloween rucksack, clinging to his shoulders as he makes his way toward the light house. I whisper my promise back and manage to discretely slide the picture into my pocket before they reach me. Setantii all but ignores my father but is clear about what she wants to happen next.

  ‘Talk to your father Cristian. If you are going to do this, now is the time.’

  If this old hag could raise a single globule of saliva in that crumbling mouth of her’s then I’m sure she would have used it to spit this command at me. And why so pushy anyway? I’m beginning to get the uneasy feeling that this conversation with my father is perhaps more important to Setantii than it really should be. Still, it’s a conversation that I do now feel that I’m ready for, being far more open minded than I have felt since standing in awe beneath that loch side tree, bathed in owl light. My father has already walked to take his place on the rocks by the waters edge. It’s time to join him, listen to what he has to say and see if it can once and for all turn my mind against the increasingly energetic silkie inside me.

  ‘Son, I…’

  Son he called me. God how I’ve missed that tiny syllable. My father’s lips are trembling and he’s unable to continue. I guess he doesn’t know that there’s nothing more to be said for, when spoken softly like this, son says everything; how sorry he is, how much he’s missed me, how much he loves me. I wonder if ‘dad’ has the same power, the power to tremble my lips and let him know that I understand and that he doesn’t need to be forgiven for the terrible circumstance that have kept us apart all this time.

  ‘Listen Dad….’

  It does, and the charge of emotion that the word ignites knocks me forward to steal the hug that I’m now not only ready for but desperately need. His arms are as sincere as mine and our embrace is strong and silent.

  ‘Oh please! Will you two just get on with it! There’s more important things at stake here than for two grown men to sit cuddling like a couple of gay tramps on ecstasy.’

  I can’t help thinking that there’s a tinge of jealousy colouring Setantii’s jibe. Still, there’s enough humour in the imagery to make both me and my dad laugh a little as we release each other.

  ‘I guess the old bag has a point eh Cristian?’

  Dad smiles, sniffs hard and dries his face with the sleeve of his jacket. He still looks so tired but a lot less stressed now than when I had first seen him from the boat. There is some concern remaining in his face though, that slight crinkle of brow and cheek telling me that what he has to say next isn’t going to be easy for him. The wind is rising, icy too but even its chilly blast can’t hurry him and it takes a few more frowning moments before he speaks.

  ‘I remember asking you once, during the walk back from a days fishing on the lake I think, what it was that you wanted to be when you grew up. You would have been about ten at the time I suppose, not quite finished junior school. You stopped, stood soldier straight with your arms by your side and looked me straight in the eye. Spiderman you shouted. I want to be Spiderman. Determined little bugger you were too.’

  ‘It was Batman actually, but close enough.’

  ‘Well whichever one it was, I certainly never thought that I’d be sitting here saying this but guess what son. Batman, Spiderman, Dogman, Catman, take your pick. You’ve got your wish Cristian.’

  My wish! I certainly don’t remember blowing out the candles on my fifteenth birthday, screwing my e
yes shut and praying hard to the cake fairy for a new bike, a Bat-mobile and oh, how about infestation by an evil soul eating entity please. And what is my father implying here, that I should be thankful, succumb to the silkie inside? Is he really prepared to say goodbye to his son for ever this time, having battled all these years only to give up the fight for my soul at the very last? Incredible as it seems, he has.

  ‘Cristian trust me and listen, because I am going to ask one more thing from you. Not for me but for your sister, you must ascend tonight.’

  Chapter 27

  Stuart MacDonald (aka ‘Mac the knife’ to his pals down at the coroner’s office) was a little surprised that Dr Hill had so adamantly insisted on attending the early morning slab where John Saunders is laid out, open and bloody. What is more of a mystery to him though is Hill’s response to the autopsy findings; stumbling away from the table, open mouthed, crouching on the floor with his back to the room like that. The doctor’s still there too, head buried between hands that clutch the phone he’s been so busy trying to contact someone with. The pathologist has left the corpse now and gone to sit in silence behind a small metal desk. He’s taking a few moments to mull over the evidence, not yet prepared to talk until he understands a little more about what just happened here.

  It should have been a routine autopsy (a quick cut and shut as he had told his wife) because the police report was quite clear that the cadaver had drowned. So once the lungs and stomach had been exposed, why had Hill then been so obsessed with inspecting the eyes? He’d even asked for one of them to be removed so that he could check behind it. Why would he do that? Furthermore, what had he seen there that had gotten him all wound up like that, adamant that the skull cap had to be cracked open and the brain tissue inspected? Frankly, Mac the knife was a little disappointed that he’d allowed himself to get carried along by the doctor’s anxious enthusiasm to delve deeper than was necessary. Looking at the corpse now it was indeed a bloody mess and he reckoned that the morning coffee he’d promised Mrs Mac wasn’t going to happen now; too much here to write about and stitch back together. Still, the brain thing hadn’t been a complete waste of time. It had uncovered the tumour and whilst it was true that this little black nodule hadn’t contributed to the accident it was not too much of a stretch to assume that it would have done for Mr Saunders in a year or two. At least that’s what his report will say, offer a few crumbs of comfort to the bereaved and let them know that their loved one was screwed anyway. Yes, that was it! That was the moment when things really got bizarre, when Mac’s knife had sliced through the brain tissue and exposed the tumour!

  ‘Did you know your friend had brain cancer Jeremy?’

  Hill sighs deeply, lowers his hands and raises his head.

  ‘No. I didn’t know about the tumour. How long has it been there would you say?’

  ‘Oh, not long. Somewhere between twelve to eighteen months I’d guess. Had he been complaining about feeling un-well?’

  Hill stands, rather shakily and checks his phone for a response once more before reluctantly sliding it into his trouser pocket. His brow is sweating profusely and in spite of the doctor’s attempt at composure it is obvious that he is still no less rattled than he had been five minutes ago. He ignores the pathologist’s question and makes his way to the door, despondent and pausing only briefly to further compound the pathologist’s confusion.

  ‘Well, we’re completely fucked then.’

  Chapter 28

  My hands are cupped and held out but shaking so hard that Keltz can’t yet place the mouse there. So this is it. Even if I wanted to back out now I don’t think I could. Everyone gathered here is urging me on, willing me to pick up the key to begin the process of unlocking my soul and feeding it to the silkie I will become. Come on hands! Stop bloody shaking will you! My father is sat behind me on one of two deck chairs that he’s set up for himself and Christine. I glance back at him for a second time and he nods again, this time more vigorously. Setantii is still inside what’s left of crumpling Aunt May, slumped on a pile of sacks to my right where Keltz literally dumped her ten minutes ago. Her head is cricked sharply forward by a pillow of tough rubber life jackets and she looks ridiculously uncomfortable but I have to remember that May isn’t there anymore and this awkward repose means nothing to the silkie. Damn this is so embarrassing! It’s no good, I’ll have to lower my hands, shake them out and then try again. Whilst I do this I look up. It’s a mistake. All I wanted was to distract my hands for a moment, drift for a while in the rolling grey clouds but instead I find myself staring into the desperate blue of Ruby Stevens’ eyes, pleading at me from the balcony above. Her hair is so unclean that it barely flickers in the breeze. Instead it twists down past her terrified face forming greasy red strands. The poor girl looks like a zombified Rapunzel. Her mouth is saying something but I can’t hear. Neither can I turn away until Setantii butts in on our silent conversation.

  ‘She’s a whore and a junky Cristian. Now come on, focus!’

  I look away from the wretched prisoner. Not because I agree that Ruby deserves her fate but because the plan my father outlined was quite clear on this point; Ruby will have to be sacrificed to not only save Christine and Rose but also if I am to have any chance of finding myself again once this is done. I would never have believed that good men (fathers, brothers, lovers) could so readily be turned to murder if pressed. But apparently they can.

  ‘Okay Cristian, I’m going to put the mouse in your hands. Now, just remember what we talked about. Concentrate but only a little more than you might need to when you breathe or walk. You need to set your mind to auto, blur it a little so that it’s only just aware of the mouse.’

  Keltz’s bony hand slowly lowers the mouse by the tail until its scrabbling front paws are scratching in mine. He holds it there, waiting for me to nod. I can hear my father explaining what the mouse looks like (one velvet ear slightly larger than the other) and now Christine excitedly announcing that Simba is a very good mouse indeed, her favourite actually and that I will have no trouble at all with him. I’m not sure that Simba heard this or understood his part for no sooner have I nodded my head than his begins to bleed profusely as I try and squeeze my thoughts inside it.

  ‘Gently Cristian, gently and…..oh dear. Well, no matter. Let’s try another one.’

  Whilst Keltz dumps the dead mouse and roots around in the cage at his feet for the next victim, Christine pesters dad to tell her what happened. He sounds flustered and I don’t think she is convinced by his assertion that Simba is fine. His attempted description of a happy little mouse scampering across the rocks and playing with the seagulls is almost as messed up and confused as Simba’s brains but eventually Thomas Chevalier is put out of his misery too.

  ‘So did he die quickly then daddy?’

  ‘Yes he did darling, and hey Cristian! Be a bit more careful this time would you?’

  I promise myself that I will and nod to Keltz again. This time I don’t even think about the mouse to begin with, barely look at it even. Instead I allow my hands to sense its soft white fur and warm belly. Without realising I’ve now fully closed my eyes to watch him in my imagination, develop his tiny essence there and stroke it with my mind. Slowly I let the light back in, open my eyes to bring the physical and the ethereal together and as the virtual mouse and the real one are overlaid I try and coax a small part of me into joining them.

  ‘Good Cristian! Now stay calm, it’s important that you don’t do anything for a moment. Just let yourself be. Let the mouse be.’

  I can hear Keltz well enough but his voice sounds strange as though I’m not hearing it inside my head where it should be. The only sounds here with me are droning, meaningless tones? Damn it, this doesn’t seem right at all. I wonder if something’s gone wrong. I look toward my father to see if there’s any sign of disaster in his expression. There isn’t. I watch him calmly rise from his chair and stand behind me. Behind me? But how can that be? Now I am beginning to panic! I can feel my
heart ramping up, screaming at me to do something. I need to relax, and quickly! Just calm down Cristian, breathe deeply. Concentrate on getting your heartbeat down. Come on, big deep breaths Cristian. One and two and three and, let’s get that heart beat under control eh? That’s it, big deep breaths and four and five and for Christ’s sake breathe slowly dammit! But it’s no good, I can’t! I’m totally losing it now and no matter how I try I simply can’t get control of my heart. I can’t get… hang on a minute? Control of my heart or…of course, that’s it! That’s why I can’t calm down! That’s why I’m looking past myself at my father and why Keltz’s voice doesn’t make sense! I’m inside the mouse, actually inside another animal’s brain! This little rodent doesn’t have a clue what Keltzs is saying. How could it understand that those sounds should form words? And it isn’t my heart beating itself to bits then! Christ, I’m actually here, watching the world through the eyes of a mouse. Weird and, and now something else. Whiskers, I can see whiskers! Actually, not see but feel wiry hairs that have just kicked into life and are trying to tell me something. Oh hang on a minute, easy fella! My mouse heart is racing away faster now, too fast to register a count and the tingling around my nose is instantly so charged that ouch that hurts so bad! The mouse is panicking, set to flight and I can sense its hardwired instinct to run or if necessary die rather than face its fear. But I have instincts too now, a whole set of new ones and without thinking or leaving the mouse I shift perspective, snatch a view from my human psyche and quickly realise that it’s my hands that are causing the problem; tightening their grip just a little too close for comfort. As soon as I relax my fingers the mouse slows its heart and resets its whiskers to a comfortable itch.