The Secret Life of Sam Holloway

by Rhys Thomas

  “I think he’s on the spectrum,” said Sarah. “But I’m teaching him.”

  Sam wished he could just ask her outright what her feelings were for Francis. One second they were sharing intimate smiles, the next she was poking fun at him. Across the other side of the room, where the new glass met the old stonework, he noticed an elderly gentleman wearing thick-gauge tan corduroy trousers, a smart cotton shirt and a red sweater beneath a smart green wax jacket. Before him, he had a slice of Christmas cake and a steaming polystyrene cup. He picked up the cake and broke it in two, shook the crumbs off and bit into one half, a rolling motion to his chew as he took a sip of his tea.

  “Have you ever noticed,” said Sam, “those old couples who have lunch in Tesco? They sit there and eat and don’t say anything to each other.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “No, it isn’t. They’ve said everything they need to say, but they’re still together. They just want to be around each other. They don’t need words anymore.”

  Sarah smiled. She didn’t get what he was trying to say, but that was okay.

  “Hey, have you heard about this superhero guy around here?”

  He sat perfectly still. “Hmm?”

  “I saw this article about a real-life superhero who got arrested in the city center a few weeks ago. Do you remember your friends were talking about him in the car when we went to that lake?”

  The table was a bit wobbly, so he pushed his knee into its underside to steady it.

  “That sounds pretty...cool?”

  Sarah shrugged. “I thought you might be interested because of your comics. It sounds nuts to me.”

  “Yeah, it does a bit, doesn’t it?”

  “Why would someone do that? There must be something bad in there somewhere.”

  “Bad?”

  “Fucked up. Something tragic. I mean, it’s not normal, is it?”

  A string quartet was setting up at the glass doors before the lawns. Outside, Francis was slowly making his way toward the front of the queue.

  “I don’t know,” said Sam. “Maybe he’s just trying to do something good.”

  Her fingers twirled a piece of paper into a roll. “So volunteer for a food bank or something, you know. It’s a bit egotistical, don’t you think? Hey, what’s that?”

  “What?”

  She reached across and grabbed his hand, which sent a surge of chemistry up his arm.

  “You’re bruised.”

  She pulled up the sleeve of his sweater to reveal a long, dark bruise on his forearm.

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” he said, pulling away and covering his arm. “I hit it in work.”

  He had, in fact, done it falling off the roof of the library when he lost his grip on the drainpipe, smacking into a railing, not that—he now realized—he could ever tell her this after what she’d just said.

  “Looks painful.”

  “It’s fine. I bruise easily, it’s nothing.”

  She laughed. “You bruise easily?”

  “Well, you know, I...” He didn’t know what else to say.

  Sarah turned and looked over her shoulder. “Where’s Francis?”

  Sam swallowed. “You said you’ve been to some literary events with him or something?”

  “Yeah, a few. They’re fun.”

  “You’d think someone like him would have a girlfriend.”

  “He’s just finished with someone after, like, six years or something.”

  “Wow.”

  “He’s pretty messed up about it. I think she cheated on him.”

  “Oh jeez.”

  Sam didn’t usually like mulled wine, but in this situation it was good.

  “So have you done all your Christmas shopping yet?” she said, deliberately changing the subject, whatever that meant.

  “I guess so. I don’t really do Christmas shopping.”

  “No?”

  “We do the Secret Santa in work and I got Rebecca. It’s a ten-pound budget and she likes to have cash, so...”

  “Sam. What are you doing on Christmas Day?”

  “Um. You know, the usual. Christmas dinner. All that.”

  “With who?”

  “What’s that?”

  She put her hands around her mulled wine to warm them. “Are you going to be on your own?”

  He couldn’t meet her eye.

  “Oh my God. Okay. You’re coming with me.”

  “What?”

  “You’re coming with me to my friend’s house. He won’t mind. There’s plenty of room up there. You will absolutely love it. It’s like Wayne Manor.”

  “What friend?”

  “My friend I told you about. He’s got this old country manor. He has people stay over and they throw a bit of cash his way and bring food. There’ll be a load of us. You’ve got to come. It’ll be fantastic. Ah, I’m excited now. I can’t wait for you to meet everyone.”

  “Who are they?”

  “I met Kabe, he’s the one who owns Arcadia—”

  “Arcadia?”

  “Like a poet’s paradise? I met him in Edinburgh. He’s a really, really nice guy. American. Tell me you’re gonna come. It’s three days. We’ll get the train. We’ll take a train ride through the English winter countryside. There’s a lake there, and a wood, and a walled garden with apple trees, and a forest of rhododendrons—”

  Outside he saw Francis heading back across the lawn. It was like an opening on a battlefield.

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, quickly, darting through.

  “Really?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  “No being weird and flaking out last-minute?”

  “Nope,” he said. He looked at her and couldn’t suppress a smile.

  “Great!” She leaned across and wrapped her arms around his neck.

  “All right, all right,” he said, pulling away, laughing. “It’s not a big deal.”

  Though, of course, it was a massive deal.

  Francis came back with the lamb burgers wrapped in paper napkins. “What are you guys talking about?” he said.

  “Sam’s coming to Arcadia for Christmas too.”

  Francis stopped, and there was a quick friction.

  “Oh. Cool.” He took a bite of his food, pretending not to care, though Sam had seen the prickle that had flashed across his face.

  The string quartet started playing “Winter Wonderland.” The old man with the cake had gone and the table was empty. At their table, an awkward silence had descended. Sarah inspected the Victorian snow globe she’d bought. She turned it upside down and let the snow circle, drift and fall.

  21

  OKAMATSU-SAN WALKED with a kind of sashaying gait, his expensive yet thin trousers rippling with each stride, a shock wave moving from the hem to his iron buttocks with each footfall. He wore shiny leather slip-ons with tassels and the turquoise worker’s jacket given to everyone but worn only by Sam and the Japanese staff. He could have at least made an effort for this and got changed.

  It was the first office Christmas party Sam had ever been to. Francis or no, after what he’d been through he felt buoyed by the idea of spending three days with Sarah over Christmas, and now here he was in a blaring karaoke bar packed with other office workers, feeling merry.

  Ten of them were seated at a long table with tall chairs. Mr. Okamatsu came away from the bar with a tray full of drinks. The colorful disco lights reflected off his glasses. A British colleague who had spent five years in Japan had once said to Sam the difference between the Japanese and British was that Japanese people think of the whole instead of the individual. But then he added, “All Japanese men live lives of quiet desperation.” There must be some truth in this, because of the suicide problem at HQ, but Mr. Okamatsu seemed like a man in complete control of his life.

&nb
sp; He took his seat at the head of the table, with Sam as his right-hand man, and the drinks were passed along. Everybody sat in silence.

  Okamatsu raised his beer and said, “Kanpai.”

  The table loved this and raised their glasses. As soon as it happened, the mood lightened and some of the awkward tension fell away. Little conversations sprang up around the table, leaving just Sam and Okamatsu on their own.

  The music was blasting, a woman massacring a version of “Please Release Me.”

  There was a bang at the front door and a drunken crowd of people tumbled into the club, Christmas hats on heads, one guy clutching the hips of a large woman, conga-style. Mr. Okamatsu’s small eyes behind the light-sensitive glasses seemed to absorb everything in their wake, eyes that sucked wisdom from the world.

  “Mr. Okamatsu, do you celebrate Christmas in Japan?”

  Sam had to lean in as Mr. Okamatsu spoke because he was conceding nothing to the loud music.

  “We do. More than when I was a child.” When he was talking like this, his voice appropriated a tender smoothness. “We go to KFC. You know KFC? And maybe we go to the cinema. We spend time with family. I will FaceTime my family this Christmas.”

  Sam said, “Do you look forward to going home?”

  Mr. Okamatsu replied, matter-of-factly, “I miss my family. That is worst part of my job here.”

  Sam looked at him and felt a moment of empathy for this man who’d been sent to Britain, away from his family, to work in a thankless job. Sam knew Okamatsu had two children, both still in school, and it didn’t seem fair. A father shouldn’t be away from his kids because of work. He wanted to put his hand on his forearm, but that would be a bridge too far.

  One of the drunken revelers banged into the back of Sam’s chair. “Wheeey!” he shouted, dancing toward the bar, shimmying, shaking imaginary maracas.

  “Okay, up next,” said the guy running the karaoke, “we have Okamatsu and Sam.”

  Sam froze. The heads of the people around the table turned toward him in shock. When Sam looked at Mr. Okamatsu, he was already standing, tucking his shirt neatly into his trousers.

  “Mr. Okamatsu?”

  “I put our names down,” he said, like it was the most normal thing in the world.

  Sam’s guts turned to mush and his heart was throbbing. He didn’t want to do karaoke. Mr. Okamatsu was halfway across the dance floor as the opening bars of the song started up. A piano. Oh God, the song was the romantic power ballad “Up Where We Belong”.

  “Go on, Sambo!” Mark nudged him, laughing.

  Okamatsu had the mic in his hand. “Sam,” he called unashamedly across the dance floor.

  Lights flashed and his head was woozy. Mark tilted his chair so Sam slid off it.

  “Go on, Sam!” Linda screeched.

  But he didn’t want to sing. He couldn’t sing. His voice was awful. The music stopped and there was silence as the karaoke guy had to start the song over. The other revelers were aware of the coaxing going on at Sam’s table and were craning to see. Mark pushed him in the small of the back and Sam edged onto the dance floor. Everyone cheered and the music started again. Sam turned back to the table and downed the double whiskey in front of Mark, and everyone cheered again.

  He felt Mr. Okamatsu’s eyes staring at him hopefully. Everyone at the table was laughing and clapping, but Sam was thinking about Okamatsu missing his family on Christmas Day.

  “Fuck it,” he said, under his breath, and set out across the dance floor. The place erupted now and it felt like the climax to a film—apart from, instead of Sam walking toward a beautiful woman, it was Mr. Okamatsu.

  He started singing just as Sam reached the first of the three steps leading to the stage. Mr. Okamatsu’s voice was surprisingly pretty, a midrange syrupy easiness to it. He had taken the female role.

  Sam vaguely knew the song but not who should sing which part. Fortunately, the lyrics on the screen at his feet were divided into pink and blue, but, unfortunately, it was his turn to sing. He couldn’t hold a note to save his life, and he was well aware of how awful his voice was as he practically whispered the lyrics into the mic that the karaoke man had thrust under his nose.

  “Louder,” someone shouted.

  When he sang louder, everybody started half groaning, half laughing. Sam turned beetroot as they reached the chorus and Okamatsu joined in with him. The big man was shimmying from side to side as he harmonized with the main melody.

  The second verse came and Sam watched Okamatsu sing. His eyes were closed. He was absolutely loving it, and yet everyone in the room was laughing at him, and so when it came to Sam’s turn he made the quick decision to go for it. He belted out his lines, and even he felt the pain in his ears as his voice mutilated the melody. But then something happened he didn’t expect. Sensing the effort he was putting in, the crowd got on board with the performance. They started cheering and clapping. Some couples grabbed each other and started dancing, including two large, older men, much to the delight of their colleagues. It felt good. No, with the alcohol and the sudden upswing washing across the crowd, it felt great. The second chorus approached and Sam felt Okamatsu put his arm around him.

  Sam took a deep breath and, together, they belted it out as loud as they could, Mr. Okamatsu’s pretty birdsong against Sam’s bludgeoning drone. The crowd loved it. Mr. Okamatsu turned to Sam, relinquished his grip and gave him a satisfied nod before returning his attention to his audience. He thrust his left arm into the air for the repeat of the chorus and, all of a sudden, it wasn’t just Sam and Okamatsu singing but everyone in the room.

  Everyone was so happy, happy that Christmas was coming, happy that things were looking up. The atmosphere was something wonderful and as Sam watched a drunken man wobble across the dance floor, pointing toward one of his female colleagues, he thought of Sarah, and of the trip.

  At last the song came to an end. Sam was dripping with sweat and physically shaking with adrenaline, but the place erupted. And he knew that, if this were a film, the scene would freeze-frame now, Okamatsu and Sam jubilant in triumph, the credits would roll and the lights would come up. But, of course, Sam knew this wasn’t the end of his story.

  THE PHANTASM #009

  In the Presents of Goodness

  Christmastime. Mistletoe and wine. The present. Night. A church.

  The Black Phantom coasts through the graveyard, lights killed, night-vision goggles guiding the dark defender between the headstones. He parks up out back. The sound of carols emanates from the old building, the stained-glass windows emit colorful light. He knows the concert is on, which means there will be people at the church. He will leave the presents at the side entrance toward the rear, a vestry door, and then leave a series of chalk arrows drawn in the concrete to lead the congregation to them after the service.

  He pops the boot. The Black Phantom is completely stuffed full of large boxes. He removes the first package and places it quietly on the step outside the door. The singing is wonderful. The hero stands and listens for a moment.

  “I know you.”

  “Aaargh!”

  He places his hand on his heart. The vicar is standing in the light spilling from one of the windows. She is female. She has short hair and glasses and is smiling as she approaches him.

  “I come bearing gifts,” the hero says.

  “I read about you in the paper.”

  “That wasn’t me.”

  Another step forward. “Can’t be too many superheroes around here.”

  He is silent.

  The vicar spies the Black Phantom full to the brim with presents. “This is far too generous,” she says.

  “I give what I can.”

  She smiles and her serenity is contagious. “Thank you,” she says.

  He unloads the vehicle while the priest opens the door to the vestry and takes the gifts
into the warm. The sound of singing is louder now. It is children. A children’s choir singing “The Holly and the Ivy.” He deposits the last box and brings himself upright. And is standing face-to-face with the priest.

  “Come inside,” she says.

  He shakes his head.

  “Just in here. Nobody has to see you. You’ve given us all this, the least you can do is come in to hear a song and have a mince pie.”

  Well, one mince pie won’t hurt. Inside it is warmer. She hands him a plate and with his gloved hand he takes a pie. Beyond the door into the church, which is open a crack, he can see the congregation watching the line of children. They are singing “Silent Night” now, and even this serious man must admit it is lovely.

  “This is very kind of you,” she says, over his shoulder. “You know, we have children from Syria in there.”

  The hero’s head shifts toward her a fraction.

  “The council have accepted fifty refugees. But they won’t tell the media because they’re afraid of the backlash. Isn’t that awful? Just fifty people. And the public will be angry. Two of the kids are orphans.”

  He closes his eyes. “Will you make sure they get a present?” he says.

  Her hand falls on his shoulder. “Of course.”

  “I mean, I know Muslims don’t celebrate Christmas, but—”

  “Jesus was an important prophet of Islam. They can have a present.”

  The Phantasm nods and takes a long, deep breath. “I must go now.” In the cramped space the avenger of the night shuffles awkwardly past the vicar. “You won’t tell anyone I did this, will you?”

  “Why don’t you want people to know?”

  He considers this for a moment but has no real answer.

  “You know,” she says, and he turns just as he’s ducking under the archway of the door, “you’re always welcome here. With or without the mask.”

  She smiles a smile that rushes through him like a wind. It’s strong enough to take his breath away as he closes the door gently and allows the night to wrap itself around him.