Triskellion 3: The Gathering

by Will Peterson

  “Thanks,” he said, handing them back.

  “Can I get you guys a drink?” Holly asked.

  Although she would have loved one, Rachel felt it was time to go. The apartment was no longer theirs.

  The twins followed Holly back into the sitting room, where they had left Gabriel watching TV and playing with Ben. In the middle of the floor was a building of astonishing complexity made of Lego bricks, drinking straws, cocktail sticks and anything else that had been to hand.

  Holly gasped at the spires, the swooping walkways, the buttresses and the windows made of marbles and ice cubes that were beginning to melt, all lit from inside by a lava lamp and torch.

  “Oh my God,” she said. “That’s so beautiful.”

  Ben looked up at his mother and smiled. “Gabriel showed me how.”

  Holly’s jaw dropped even further. Not only had her two-year-old son built an amazing construction from scratch, but he had also just put his first sentence together.

  “I just helped him along a little,” Gabriel said, grinning.

  Looking at him, Rachel realized suddenly how much she had missed that smile. Seeing Gabriel standing there in her old home, seeing the beauty of what he had accomplished and the joy he had brought to the child and his mother, she felt a rush of warmth towards him. But she also sensed that given their circumstances, such moments as these would be rare and brief. “We need to go,” she said. “Great to meet you.”

  The young mother was still staring at the cathedral her child had built as they let themselves out of the apartment.

  Rachel was disappointed. She had expected the apartment to yield at least some small intimation of their former life. Some clue as to their father’s whereabouts. Only the kitchen remained as proof that the place had ever been their home – all other evidence of their existence had long since been wiped away. They walked down the staircase in silence, past all the other anonymous apartment doors that concealed other people’s lives.

  Back in the entrance hall they could hear hammering. The noise was coming from an open service door. Inside, a bulkhead light lit up a flight of stairs leading down to the basement.

  Adam paused a moment and looked down.

  Rachel read his thoughts: “Mr Hoffman?”

  Adam nodded. The janitor of the block might still be the same one who had been here since they were small.

  Adam and Rachel ventured downstairs towards the source of the banging, while Gabriel waited in the hall. The basement was concrete and brick: warm and dusty with thick pipes that provided the block with heat. In the corner, a man in a brown duster coat was attacking a heating pipe with a wrench.

  “Mr Hoffman?” Rachel called.

  The man could not hear her above the clanging. Rachel went over and touched him on the shoulder. He jumped and let out an involuntary cry. “What the…?”

  As he turned, Rachel saw that it was Mr Hoffman, a little greyer and a touch heavier, but still the same man who had looked after the building for as long as they could remember.

  “You tryin’ to gimme a heart attack? Whadda you want?” He gripped the wrench in his hand as if he might be about to fend them off with it. He looked from one twin to the other, not recognizing either of them.

  “Sorry, Mr Hoffman we didn’t mean to alarm you. We’re Rachel and Adam Newman.”

  “Congratulations,” Mr Hoffman said in a gruff voice. “Now if that’s all you came to tell me, can you leave me to get on with fixing this pipe?”

  Rachel persevered. “Sorry, no. I mean we’re Rachel and Adam Newman who used to live in apartment three zero one.”

  Mr Hoffman looked a little closer. “Lotta people come and gone recently. I can’t remember them all.”

  “Our mother was … is Kate Newman. The English woman?”

  “Sure. I remember Kate Newman. She was always polite to me. Good manners. Her husband was a schmuck, though. How could he leave a good woman like that and throw her out of house and home?”

  “That was our mom and dad,” Adam said.

  “Kate Newman had young kids,” Hoffman said. “Twins.”

  Rachel pointed to herself and Adam. “That’s us,” she said. “We’ve grown a bit. It’s been two years, at least.”

  Mr Hoffman looked at them closely again, a glimmer of recognition creeping across his face, followed by a smile. “You were the kid who fell off the fire escape?” He prodded Adam gently in the chest.

  Adam nodded. He remembered the incident well. He had fallen from the first floor, nearly breaking his neck, but escaping miraculously with only cuts and bruises.

  “You gave me quite a scare,” Mr Hoffman said, rubbing his chin. “Why, I knew you two when you were just babies. Cute little twins in pink and blue.”

  Adam chuckled, embarrassed.

  “You taking a trip down memory lane?”

  “I suppose we are, in a way,” Rachel said. “We were just looking for any stuff of ours that might have been left here. You know, letters or anything like that. You see we can’t find our dad.”

  Mr Hoffman gave them a look that said as far as he was concerned finding him would be no good thing, but aloud he told them to “Come into the office.”

  They went into a small bleak room on the other side of the basement. Mr Hoffman had furnished it with a cushioned office chair. Padding exploded from the splits in its worn plastic upholstery and a scrawny-looking black and white cat lay curled up in one corner.

  “That’s Bilko,” Hoffman said. “Meanest cat you ever saw.”

  The cat opened its one eye, studied the children for a few seconds, then went back to sleep.

  Besides the cat and chair, there were a kettle, some stained coffee mugs and an electric fire that was not needed in the stuffy underground air. On one wall, Mr Hoffman’s tools were arranged on a board, their shapes outlined in marker pen – where a tool had been lost or misplaced, its ghost remained, silhouetted by the outline. On the other side of the room was a battered filing cabinet and a desk, stacked up with papers, pens, half-smoked cigars, bits of junk in various shapes and sizes.

  Mr Hoffman made a cursory attempt to tidy the surface of the desk, muttering all the while: “Newman … Newman. Apartment…”

  “Three zero one,” Rachel prompted.

  He looked in pigeon holes above the desk that were stuffed with papers and receipts and the odd fast-food carton.

  “Newman. Newman…”

  He climbed up on his chair and looked at wads of envelopes, held together by rubber bands and piled up on top of the pigeon holes.

  “Newman. Newman…”

  He climbed down again and looked in the drawer of the desk. It revealed cigar boxes, tins of cough sweets, tubs of oil and a variety of nuts, bolts and tubes of glue. Mr Hoffman stopped momentarily and scratched his head. He turned to see Rachel and Adam looking expectantly at him, watching his every move.

  “What was that number again?”

  “Three zero one,” Adam said.

  Mr Hoffman opened the top drawer of the grey steel filing cabinet and flicked through the files suspended in the drawer. “Just give me a second…”

  He slammed the top drawer shut and opened the middle one. He ran thick fingers, clearly not designed for administrative work, across the files. Then his fingers stopped. “Newman. Got it!”

  He lifted a file from the cabinet and placed it on top of the other papers on his desk. He opened the folder and Rachel could see there were several letters inside. Mr Hoffman looked at the twins and tapped his head with his forefinger. “Knew there was something somewhere for Newman.”

  Rachel’s stomach fluttered with excitement as she rifled through the letters. One stood out from the statements and utility bills. It was a thick white package with an English stamp showing the head of the Queen. It was addressed to RACHEL AND ADAM NEWMAN in a spidery handwriting that she recognized.

  “It’s from our grandmother,” Rachel said, staring at the postmark.

  The letter was stamped
TRISKELLION and dated a little over two years earlier.

  They found a booth in a diner two blocks away and ordered Cokes and all-day breakfasts.

  “Open it,” Adam said.

  Rachel looked around nervously. No one was paying them any attention. She glanced at Gabriel, who looked as eager as Adam to see the contents of the package.

  It was thick and fastened with Sellotape. Rachel used a knife to slice it open and slid the contents out: a letter and a black and white photograph.

  The photo was of three people: a man and two women, one of whom was in an air force uniform, with a large aeroplane on a runway behind them. The woman in the uniform was glamorous and curvaceous. Rachel knew from the hairstyle and the lipstick that this was her grandmother, Celia Root. The other woman was also striking, but taller and more stern-looking. Rachel did not recognize her. The man was handsome with a strong jaw and nose.

  “That’s Commodore Wing,” Adam said.

  “Our grandfather,” Rachel said, as much to remind herself as Adam.

  In front of the three adults were two young boys. One was smaller and wearing shorts, the other was a more all-American kid: taller, with a flat-top and long trousers. Both boys were staring intensely into the camera, their faces unsmiling.

  Rachel unfolded the letter. It was dated August two years previously. It had been written while they were still in Triskellion.

  Clutching the photograph, Rachel began to read. The opening lines of her grandmother’s letter made her heart thump against her ribs and filled her mind with vivid sights and sounds which grew in detail and colour, until they felt as real as her own memories…

  My darlings, Rachel and Adam,

  In order to understand everything that has happened to you, you will need to go back to where it all began. I enclose a photograph of myself in my younger days in the 1950s and I know that this will help you see the truth. I am so sorry that I will not be there to help you, because if you are reading this then I am almost certainly dead…

  part two:

  the homecoming

  Celia Root crossed the hot airstrip of Alamogordo Air Force Base and took the last few steps towards the house of her old sweetheart, Gerald Wing.

  The day was getting hotter still and Celia’s blue service tunic felt rough against her clammy neck as she walked across the neatly cropped dried-out lawn to the house with the big blue Packard parked outside. She took a deep breath and walked up to the door. She rapped decisively, so that she knew there would be no turning back.

  The door was opened by a woman wearing civilian clothes. “Hello?” she said. She was American.

  Was she Gerry’s housekeeper? Celia wondered. His secretary?

  “I’m so sorry to disturb you,” Celia said. “I was looking for Squadron Leader Wing.”

  The woman smiled at the formality of Celia’s request. “I’m afraid the squadron leader isn’t here right now,” she said. “But he’ll be back soon. Do you want to come in and wait?”

  “Thank you,” Celia said. “I’m Airwoman Celia Root.”

  The woman smiled again and held out her hand. “How do you do. I’m Eleanor Wing.”

  Celia fought to recover her breath, and tried her best to smile at the woman she now knew to be Gerald’s wife.

  The house was modern inside, with spindly furniture in brightly coloured upholstery and lamps that looked like parts of a spacecraft. Celia followed Eleanor into an open-plan living room and sat down on a long red sofa. She was still in a daze, trying to come to terms with the fact that Gerald Wing had married.

  “Have you been at the base long?” Eleanor said. “I think I would have remembered you.”

  “I only arrived today,” Celia said. “From England.”

  “So are you here to see Gerald on air force business?”

  “Not really. I mean to say, I am in Alamogordo on RAF business, but I know Gerald from back in England. We come from the same village.”

  “How delightful,” Eleanor said, sounding genuinely pleased. “Gerry will be so thrilled to see you.”

  Suddenly Celia was not sure that Gerald would be thrilled to see her at all, but before she could say anything else, two boys came running into the room.

  “Mommy,” the smaller boy squealed, “Rudolph’s hitting me and pinching me.” The boy was wearing shorts and a grey jumper. He had tears in his eyes and held his forearm out to show his mother the pinch mark.

  “He did it to himself,” the bigger boy whined. He was a couple of years older, and to Celia looked somehow more American, with long trousers, a plaid shirt and his hair cut in a military style called a flat-top. “He’s just trying to get me in trouble again.”

  “Is this true, Hilary?” Eleanor looked sternly at her younger son. The small boy fixed his mother with bright blue eyes.

  “He’s lying, Mommy. He hurt me.”

  “I’ll talk to you both about this later,” Eleanor said. “Now go to your rooms. Your father will be home in a minute and he will not be pleased.”

  Both boys turned and left the room. Hilary glanced back at Celia as he went and poked out his tongue.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Eleanor said. “I’m afraid an air force base is not the best place to bring up children.”

  “Have you been married to Gerry long?” Celia coloured, suddenly feeling she was becoming a little too personal, but Eleanor’s face registered no surprise.

  “Oh, just over seven years,” she said. “Rudi’s my son from my first marriage.”

  Seven years, Celia thought. Just about the length of time since Gerry had last written to her. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Rude of me to pry.”

  Eleanor went up to the window and pulled a curtain aside. A military Jeep had rumbled up to the front of the house and Celia heard a door slam.

  “Speaking of Gerry,” Eleanor said, “here he is now… Keep quiet; this will be such a surprise!”

  Surprise was not the word Celia would have chosen to describe the look on Gerald Wing’s face when he saw her standing in the middle of his sitting room. Horror, perhaps, or confusion. Rage, even.

  “Celia?” he said.

  “Hello, Gerry.” She could see that he was trying to contain himself, to conceal from his wife whatever emotion he was going through.

  “Let me fix some drinks,” Eleanor said, walking towards the kitchen.

  As soon as his wife had left the room, Wing turned on Celia. “What the devil are you doing here?” he whispered hoarsely. “Are you mad?”

  “I thought you’d be pleased. I didn’t know you were married.”

  “Well, I am,” Wing said. “And that’s that.”

  “Why did you stop writing?” Celia’s voice was beginning to crack.

  “How could I write?” he said. “I was married! Besides the authorities wouldn’t allow it. No contact with home was permitted.”

  “Do you love her?” Celia blurted out. She didn’t care about the authorities – or his work.

  Wing’s head dropped, and when he raised it again to look at her, the anger had gone from his eyes. “You know you and I could never have married, Celia … and you know why.”

  Against her better instincts, tears began to prick at Celia’s eyes. Wing looked away and saw his stepson eavesdropping at the bottom of the staircase. The boy darted back upstairs.

  Wing handed Celia a large handkerchief. His voice soft-ened. “Chin up, old girl. Eleanor will be in with the drinks in a moment and I don’t want her thinking I’ve made you cry.”

  But the softening of Wing’s voice did exactly that and, mumbling an apology, Celia rushed to the front door and stumbled into the street. Gerald followed and pulled her back, and there was no more than a momentary resistance before she was in his arms and they were kissing each other.

  Lost in their embrace, neither saw the two boys watching them from the upstairs windows…

  It had begun to get dark and Gabriel suggested that they find somewhere to spend the night. Somewhere to relax a
nd work out what their next move would be.

  “Let’s go stay at some swanky hotel,” Adam had suggested.

  Rachel had agreed, as desperate as her brother for a hot shower and the space to relax and take in what they had read and “seen” of their grandmother’s past.

  They had checked in to the Waldorf Astoria. The twins’ powers of “persuasion” meant that money was no object.

  Now, while Gabriel sat centimetres away from the vast television set in the corner of their suite, happily flicking from channel to channel, Rachel and Adam lay sprawled on the bed, both wrapped in white towelling robes.

  Rachel looked over at her brother. She knew without asking that he was thinking the same thing as her and had been since the visit to their old apartment – although neither of them had been brave enough to say it out loud.

  “You think they’ve got Dad?” Rachel said.

  “Who?”

  Rachel knew that Adam understood exactly who she was talking about, but equally she knew that it was not the easiest thing to talk about. “The Hope Project. Van der Zee’s cronies,” she prompted.

  Even saying the name made her shudder. Clay Van der Zee had been the American doctor who had kept the two of them captive in a secret research laboratory in the English countryside; who had given the instruction to have them killed. Under his orders Rachel and Adam had been chased across Europe until he had finally perished when one of his own attack helicopters had crashed into his boat off the coast of Morocco.

  Just after they had found the second Triskellion.

  “They must have taken him,” Adam said. “Why else wouldn’t he be around? They must have got to the people he works with at the university, too … made them pretend they’d never heard of him. It’s like he just … never existed.”

  “They’ll try and use him to get to us,” Rachel said. “Just like they did with Mom.”

  “But he doesn’t know anything.”

  “They don’t know that.”