by Ade Grant
“Let me give you an example. This supposed memory of yours, it bothers you, yes? But it could be that you’ve distorted it, changed it, built upon it. After all, you were just a boy. For all you know it is entirely fictional, there’s no way to verify such an occurrence.” He snapped his fingers in the air. “Do me a favour and replay the scene in your head.”
The Mariner closed his eyes and did as the doctor asked, recalling the dream.
“Now remember, this is your mind, you are in control. I want you to dress your mother in a silly rabbit suit.”
“What?”
“A big pink rabbit suit, and she’s not angry or upset: she’s giggling.”
The Mariner tried. It felt silly, but he could just about do it.
“Now instead of a pillow she’s placing over your face, its a big fluffy mask, so you’ll look like a silly rabbit too.”
The Mariner opened his eyes, eyebrows raised in cynicism. “But that’s not how the dream goes. That’s not how it went.”
“But that’s the point,” Tetrazzini insisted. “It isn’t. Whatever happened, whatever sad events took place between a boy and his mother, it isn’t happening now. It doesn’t exist anywhere but here.” He tapped a finger on the Mariner’s skull. “And if that’s the only place it exists, then what’s to stop you changing it?”
“I... think I understand.”
“We may well employ that tactic, once we understand where this memory came from.”
The Mariner paused, ingesting the technique. “And you said I could have made it up?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“I see.” A lie, the Mariner didn’t understand at all. He was more perplexed about the dream than when they’d begun.
“In this dream, where do you think your father is?”
The Mariner shrugged, he’d never given it much thought. “Just away.”
“You said you made friends with a man named Alcott, many years your senior.”
“That’s right.”
“Would you say he was a good man?”
The Mariner remembered Absinth Alcott: his selfishness, his ruthless disregard for others. He also remembered feeding him to the devils.
“No.”
“And yet when you told me you parted ways, you looked sad.”
“I was. I am. Alcott was,” the Mariner struggled for an accurate word. “A friend.”
“A ‘friend’ who threatened your life and treated you as a means to an end?”
The Mariner chose not an respond.
“And now you’re here, putting your faith in me, another man more advanced in years than your own. Do you not think it strange that you be so quick to trust us both?”
“You’re not to be trusted?”
Tetrazzini laughed. “Of course I am. But what I’m trying to point out to you is your desire for a father figure. Someone to fill the void so obviously apparent in these dreams of yours, someone to protect you from this dangerous matriarch. And when you fail to find a father to fill the void, you seek out alcohol to do the job instead.”
The Mariner frowned. “So if I find my father... my addiction will go away?”
“No, not at all. I’m just theorising about what caused you to drink so much, that’s all. The addiction was caused by repetitive action and a reward function. The pills will treat that.” He sighed and put his notes on the floor. “I think that’s enough for today’s session. Well done, I think we covered a lot of ground and even made some progress, don’t you think?”
The Mariner stood, looking sheepish in his uncertainty. “I guess so.”
Matching the Mariner, Tetrazzini rose and put his hand on the sailor’s shoulder to stop him leaving.
“Before you go, I wanted to thank you again for what you did for Rebecca. She was very lucky you woke up at that moment, otherwise...” The doctor looked to the floor, unable to voice the possible further horrors that could have taken place. “I have no doubt she owes you her life.”
You watched her.
Guilt and remorse made the Mariner’s voice hollow. “I only wish I could have…”
Raped her myself.
“…woken up sooner.”
An expression the Mariner couldn’t decipher flickered across the doctor’s face and then was gone. Had he seen the guilt? Had he sensed the Mariner’s sin?
“Don’t beat yourself up about it, you did the best you could under the circumstances. I take full responsibility, I shouldn’t have allowed you both into town without further supervision. Sighisoara is a small community, but just as dangerous as any other in this broken world.” Tetrazzini’s bitter admission of his own remorse seemed genuine; the colour drained from his face as he spoke, ageing him before the Mariner’s eyes. “What happened? Where did it all go?”
The Mariner had no answer to give, and after sharing a moment of silence together the doctor shook himself from his reverie and opened a door leading to the garden, gesturing he should leave.
Outside, the air was warm, though not as bright as the Mariner had been led to believe from staring out the window. The sun was heavy in the sky, its reflection on the ocean providing the golden glow.
The Mariner heard Tetrazzini close the door, leaving him alone with the peaceful sounds of the birds as they collected their supper of insects. Somewhere in the foliage he could hear the swift rat-a-tat-tat of a woodpecker. A glimmer of white and red amongst the brown bark hinted at its whereabouts.
“Do you remember the zoo?”
The voice surprised him, he’d completely forgotten that Grace was playing outside. She stood not far off with her back to him, staring out at sea through a gap in the trees.
It was the first time they’d spoken, and a certain amount of superstition about her name still lingered in his mind. Reluctant to step closer, he stayed put.
“A ‘zoo’?”
Disappointed. “No-one ever remembers. It used to be over there.” She pointed to Sighisoara’s western side. “I liked the monkeys.”
“What happened to it?”
“One day a crack appeared between the zoo and us,” she explained. “It filled with water, growing wider each day and the zoo got further away. Sometimes we’d get in a rowing boat and visit it, but the further away it got, the less people thought about it. One day it was just a teeny speck in the distance and then – gone.” She turned to look at him and in that moment he realised there was nothing supernatural about this girl, no strange presence bestowed by a magical name, nothing to be fearful of, she was merely child, and a lonely one at that. “Now no-one remembers it at all.”
“Nobody?”
Grace bit her lip and looked back to the sea. “I once tried to get Miss Taylor to remember. She used to bring us milk. I told her all about it, the animals, the statues, everything. I even described a day we spent feeding the monkeys together.”
“And she still didn’t remember?”
“No. She got mad. Really mad.”
The woodpecker stopped his incessant hammering and the woodland fell silent. Even the noises from the town below failed to reach the pair. It were as if the whole world between them and the horizon has momentarily disappeared.
“What happened?”
“She died. They had to shoot her.”
“I’m sorry.”
The girl shrugged, terrible acceptance in one so young. “It happens every now and then. People get angry and never calm down. I haven’t tried asking about the zoo since.”
“Until you asked me. Why?”
“I overheard you talking about a memory that came back.”
Sudden shame made the Mariner sick, the intrusion of privacy flaring anger. “What else did you hear?” he asked through gritted teeth.
“Not much. Didn’t seem right to listen. I don’t eavesdrop.”
The Mariner turned to leave, embarrassed to share the company of the curious child any longer, but Grace stopped him.
“Is that your boat?” She pointed to the Neptune, impressi
ve even at this distance.
“Yes it is.”
“My friend Donna is on her way to look at it.”
“Who’s Donna?”
“She’s a patient here, we’re trying to cure her.”
“I see.”
“She likes to burn things.”
Patient Number 0020644
Name: John Doe
I initially suspected that this man held a unique quality, and this has proven to be the case. He complains of a memory intruding into his dreams, one that consists of his mother attempting to smother him as a child. This rediscovered memory makes him more important than any patient I’ve ever admitted.
If my theory about a widespread degenerative brain disorder is correct, then this man must have a unique physiology that is either immune to the detrimental effects or has an immune system capable of repelling the infection. If I can understand why he regains lost memories whilst the rest of us lose chunks for seemingly no reason, then perhaps I can isolate the cause and thus discover the cure.
It is now of vital importance that his addiction is promptly cured so we may concentrate on this new pressing matter. My conviction is that this can be achieved within a matter of weeks. During this time it will be my duty to persuade him to stay and help me complete these essential studies.
T.
17
NEPTUNE
BEFORE THE WORLD CHANGED, ANDY Schiff trained dogs for the Metropolitan Police. Not being ‘one of the boys’, he’d never made an arrest in his life, never wrestled a criminal to the ground with his bare hands, never even uttered the words “you’re nicked”, yet still he considered himself one of the Good Guys. Not one of the lads, but still part of the Justice Machine. This was because without him, his colleagues would lack the spaniels to find drugs or German shepherds to drag down dangerous fugitives. And, in a strange way, he felt the dogs understood this too. Often he’d look into their eyes and feel they knew the mighty duty bestowed on both beast and man. You’re doing a good job Andy, the brown eyes would say. Keep it up.
Yes, Schiff had been assured of his place in life and it was firmly on the side of the Law.
So strange that now, years – possibly even a lifetime – later, he would find himself within a gang, several men strong, on their way to commit an act of arson and, if they were lucky, a murder too.
The escalation of violence had happened within minutes. What had first looked like a run-of-the-mill rape (when had he started thinking of them in those terms?) had suddenly turned into a blood-bath leaving several of his close friends dead.
Well, not so much ‘close friends’, but mutual beneficiaries. Partners in crime. And if they could be killed, just like that, then who was safe?
“That’s his ship up there,” he hissed at his two colleagues as they made their way along the dock, keeping to the shadows cast by the setting sun. “He’ll come running as soon as we start the fire.” The others muttered their agreement. It was unanimously decided that they needed to lure him away from the doctor’s lodgings. Whilst being a bit strange, Tetrazzini was popular amongst the people of Sighisoara and storming up there to take the criminal by force would lose them medical privileges. Better to set a trap and let the monster come sniffing.
Schiff was looking forward to seeing the Mariner hang for what he’d done. Rumours were abound that not only was he a murderer, but a grave robber and arsonist too. One could say that torching his boat was justice for the arson, as was a hanging for the murder. Something else would need to be thought of to pay for the robbed grave. Schiff looked forward to coming up with something particularly gruesome to do to the man’s corpse.
For a moment a small part of Schiff registered moral doubt over what he was about to do. This Mariner deserved it, yes, but did this sort of revenge make Schiff one of the Good Guys? He dismissed the objection. There was no law in Sighisoara. No law anywhere any-more. Not since the Shattering, or whatever it was the reverend called it. Schiff didn’t remember a dramatic holy event, a curse by God as McConnell insisted it had been. It was more of a foggy shift of the mind, a gradual separation of everything, from communication and friendships to nations and lands. But he supposed ‘Shattering’ was as good a word as any.
They neared the boat and, for the first time since their afternoon drinking binge, felt apprehension. The Neptune loomed large and dark against the reddening sky, its mast more like an enormous tombstone than the support for a sail.
You could say it’s the sail’s skeleton. Morbid. Just what the hell was getting into him?
Schiff pulled a large bottle of brandy out of his satchel and took a deep drink, hoping for courage. The other two disapproved, but then submitted to temptation and drank as well. It was not the act of drinking that caused them to view him so, but the source from which he supped. Brandy was the fuel they aimed to set the Neptune alight, and the three men recklessly drained their reserves.
“Come, let’s be quick about it.” Schiff boarded the ship first, affording himself a quick glance back along the dock, making a mental plan of where they would hide and lay a trap.
The Neptune was silent apart from the occasional creak of its wooden body. The sun bathed the three faces in a red glow that ended at their necks. Three bloody severed heads. He shook his to dislodge the thought. Best to focus and get the job done. This Mariner was a monster. Schiff would be infinitely more relaxed when his body twitched on the end of a rope.
“We do it here?”
Schiff looked around. His accomplices were feeling the nerves too, they hopped from foot to foot as though they each carried a full bladder. He shared their desire, it was tempting to get the deed over with, but they couldn’t afford to mess it up through haste.
“Let’s get below deck to set it, we don’t want to be spotted too soon.”
The three crept their way through a large oak door and down a set of stairs. Schiff felt right about what they were doing. This was all hunky-dory. For now the sun would mask their fire, but soon it would lower its head below the horizon and any flames would be easy to spot. Down here though, the fire would feed and grow strong, secret until too late. That was using his head. Oh yes. Like a Good Policeman should.
“Here?”
“No,” said Schiff. “A little further.”
For some reason Schiff was becoming excited. Earlier fears were sent into retreat as his curiosity emboldened. Where had this stranger acquired such a large ship? And how on earth did he sail it? Perhaps there were secrets to be found in these dark halls?
“Andy? Andy?” hissed Jeb, the more nervous of the two.
“What?” Schiff snapped.
“Here? Please?”
There was no reason not to, but still Schiff refused. “Just a little further,” he whispered and inched them to a door and the end of the hallway.
So far, illumination had been supplied by the open door at the top of the stairs. Now, however, they saw light spilling out from underneath the portal they approached. Was he here? Would they be saved the trouble of luring him after all?
Schiff put his head to the door and inched it open to gaze inside.
A woman he vaguely recognised was inside, illuminated by a small lamp. At first he thought her an effeminate male for no hair grew upon her head, but the sight of scars covering her scalp and body gave the truth. She was one of Tetrazzini’s patients. Perhaps they were all in cahoots together?
She stood with a book open in her hands as if about to read aloud to an audience, but then with hasty movement tore the pages out. Once removed, each were scrunched up and thrown into a far corner. Schiff watched curiously whilst the others tugged and pulled at his coat, eager to observe for themselves,
With the book stripped, the woman knelt to retrieve a plastic bottle and as she poured the contents over the torn pages her motive became clear. She was going to set a fire. She aimed to do exactly as they did! The smell of paraffin hit his nose, forcing him to recoil. Perhaps they should g
et moving? There was a hunger in this woman’s eyes he did not like. Not one bit.
And suddenly a sound took him back beyond the Shattering, before this life of grime. Like the savoury smell of cinema popcorn or the soundtrack to a virginity painfully lost, his mind was transported to an earlier time by the soft patter of paws. They were not the paws of a large dog, certainly not the German shepherds that he’d most commonly trained. No, these were the tread of a smaller beast, a young springer spaniel or terrier.
Schiff smiled at the sound, a feeling of nobility swelling within. He remembered how happy the animals had been when given a treat, how proud he’d felt in return with each completed task. When news reached his ears that one of his pets had unearthed a set of dangerous explosives, he’d felt a part of a wide and honourable plan.
So strange that now, sometime later, everything he did felt grubby. The nostalgic smile faltered. What would those brown eyes say now?
Jeb began to scream. It was a brief emphatic yowl of surprise, cut short into harsh gurgles, but in the confines of the tight hallway it was all that was needed. Schiff bolted forward, pushing the door open, instinct driving him forward.
The bald woman jumped in surprise and bobbed her head, choking on something midway through swallowing. She closed her eyes into slits until the airway was forced clear, then let out a long-overdue scream of her own. But it was not the dishevelled Schiff, gruff and untoward, that held her gaze, but the dark aperture from where he’d come.
Unable to follow, his two companions remained in the shadows. Jeb had screamed, but his brother hadn’t had the chance. Small furry bodies scrabbled over each of them, biting and snapping, tearing flesh in large chunks. His brother lay motionless on the floor, but Jeb still fought back, albeit without a throat. One of the dogs had torn it out. An apron of blood coated his shirt, a grizzly sandwich-board advertising the passing of his life.
“What are they?” the bald woman cried, reaching for her lamp as if it were a weapon she might use to ward off the beasts.
“Dogs,” said Schiff as he pressed his back against the far wall. “My dogs have come for me!” He watched with growing despair as his gang-mate fell to the ground, a beast clinging to his back, gorging itself on his flesh.
