Tin

by Padraig Kenny

  There was a rush of sounds, scents, colours, and he was almost bowled over as if by a wave. He lurched sideways.

  ‘Whoa,’ said Blake, catching him by the shoulders. ‘Easy now.’

  A dazed Christopher turned to look up at him. Blake was smiling. Christopher could see that it was a nervous smile, almost like a child’s. Shy and hopeful.

  Blake’s face began to fade as Christopher delved deeper into the memory. He heard a snatch of music – someone singing, a woman’s voice from very far away. And something else . . .

  The fire.

  Part of the cottage roof at the back and to his right had caved in due to the fire.

  He felt the flames rather than seeing them. The smoke was the thing that he saw more clearly. Yellowing grey and acrid and choking. He could feel it at the back of his throat – a hot, searing, almost salty sensation.

  ‘What is it? What’s wrong?’ asked Blake.

  Christopher twisted in the chair.

  ‘Nothing, it’s just . . . the fire,’ he said. His eyes started to water. He wiped his hand across them, and then, as suddenly as it had arrived, the vision was gone.

  He felt Blake lay a comforting hand on his right shoulder. ‘Be careful, Christopher.’

  Christopher closed his eyes again and looked at the hole in the roof. It was edged by a maw of blackened rafters. They looked like the tips of rotted teeth. The floorboards at his feet were dusty and smeared with dark streaks. There were scorch marks on the walls.

  ‘Do you remember what happened after the fire?’

  Christopher shook his head. ‘No, just some of what happened before.’

  ‘So, what exactly do you rem—’

  And just like that, Blake’s voice was gone as the grey house around Christopher suddenly glowed with a light that was a mellow golden brown. He heard a voice coming from somewhere to his left. He turned and found himself in the kitchen.

  His mother was kneading bread at the kitchen table. Clumps of dough clung to her fingers, and she smiled at him as he came in.

  Christopher’s father stepped into the kitchen from a door to his left, and Christopher felt his heart leap in his chest. He was wearing a soldier’s uniform and he was wiping his hands on a cloth. Christopher could see the oil on his fingers, the flash of his brown eyes. His father smiled at him. Christopher, whose head had already been spinning with delight, now felt himself consumed utterly by a new wave of euphoria. It felt as if the world were buzzing around him. It felt as if everything was right.

  It felt like coming home.

  The glow started to fade as the room greyed over again. Christopher leant against the table and felt the warp and weave of its timber. He marvelled at the touch of it, and the sensations it brought back.

  ‘What do you remember?’ asked Blake, stirring him from his reverie.

  Christopher turned towards him. ‘My parents. I remember my parents,’ he said. ‘Both of them.’

  Christopher beamed, and Blake smiled encouragingly.

  ‘Do you remember anything else?’

  ‘Bits and pieces,’ said Christopher, mulling over the images that were crowding through his mind.

  ‘Does anything in particular stand out?’

  Christopher shook his head, and then smiled again. ‘No, just all of it,’ he said, and retreated into his mind’s eye.

  The light in the kitchen changed again. The sky outside darkened. It was evening. Early evening possibly. The kitchen was lit by low candlelight and there was someone at the table. It was an older boy, possibly in his mid-teens. Christopher felt himself hide behind the frame of the door. He was looking at the boy, hoping not to be seen. The boy had dark hair and eyes, and even his clothes were dark. He was using a screwdriver on what looked like a piece of clockwork. There was something cowed and beaten-looking about him. Christopher could see it in the way he sat with his shoulders hunched, and the way he looked furtively at the door to his right.

  That’s right, Christopher, thought to himself, he’d come here with . . .

  The thought eluded him. It was as slippery as a fish.

  And he’d come to see . . .

  This one evaded him too.

  ‘What do you see, Christopher?’

  It was Blake’s voice. Soft and far away.

  Christopher looked at the boy. He stared at him for a long time. There was something important about this. If only he could remember. Christopher was gripped by a sudden overwhelming certainty that this was something that only he must know about.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I don’t see anything. It’s just the kitchen.’

  There was movement to the boy’s right. A shadow in the doorway, and then suddenly a figure moved into the kitchen. Christopher couldn’t see a face, but he got the impression of a very tall, well-built man. The man came and stood over the boy, and Christopher saw the fear in the boy’s eyes as he looked up at this visitor.

  The man raised an index finger, as if making a point about something. Then his fist came crashing into the table. The boy flinched and cowered.

  Christopher couldn’t hear anything. For some reason, he saw this happen before him in silence. The boy’s lips moved as he said something.

  That was when the man swept his hand back and dashed the clockwork piece the boy had been working on out of his hands. It flew across the kitchen and smashed against a wall.

  The man left the room.

  The boy started to cry. He lowered his head, and his shoulders shook as he sobbed uncontrollably. Christopher felt his devastation and took an instinctive step towards him, and the boy’s head came up.

  Their eyes locked.

  Christopher gasped.

  ‘What is it, Christopher?’ came Blake’s voice.

  Christopher and the boy continued to stare at each other. Christopher looked at the way his lank dark hair hung down over his forehead. He could see the pain and sadness in the boy’s eyes and he could feel the pity well up inside him. But there was also a moment of recognition which passed between them. Christopher knew him. He felt a sudden surge of energy. They knew each other. The boy was . . .

  ‘My mother. I just saw my mother again,’ Christopher lied.

  The boy started to melt and fade.

  The room changed and became a bedroom. Christopher smiled. Locking eyes with the boy had given him a strange burst of adrenalin, but now he felt himself coming down from it. His heart was beating slower. His body felt heavier, but there was still that sensation of light euphoria, especially when he saw this room.

  ‘My room,’ he said proudly.

  ‘Anything of interest here?’ Blake said. His voice was clear again, and there was a hint of impatience in it.

  ‘I used to sleep in here,’ Christopher said wistfully. ‘Proper sleep, you know, like . . .’

  For a moment, the visions he saw and the joy he felt were crowded out by questions. Proper? He wasn’t proper. How had he managed to have a family? Why couldn’t he remember everything that came before? Why not after?

  As if reading his mind, Blake asked: ‘What else do you remember? What about after the fire? Tell me about that. Try and go back before it too.’

  Christopher concentrated. After a few moments he shook his head. ‘There’s nothing,’ he said.

  Blake suggested he explore the cottage further. Christopher didn’t need to be told. He travelled from room to room like a feather borne on a gentle breeze.

  Everywhere he went he was surprised by the new memories and sensations that offered themselves up to him. His and his parents’ laughter as they tumbled in through the front door to escape a wet and windy day, leaves scudding around their feet. Sitting by the fire in the sitting room, his mother wiping his wet hair vigorously with a towel. A story told to him by candlelight. The smell of strawberries, warm and full and ripe on a hot summer’s day. Sunlight, rain, wind, snow. The low moan of the wind settling around the eaves at night as he bundled his blanket up to his chin. Moonlight through his bedroom window. Kni
tting all of these memories together was a feeling of safety, and of home.

  And yet, with all of these happy memories, the one that remained the sharpest was of that boy and his eyes.

  ‘You’re absolutely sure there’s nothing else?’ said Blake.

  ‘No, nothing,’ Christopher lied again. He could see the garden now, and there was something else – as if something was just at the periphery of his vision. For a moment, the garden seemed to flare with evening light, turning from dusky grey to gold, and Christopher’s eyes widened. He felt the hand again . . .

  There was another plik sound and everything started to blend into a brown soupy consistency. Christopher instinctively tried to brush the brown fog away from his eyes.

  ‘Just relax, Christopher,’ said Blake.

  Christopher could tell by his tone that he was clenching his jaw.

  ‘What are you—’

  ‘Relax,’ said Blake. ‘Let the cap do its work. You just need to go deeper. I need to know more.’

  ‘More about what?’ said Christopher. He was starting to panic now. Things were getting darker now rather than clearer. He could smell smoke, and somewhere he heard someone shouting his name.

  ‘Christopher,’ Blake growled.

  ‘I can’t . . .’ Christopher’s eyes were stinging, and the smoke had wound its way insidiously down his throat. ‘I can’t . . .’

  ‘Listen to me, Christopher,’ Blake roared.

  And the fire roared too, and crackled, and wood popped and cracked as the flames took hold and Christopher couldn’t see or breathe. He tried to scream, but nothing came out.

  ‘Christopher!’ came the cry, and it was two voices now, intertwined. One from the past, and Blake’s in the present.

  Christopher’s hands went to the cap and he wrenched it off with all his might.

  Blake gave an inarticulate roar, but Christopher didn’t care. He flung himself from the chair and headed straight for the door. The marionette had fallen from his chest and was now picking itself off the ground. The cap was fizzing and sparking behind Christopher. In front of him was the great, hulking, stupid-looking Mr Dunlop, whose piggy eyes were now blinking in incomprehension at the scene that played out before him.

  ‘Grab him!’ Blake snarled.

  Dunlop nodded and lumbered towards Christopher. He grabbed him by the shoulders, and turned him back round in the direction he’d come from.

  Now Blake was bearing down on Christopher, his face twisted and red with fury.

  ‘Why won’t you help me?’ he screamed.

  Christopher was angry too. ‘I am helping you.’

  Blake’s raised his arms. His fists were balled, and he tried to compose himself.

  ‘I need you to be truthful with me, Christopher. I need you to remember back to when you first woke. I need to know the circumstances.’

  ‘Circumstances?’ Christopher’s mind was a whirl. He had no idea what Blake was talking about.

  ‘You must remember something. What was it like? Who was there? What glyphs might have been used? I’m looking for a mechanism . . . a means . . .’ Blake squeezed his eyes shut and tapped his right fist against his forehead in frustration. ‘You have to tell me everything.’

  ‘I have told you everything!’ Christopher protested.

  ‘You’re hiding it from me!’ Blake shouted.

  ‘I don’t even know what you’re looking for!’ Christopher’s response earned him a clip on the back of the head from Dunlop.

  Blake’s eyes widened. He was almost pleading with Christopher now.

  ‘Do you have any idea how important this is? Do you? I need those memories. I want them all. We can’t go forward without them. I need you to remember how you woke. I need to create . . .’

  Blake stopped himself and ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

  You need to create what? thought Christopher, biting his lip, knowing that to ask the question might risk more rage. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Dunlop’s stun gun, in the same place he always put it. He felt the sudden urge to lick his lips, and he fought it.

  Blake looked as if he was ready to explode. He looked around desperately, as if seeking something to take his rage out on.

  And he found it.

  The marionette was standing on a table. There was something gormless about the way it looked in their direction, even though it had no features. Blake ran towards it and, sensing it was in danger, the marionette tried to make its escape across the table.

  But Blake was too fast. He scooped it up and wheeled round to face Christopher.

  He was panting, and his face was scarlet. ‘Will you help me? Will you tell me everything I need to know and stop hiding things from me?’

  Christopher looked at the marionette, squirming in Blake’s fist, trying to squeeze its way out. He shook his head. ‘Don’t, please . . . I’ve been trying . . . I’ve told you everything I know.’

  Blake smirked and headed towards the hydraulic press Christopher had noticed the first time he’d entered the lab. The marionette redoubled its efforts to escape. Christopher shouted, ‘NO!’

  Blake pressed a button, and the press whirred into life. He pressed another button, and the hydraulic hammer came down with a WHAM! – so hard that it sent vibrations across the floor, up Christopher’s legs, and right into his jaw.

  Blake turned to look at him.

  ‘Will you help me, Christopher?’

  Christopher could feel the tears coming. I won’t cry, he said to himself. I won’t. He tried to turn his head away, but Dunlop grabbed him by the hair and forced him to look.

  WHAM.

  Christopher tried to look defiant.

  ‘Will you help me, Christopher? I’m asking you nicely,’ said Blake.

  WHAM.

  Christopher tried to nod, but Dunlop held his hair so tight that it was hard to.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Blake.

  WHAM.

  ‘Ye–yes,’ said Christopher.

  WHAM.

  Blake cupped a hand to his ear.

  WHAM.

  ‘I’ll help you, yes! I’ll tell you everything I know,’ said Christopher, the tears coming freely now.

  Blake closed his eyes and breathed out with relief. He nodded in appreciation and lowered the marionette. ‘That’s all I wanted to hear, Christopher. Thank you.’

  Then he turned and placed the marionette in the hydraulic press.

  The hammer came down.

  WHAM.

  And again.

  WHAM.

  And again.

  WHAM.

  Christopher was on his knees. He tried to look up but found that he couldn’t. By the time the press had finished its work there was barely anything left.

  Blake walked towards Christopher with a fragment of metal in his hand. He hunkered down to his level and waggled it in front of Christopher’s face. ‘I just want your help, that’s all,’ he said reasonably.

  Christopher looked at him, breathing hard. Blake just smiled back at him.

  ‘You could lose a hand in there,’ chuckled Dunlop.

  ‘Indeed one could,’ said Blake, without taking his eyes off Christopher. He tilted his head, and tried to look sincere. ‘Will you help me, Christopher?’

  Christopher nodded his head. Blake smiled and ruffled his hair. ‘There’s a good boy.’ He took a moment to examine Christopher’s face, his eyes filled with genuine awe. ‘Tears. Imagine that. What exquisite workmanship.’ Then he turned away and headed back towards the chair. He threw the piece of metal away and it landed somewhere with a clang. ‘Take him down, Mr Dunlop. We’ll let him rest up until tomorrow.’

  Dunlop dragged Christopher towards the door as Blake inspected the cap.

  I’ll help you all right, Mr Blake, Christopher thought to himself. I’ll help you, don’t you worry.

  His grief was forgotten for a moment, and as he was dragged back to his cell his mind was a torrent of rage.

  They’d been driving most o
f the day and had decided to camp for the night in a forest. Cormier had acted as navigator as he was busy interpreting the light from the Diviner. Jack was driving. They’d kept to the back roads for fear agents from the Agency would be looking for them. The driving was sporadic and halting. They frequently had to stop for long periods while Cormier grumbled and hunched over the Diviner, moving his hands over it as if trying to align it like a compass. Despite the frustrating stop start nature of their journey, all of them felt a mixture of fear and excitement.

  It was decided the best thing to do to avoid detection was to hide in the forest. Jack had been keen to stress the word ‘camping’ if only to reassure the likes of Rob who he thought looked a little frightened. Rob’s mood had immediately changed to one of delight. Jack smiled as he watched him scurrying about behind Gripper as they looked for firewood. Rob had never been camping before. Jack knew this because Rob had already told them all at least a dozen times.

  As soon as the fire was blazing, Gripper took up a position on the edge of their camp to keep watch. Rob stood in front of the fire rubbing his hands together and holding them towards the flames.

  ‘What are you doing, Rob?’ Estelle asked.

  ‘Warming my hands,’ said Rob.

  Estelle gave a small smile and winked at Jack. Jack smiled in response, then he went back to looking at Cormier, who was sitting opposite them with his back against a tree trunk. He was inspecting the Diviner and stroking it gently. It looked like he was whispering to it the way one might whisper to a cherished pet. The soft blue light was shining on his face. Cormier looked up briefly and caught Jack and Estelle looking at him.

  ‘He’s not far. Shouldn’t be long,’ he said, and he went back to looking at the Diviner.

  Jack watched Cormier, and he decided to ask the question that had been plaguing him ever since that night back at Absalom’s yard:

  ‘How does Christopher have a soul?’

  The delight fizzed through Jack when he saw the look on Cormier’s face. It felt as if he’d loosed an arrow and it had gone straight to its mark. He smiled to himself as a clearly shaken Cormier tried to adopt his typically gruff attitude.