Space Race

by Sylvia Waugh

  People stepped aside as he passed. They looked at him furtively. His strength was evident in his every movement; the bloody face and stubbly chin, the matted hair and filthy clothes gave him a threatening appearance. He was a man who had evidently been in some sort of fight and he looked intimidating.

  Of all this, Patrick was totally unaware. He knew only that he must go to the station and catch the first train to Edinburgh. On the less crowded pavement that led to the station he almost broke into a run. Then, for the first time, he realized that he was not perfectly fit. His legs suddenly felt weak at the knees and his back was painful. He winced but kept on walking as fast as he was able.

  He was very relieved to see the entrance to the station. To sit on a train for an hour or so would be such a comfort.

  He looked at the timetable and discovered that the next train stopping there on its way north would depart at twelve-thirty. His watch, shockproof and undamaged, told him that it was now ten past twelve.

  Once on the platform, he took his wallet from his pocket and checked that his ticket to Edinburgh had survived the ordeal they had both been through. It had. His money was also intact. All in all, things could have been worse.

  Patrick was so wrapped up in thought and so concerned about the really important things that he failed to notice his own condition and was quite oblivious to the glances others cast in his direction. When the train came he found an unreserved seat in the first-class compartment and settled down to rest. The carriage was nearly empty. No one came and sat beside him. Peace, he thought, perfect peace.

  Then he looked up to see the ticket collector pausing to check his ticket. He was a youngish man, with eyes that were probably naturally protruding, but seeing Patrick made them appear even more startled.

  Patrick passed the ticket to him and smiled. The smile hurt a little and he remembered wiping his mouth with his handkerchief.

  The ticket collector inspected the ticket and then looked dubiously at the passenger.

  “This ticket is from Casselton, sir,” he said warily. He did not want to provoke an incident. If it was necessary to call for help, he would do so quietly. The passenger's appearance was not that normally seen in any part of the train, and certainly not in a first-class compartment. Proceed with caution.

  “Is that a problem?” said Patrick. “I am, after all, making a shorter journey. I just happened to be in Morpeth last night and it was easier to travel from here than to go back home.”

  Patrick's tone and manner did not assort well with his bedraggled clothes and battered face. He sounded self-assured but at the same time quite kindly.

  The ticket collector, who was fairly new to the job, had a moment of uncertainty.

  “You seem to have met with an accident,” he ventured to say. Then, for the first time, Patrick looked down at his hands, all scraped and grubby, and his cuffs, caked with mud. It took him seconds to recover his poise.

  “Yes,” he said lightly. “I fell on the way to the station. Lucky not to break anything.”

  “A bad fall,” said the ticket collector. “Do you need help?”

  “No,” said Patrick. “I'll be perfectly all right—see to everything when I get to Edinburgh.”

  There was nothing more for the collector to say. He still felt dubious and was pleased that the carriage was not crowded.

  After he had gone, Patrick made his way to the lavatory. He might be in a bad state. Certainly the aches and pains were making themselves felt. But soap and water would surely help.

  As he fastened the door behind him, he caught sight of himself full-length in the mirror and gasped. Ye gods, he thought, it's a wonder I've managed to get this far! I look bad enough to be arrested!

  He rested both hands on the washbasin, looked sideways into the mirror again, and then burst into laughter. He thought of the little ticket collector with his brown eyes bulging and saying so politely, You seem to have met with an accident….

  Tears of laughter rolled down Patrick's face and the saltiness of them stung his swollen lip. That brought him up short and sobered him.

  He looked straight at himself and considered what improvements he could make with the limited resources available.

  The matted hair first. He took a paper towel and soaked it, then squeezed water into his hair till it was wet enough to be soaped. Liquid soap. More water. More paper towels. After a great deal of effort, his hair was almost back to its normal fairness. He took his comb from his pocket and combed it into place. It was still wet, of course, but at least it wasn't scruffy anymore.

  Next, very gingerly, he washed his face. The bruising and the scrapes were extensive. His swollen lip snarled at him. He very soon gave up any attempt to make things better as he became aware that too much rubbing might make them worse. His chin began to bleed and he had to dab it dry.

  Someone tried the lavatory door and a child's voice called out, “There's still somebody in, Mummy. Unless the door's jammed.”

  “Try another one, Brenda,” said the parent impatiently, “and do stop making a fuss.”

  Patrick coughed loudly to indicate his presence.

  His coat was another problem. To remove it would be very difficult because his arms were stiff and aching. In any case, he would not want to carry it in this cold weather. He was already regretting the loss of his sweater. The caked mud he tried brushing off with dry towels, but he did not have much success. And he had enough sense to know that wetting the mud could be disastrous. So he made his way back to his seat and settled behind the free copy of The Guardian that the company had provided.

  Without coming from behind the broadsheet, he accepted the complimentary coffee and drank it gratefully.

  The journey was soon over. His slow and painful ablutions had helped the time to pass.

  “Passengers for Edinburgh Waverley,” said the voice on the P.A. system. Patrick stood up, fastened his coat, and climbed down onto the platform. Each thing done is one thing less to do.

  It was just after ten o'clock on Saturday morning when Jamie left the ward, taking his genius with him. The game, short-lived, was over. Thomas was a very sad and lonely little boy once more. To use his alien voice to startle and impress people was no longer funny. He felt more forsaken than ever.

  He lay still in his bed in the quiet ward, thinking.

  He was not scheming or planning, just suddenly and profoundly aware of two things: I am, and always will be, a stranger on this planet; no love I have for any other being is greater than my love for Vateelin.

  He is my father, the only one of my true family that I know. “Oh, Vateelin, Vateelin mesht,” he murmured, but so softly that only the pillow could have heard.

  To speak in the voice of Ormingat to these people in the hospital now seemed shabby and paltry, making a game of such a deep reality.

  So what next?

  Return to silence. The keys might work through telepathy. They could as easily work through telepathy as through sound. Either way was impossible to understand. It was all guesswork.

  Thomas decided to think and think and think the words, to say them silently inside his head. Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin—Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin— Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin.

  Then wait. Then try again.

  In the ward there was a Mickey Mouse clock on the wall. Its pointers were Mickey's large gloved hands. The mouse's forefingers pointed to the numbers, the hour arm shorter than the minute one. Thomas began watching and waiting for the long arm to reach the hour, the quarter, the half hour. And at each quarter he recited inwardly his mantra: Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin—Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin—Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin.

  Kirsty was busy with the younger children at the other end of the ward and it was some time before she could come and give any attention to Thomas. Besides, the staff had all been told t
o give him “space.” So when she finally came to his bedside, it was ten minutes past twelve, nearly time for lunch.

  “Would you like to get dressed?” she said brightly. “There's no reason why you shouldn't. And you can eat at the center table if you like. Evie will be having her lunch there—she's the one in the far corner with the bandages round her head. And Joseph wants to come to the table, even though his leg is in plaster.”

  Thomas did not answer.

  Kirsty got his own clothes out of the locker and handed them to him.

  “I'll draw your curtain and leave you to get ready in peace. The trolley will be round with the lunches in about twenty minutes. It's not a bad meal and you do have some choice. Just tick what you'd like on this list.”

  She put a pencil in his hand and guided him through the choices. He ticked obediently but neither smiled nor spoke. He should perhaps have pretended to be unable to read, but total, consistent abstraction is very difficult when you are only eleven years old.

  After Kirsty left him he put on his clothes, folded the hospital pajamas neatly, and laid them across the foot of the bed. Then he sat in the chair and waited. He did not even bother to open the curtain.

  When Kirsty came and ushered him to the table he sat down. The other two children were already there. The meal was eaten in near-silence. The boy with his leg in plaster stared down at his plate and said aggressively, “I'm going home tomorrow, so there!” No one answered him.

  Evie mentioned that she had a rabbit called Fred, but since neither of her companions showed any interest in this information, she began to make hills with her mashed potato and let gravy rivers flow between them.

  Thomas never spoke at all.

  After lunch he returned to his chair. Kirsty asked him nicely if he would like to do a jigsaw puzzle or play with the Lego bricks in the tray on the table. When he did not answer, she brought a Batman annual and a pile of comics and placed them on his bedside table.

  So Thomas was given more “space.” He watched the Mickey Mouse clock and went listlessly back to his effort at telepathy, though with no real hope that it would work. Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin—Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin—Vateelin Tonitheen Ormingat—Ormingat Tonitheen Vateelin.

  And between the quarter hours, he flicked over pages in the annual, felt deeply sad, and was startled once when a tear fell on the page, making a splotch on the Batmobile. He turned several pages rapidly to hide it.

  At three o'clock something happened. A tall man about Patrick's age, slim-built with dark hair and a mustache, walked briskly into the ward and was directed to Thomas's bed. Ernie made to accompany him, but the man said, “It's all right, I'll do my own introduction.”

  “You know about the—er—voice?” said Ernie, hoping that the visitor had some understanding of children.

  “I've been briefed,” he said. “Dr. Ramsay showed me the notes and I've had a word with Nurse West.”

  The visitor came to where Thomas was sitting. He pulled up another chair from beside the bed that had been Jamie's and sat down beside the boy, who looked at him guardedly.

  “I'm Inspector Galway,” said the man as he clasped his hands in front of him. “I could tell you a lot more about me and try to be really matey, but it's a waste of time. Either you want to help me or you don't. That's the way I see it.”

  Thomas looked at him, meeting his eyes but still saying nothing.

  “Well, at least you're listening,” said the inspector. “So let me explain just why I am here.”

  He looked round and then half pulled the curtain, as if to give them a little privacy, or at least to indicate to the nurses that this was to be a private conversation.

  “I have some questions that are hard to answer,” said Inspector Galway, “and it just might be that you can help. For a start, it would be nice to know your real name. I don't think it's Sammy.”

  Thomas said nothing but could not help shaking his head. It would be nice to get rid of that name.

  “Well,” said the inspector, “that's one thing cleared up. You are not called Sammy and neither is your surname Bentley.”

  Thomas nodded agreement. He had made up his mind not to speak at all. To speak seemed to him too fraught with problems. He felt that he had said too much already.

  “So what is your name?” said the inspector. “You do hear me but I am not about to play silly games with you. This isn't Rumpelstilstkin, if you know what I mean.”

  The man was being so reasonable and sensible that Thomas felt like talking to him but by this time he had twisted his thoughts into such a knot that he was afraid to say anything.

  “If we know your name,” said the inspector, ignoring the silence, “we can find out where you belong. We can trace your people.”

  The inspector had interviewed boys before, boys from the poorest parts of town. He had the habit of not specifying “mam” or “dad” or even “parents.” They were things he knew not every child possessed and so he was careful.

  But Thomas heard the words “we can trace your people” and was instantly alarmed. Was he about to betray the secret of Ormingat? Had he—dreadful thought—betrayed it already?

  He looked down at his hands and decided not even to nod or shake his head, not even to look as if he were listening. The inspector waited less and less patiently. Then he got up and replaced the chair he had been sitting on.

  “I can't help you, son, if you won't help me,” he said. The inspector turned his back on Thomas and went to the desk.

  Ernie was carefully filling in a chart. He stopped on the inspector's approach.

  “Any luck?” he said.

  “None whatsoever,” said Inspector Galway. “His name's not Sammy Bentley, but I only got that from a nod of the head. And we really knew that already.”

  “So you didn't hear the voice,” said Ernie. “I thought you mustn't have. It travels quite a long way.”

  “No voice, not a sound,” said the inspector. “I'm off duty tomorrow, but I'll give it another try on Monday if nothing happens in between. I'm going upstairs to see the brewery men next. They are adamant about having run a man over even though there is no sign of a body.”

  Inspector Galway smiled slightly.

  “Still, it is a nice sort of mystery,” he said. “A murder with a missing body, I have actually met before. A road accident with a missing body must be a first. I might bring the piece of sheepskin in and show it to your patient on Monday. Shock tactics.”

  Ernie was angry. He knew nothing about the sheepskin, but he could not approve of anyone who would so glibly offer to use shock tactics on a child.

  “I think you will be advised not to do that,” he said quietly. “I cannot see Dr. Ramsay permitting it. The boy, after all, is Dr. Ramsay's patient.”

  Inspector Galway looked abashed.

  “You're probably right,” he said. “It was just a passing thought, not one of my better ones! But it would be nice to know some of the answers.”

  Thomas spent the rest of the evening worrying. Getting ready for bed was done in total silence. Cornelia was back on duty. She said good night to him, even offered to read him a story, but took his silence as a refusal.

  “No nightmares,” she said as she left him. “Not for you … and not for anybody else either!”

  She smiled at him, but he very deliberately turned his head away.

  Patrick walked up the ramped pavement and out of the station. Alongside him walked dozens of other people who did not even observe his dirty, ragged coat and his injured face. This was Edinburgh on the busiest Saturday of the year and, with the sophistication of a capital city, it welcomed all and noticed none. Patrick pulled his collar up against the cold and was grateful.

  His limbs hurt and his walk was stiff and wearisome. Added to this, his head began to throb. His one thought was to find a chemist's shop somewhere and purchase some painkillers. There was no way he could think straight without getti
ng rid of at least some of the pain.

  There was, naturally, no question of going straight to the spaceship. It was in the earth beneath the Scott Monument. It had been there for five years. Its density would have made it sink well down into the topsoil. Patrick would have to dig to reach it. For now—minor point, perhaps—his hands felt too sore for digging, though he was glad to feel the trowel still safely lodged in his pocket. For now—major point—Princes Street and all the area around the monument would be full of people coming and going. It would definitely be dangerous to be seen digging a hole in that particular place!

  It was a quarter to three and already dusk when Patrick came out of the station. He had some recollection of little shops in the area behind the station, little shops that might well include a chemist's. So that was the way he went. Without even looking toward Princes Street, he walked over the bridge in the opposite direction.

  It took quite some time to find a pharmacy, but when he did, it was exactly what he was looking for. In his state he would have felt wary of going into a glossy Boots in the middle of Princes Street.

  Gibson's Pharmacy, small and old-fashioned, was much better. He went in.

  The bell above the door jangled. A gray-haired woman behind the counter looked up from a box she was tidying, saw the customer, and was slightly alarmed.

  “Yes?” she said.

  “Aspirins,” said Patrick, coming to the counter. “I have had an accident and, to be frank, I'm aching all over.”

  “An accident, now,” said the woman slowly. “It's a wonder you haven't gone to the infirmary, the state you're in. Would you like to sit down? I'll get Mr. Gibson to have a word with you.”

  She indicated a dark wood chair to the right of the counter. Patrick by now felt dizzy with pain and was glad to do as she suggested, no matter what questions might follow.

  “Mr. Gibson,” the assistant called, “can you be having a word with this young man? He's in a sorry state.”

  From the back of the shop came an old man with wispy gray hair and pale blue eyes.