First Person
by
Eddie McGarrity
Copyright © 2014 Eddie McGarrity
All rights reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13: 978-1495232947
DEDICATION
For Colin Parker
sail on, silver mug
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Cover image © 2014 Gavin Campbell
Reproduced by kind permission
Contents
The Green Room
Timed Out
Glimmer
Angel Rhithlun
October Dreams
The Spark
Cutters
Suitcase of Dreams
Good Morning, Neighbour
Zombie Park
Giants
eSoul
Cavalryman
Joseph
Demolition Squad
A Day: In the Grotto
First Person
The Last of Men
Also by the Author
The Green Room
EYEBROWS LIFT BEFORE I can even move my eyelids, which flicker open to reveal only darkness. I’m lying on my arms and move to release them but I’m stuck. My fingers tingle and, from the right pinkie to the wrist, my hand feels numb and meaty. To get the circulation going, I flex my hand and it rubs in soft earth. The ground I’m on feels warm and dry. I open and close my mouth, my tongue searching for some moisture. Twisting my head I see a faint ragged circle of light behind me, an opening of some kind, which leads to where I am. I can’t see a ceiling. And then it hits me. I’m lying on my back, under the ground, and I start to panic.
I can feel dread growing inside me. My feet start to kick at loose dirt and it’s only when I connect with something hard that I realise I can move my legs freely. The movement has shifted me slightly and I move onto my side, relieving some pressure on my arms, which I now realise are held by rope scraping at the wrists. I can only move my fingers. Panic subsides when I realise I’m breathing cool air wafting in from the far away circle of light.
Figuring it must be the way out of this underground chamber, I start to shuffle. Kicking again strike the same hard surface. It gives a dull thud but it gives me some purchase to sit up slightly. Moving gingerly in case I hit my head on an unseen ceiling, I struggle my way into a kneeling position to find there is actually quite a bit of room. It’s only when I try to stand, that my head hits strands of loose dirt which patters down around me, clinging to my sweaty face. Some of it lands in my already dry mouth. I manage to tongue it out and look around.
Meagre light from the opening shows a rough-cut tunnel which leads to this area, like a burrow made just big enough for a man. I try to think how I got here, remembering only nodding off on the bus, which I normally do on the way home from work. Dread fills my gut again. Daring only to glance at the opening, I know the only way for me is to go there to it. I’ve either been put here for some purpose, or something awaits me at the tunnel’s edge. Already my shins are hurting from kneeling, but I make to move forward, one knee at a time.
Pale green light rises behind me, lifting the gloom. It stops me. Anxiety slumps my shoulders. My tie is missing and the top button of my white short-sleeved shirt has been undone. It does help me breathe though. Whoever put me here has thought of this. I dare not look over my shoulder. I force my eyes to keep focused on the opening in front of me and imagine the cool freedom beyond. Fear of not turning is too great and I’m forced to turn away from the opening and confront the green light behind me.
I see a room. Its normality shocks me and I shuffle round on my knees, as best I can with hands still tightly bound behind me. Dragging thin trousers through granules of dirt, I come closer to the room and see now what my feet kicked against. A thick glass wall separates me from the room. My breath, coming shallow and fast, mists it slightly and I move head and shoulders to take in all the details. Beyond the glass is a pretty little room, perhaps for a girl, but old-fashioned, like something from long ago. A short fluffy bed, strewn with a shiny blanket, is over to my left. To my right is a four drawer chest. Despite the green haze I can see the furniture is white, though the paint is chipped, and golden flowers around the corners are worn and smooth.
The hypnotic green light is from a bulb set into the wall above the bed. Between the bed and drawers is a dark doorway, framed by glossy wood. It is set into the wall, which is covered in faded flower wallpaper. Something coalesces in the doorway, its outline emerging from the shadows as it comes forward. I’ve stopped breathing. Elegant and slow, the outline resolves into that of a young woman. That gets me breathing and I fall back off my knees, gasping in fright.
I see the woman step out of the doorway, her golden hair is floating in the air. She seems to fall into the room and I see that she herself is floating. Her feet are off the floorboards as she drifts into the room. Eyes closed, her arms are lifeless and raised at the elbows, fingers curled in a resting position. I see now that she is followed by little pieces of debris which float alongside her. She is floating in water, with debris tumbling in her wake. I move to my knees again and scurry forward to the glass.
Made green in the light, she wears a blue dress, buttoned to the neck and flouncing out to her feet, which are in neat shoes. A small apron is fastened at her waist. I’m reminded of a viewing room in a resort swimming pool as she continues her movement. She remains straight backed but her head is dropping down as she floats towards me. Perched on her head, a tiny tiara glitters. She is getting closer. Her face is young but the skin is puffed and slack like that of a specimen in a jar. Dread pulls at me again as I begin to wonder if the room beyond this glass is filled not with water but some kind of preserving fluid.
She bobs towards me. Her face is nearly at the glass. Half-expecting her eyes to open I watch her float right in front of me. My breath mists the glass. Her foot catches on the metal frame of the bed and her head plinks on the surface, pushing her back onto her feet, which in turn pushes her back to the glass. This time the tiara touches. A tiny jewel scrapes on the glass and leaves a mark. The sound is almost nothing where I am, but I can see it happen.
She bobs again. The tiny jewel, a diamond, strikes the glass again. And again. A spider-like crack begins to spread.
Timed Out
MID-WINTER SUNSHINE threads through cold air and reaches me from between stripped branches as I step carefully through long pale grass. The ground beneath is soft despite the chilled air and time of year. My boots compress yellowing stems of grass into damp earth. I sniff. I can feel my nose numbing. It is probably already red. There is no smell in the air, save the damp boggy terrain, though for a moment I think I can smell the remnants of cigarette smoke, but then it is gone. The air is so still, I believe, that there would have been a man standing here minutes ago smoking and the smell of nicotine and tar has clung to this spot like a fragrant memory.
My hands are in gloves and I wear a thick coat. I feel myself heating up with the exertion. I take off my hat, fold it up, and put it into a coat pocket. The cold air instantly attacks my damp head as the sweat evaporates.
I stand in a landscape shaped like a massive natural flat bottomed bowl. In the distance, all around me are low hills forming a horizon that means it will get dark sooner than if the topography had been fully flat. It is already half past two in the afternoon. It has taken all day to get here. Across the vale, limp grasses are punctuated by groups of dense trees, bare of all leaves. I pass from the filtered shadows of one of the groups of trees as I walk. I do not hear any birds. I am heading for a building on the other side of a line of trees. I cannot yet see it, but I know it is there. I have not been here in many years and hope, that even though it was a ruin when I was a boy, it will still be there. I keep
moving towards the line of trees. I stride confidently, purposefully.
Often I have recurring dreams that are like an episodic story. Each night’s instalment picks up from the previous one. Though the episodes can sometimes be separated by years, they form a narrative in my head, and I can follow the story. Even if, during my wakened state, I had completely forgotten the dream, my unconscious mind can pick up the strands. It is like watching a soap opera on TV where even if you miss a few episodes you can still understand the plot on your return. My dreams contain almost the same amount of sadness, loss, and pain as a soap opera, although I do not live my life like a soap opera. I would never leave the house to cross the street to buy a cup of coffee. What I do is listen to my dreams, and try to decode their meaning. This is why I am here. I have had a dream about this place. I have a mission.
Many years ago, when I was a boy, I lived not far from here. I liked the scenery in winter; the quietness; the solitude. My favourite spot was the ruined control tower. There had been an airfield here during the war, and there had been many buildings, but the control tower was the only thing that was left. During the war they would have called it an aerodrome and, unlike many other wartime aerodromes, it did not become a commercial airport, but instead became a ruin. As a boy I imagined it in its glory and not just the thin shell of red bricks that was actually there. Using my imagination, I could see what it would have been like. You could still make out the tall windows on the upper storey, and you could imagine the spitfires and the tornadoes and the bombers taking off and landing here. I imagined my grand-father in the control tower, much younger, looking out of those tall windows through powerful binoculars as the spitfires and tornadoes and bombers took off and landed. I played there all the time but I dared not enter the tower. My grand-father told me the basement was dark, deep, and dangerous. I loved my grand-father. He was a wonderful man. I lived with him in his house until he died and when I became very sad I went to live somewhere else in another part of the country.
I approach the line of trees. Something catches my eye. It is brown and large, and has red parts. I ignore it for a moment as I approach the trees. This copse is thick but looking through I can see that I will be able to pick my way through fairly easily. There is a small barbed-wire fence I will have to negotiate, but it is broken and low, and I will be able to step over it easily. I do not remember this fence and am confused as to what boundary it might mark. I follow the line of the rusty wire to my left and catch sight of what I had noticed previously. It is a deer and, caught by its neck in the twisted barbed wire, it is dead. Birds have been pecking at exposed flesh. Strangely, the dark eyeballs remain untouched. They stare out queasily in motionless terror, rolled to the side showing a crescent white, a frozen moment in time like a photograph of a painful memory. The deer's head is twisted at an awkward angle. It must have struggled vainly to free itself. I feel ill, step over the fence, and keep moving.
Once, as a boy, I was playing near the abandoned control tower, imagining myself a squadron leader waiting for the call to scramble, when I heard a noise. It was a man running towards the tower. My memory of him shimmers into life as he came towards me. I was startled as he paused briefly to regard me with a puzzled look, before darting in the door and down the stairwell that led to the forbidden basement. My memory shimmers again as he darted out of sight. I never saw him return from the darkness.
I keep moving. Springy black moss-covered branches lick past me as I make my way through the trees. I could have gone round, but I prefer the adventure of clambering through the trees like a child. I have not done this since I fell ill as a teenager. I think of the deer, trapped in the fence, and wonder of the events in its life that brought it to that fence. If the deer had been human, and could see its destiny, I am sure it would have made different choices.
Despite the ongoing narrative of some of my dreams, there is one dream I have that recurs again and again. It is of that same mid-winter day when I was a boy and the strange man ran into the tower. In the dream I can hear another sound. It is a thin, frightened voice, calling out, “Help! Help!” For many years I thought it was the man who had become trapped in the forbidden basement and was crying out for help. The dream recurred over and over across many years. The man runs in, and then I hear the cry, like a voice calling out to me across time in a thin, frightened voice. Details in the dream were always the same. Until last week, I was sure of the events. My conscious memory told me that the man ran in and that was all, but my unconscious mind had created its own memory. Consulting books on the subject of dreams, I concluded that my juvenile anxiety about not seeing the man again meant I was concerned about his welfare. Therefore my unconscious had constructed a cry for assistance that reflected my own neurosis about the dark.
But now I was not so sure about the sequence of events. A new dream had happened where the sequence was different. Sleeping as normal in my own warm bed, I returned in my mind to this place. I was playing at war planes when I heard a thin, frightened voice call out, “Help! Help!” I felt a chill in dream, as my boyhood self froze on the spot. I could hear it again. “Help! Help!” The sound was emanating from the basement of the control tower, and for a moment, just a moment, it sounded familiar. Unable to move, I shuddered as I heard it again. “Help! Help!” I moved towards the control tower. At its base, a narrow doorway lay open to the elements. Rusted hinges showed where a wooden door would once have been. Cement steps inside the doorway led both up and down but I dared not move. This was a dream, of course, but it was terrifyingly real.
“Help! Help!” This time the voice was definitely familiar. It was me. I must have called out, to whom I could not know, but all of a sudden the man from my memory entered my dream. He shimmered and appeared in front of the boy me, and headed for the basement-leading steps at the inner doorway. He paused only briefly, to look down at me with a puzzled expression, before he shimmered again and disappeared.
I awoke in a terrible sweat. I could now no longer be sure of the sequence of events all those years ago. My dream had made me question everything. Perhaps the man who looked at me was puzzled because he could not understand why someone had ignored a plea for help. Immediately, I discharged myself and resolved to solve this mystery. I would return to the control tower and look for details of the events. I would investigate.
Not many people come here. It has taken me three hours and two buses and a one hour walk to get here. I am tired, and very warm, despite the cold December air. I remove my gloves and put them in my coat pocket as I emerge from the trees. It has been worth it. I can see the ruined aerodrome ahead. I am elated. The control tower is just as I remember it, even though I am now questioning my memories. My happy boyhood in this place has been like a lantern that I have carried with me on my journey to becoming a man. Childhood illuminates adulthood. Understand the boy and you will understand what motivates the man. What we do as children resonates through our adult life like a wind chime in an autumn breeze.
There is a breeze now. It is from the north, and brings chilled air across this depressed landscape, having rolled off the low hills in the distance. To my left, the sun dips its toe beyond the horizon as if testing how it would feel to be on the other side of the world. I feel the breeze moving through me, exhilarating me. I am alive. I feel sure the events of my life have led me here, to this spot, to reach my destiny. It is as if I am suddenly taller.
Heading towards the red-brick shell of the ruined control tower, I take in all the details. Nothing much has changed. Pale yellow grass grows a little longer, and the tarmac surface of the runway is more cracked, and weed-ridden, but the features are still recognisable. The red-brick shell of the control tower rises into the air. I see now that the roof is crumbling, but the structure still seems sound. Perhaps I will save up to buy this place and renovate the building. The tall windows would be a good vantage point to see for miles. I have never stepped inside the tower, but I imagine myself up there in renovated splendour, surveying t
he land with bakelite binoculars, visualising aeroplanes taking off and landing. I picture the sounds of spitfires and tornadoes and bombers in my mind, as I stretch out my senses into the chilly air, listening out for any real sounds. I remember I have not heard any birds since I got off the bus. Suddenly I stop.
I have heard something. I am sure of it, though I cannot be certain if I imagined it, or whether it was real. It was very faint, as if distant, or muffled, or below ground. It is something I have not heard for many years. The sound of it is like a shadow on an x-ray; something ominous and unknown. I feel lost, frightened, and alone. I am reminded of the smell of disinfectant on a hospital ward floor. I have heard a voice and I have heard this voice before. It sounds thin, and frightened. “Help! Help!” It is unmistakable. I am no more than sixteen metres from the doorway into the control tower. I can see the doorway. Rusted hinges on a rotted doorframe mark where a wooden door would have been. Beyond that, there are concrete steps that lead both up and down. The stairs up twist round to where I cannot see them. The stairs down lead to darkness. “Help! Help!” The voice is coming from where the darkness is.
Blood rushes in my ears like the sound of a train rushing through a tunnel. Shivers wave down my neck and body. I have not breathed for moments but, when I do, I am pressed suddenly into action. I launch myself forward. Compelled to propel myself ever faster, it will take me less than fifteen strides to reach the doorway. Darting towards the opening, a startled young boy seems to shimmer and appear in front of me. Puzzled, I wonder where he appeared from, but I hear the voice again, “Help! Help!”, and I dart inside the doorway, giving the boy not a second look. I take the first few steps down and I am swallowed up by darkness.
Behind me, I can feel the remnants of the afternoon winter sun. Dimly aware of it, as if I am in a tunnel, I feel the light getting smaller as I descend. I slow my progress, unable to see ahead in the dark. Holding each hand out against the wall, I feel it damp and slimy. I hear dripping water somewhere ahead of me. I do not hear the voice.
First Person Page 1
