Life in the Land

by Rebecca Cohen

  Bobby held the seed tight, buried in his fist. The seed trembled in his grasp as he fed it with a touch of the powers growing stronger inside him. Uncurling his fingers, a fresh young shoot wiggled out from the seed husk. Hearing Mike gasp, Bobby stroked it carefully, and it grew again, the seed giving birth to the start of a new flower. With a little more encouragement, the beginnings of a stalk wobbled precariously into view. It elongated in fits and starts and pushed out gangly, white roots from the bottom and arrow-headed leaves from the side. Bobby laughed with joy as the yellow head emerged. Initially encased in green, it sprang open to reveal a vibrant flower, each petal perfect in every way.

  The tiny plant sat in his hand, and Bobby beamed at his creation. He held it up to Mike, who stroked one of the petals with a long finger and said, “Wow.”

  Bobby placed the little flower down next to the roots of the oak tree and planted it securely, making sure the dandelion remained undamaged.

  “You’re amazing,” said Mike in awe. “I knew you were special, but this….”

  “It was you—I’m sure of it.”

  Mike looked confused. “What do you mean?”

  Bobby kissed him again. “You being here. I couldn’t have done this without you. Mike, I—”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  Bobby cupped Mike’s cheek. “Don’t you get it? I’ve been up here day after day for weeks. Then, you come up here with me, and you didn’t punch me when I kissed you—”

  “Why would I punch you? I’ve been hinting forever that I liked you…. I thought you weren’t interested in me that way.”

  “I didn’t realize.” Bobby smiled. “Months, Mike. I’ve been feeling like I’ve wanted to kiss you for months.”

  “You idiot,” said Mike, more fond than annoyed. “How could you not know?”

  Bobby toppled backward as Mike leaned against him, and he found himself underneath his smirking friend. “I still think you’re mad if you think I’m responsible for this,” said Mike, “but if you think I deserve a reward, I won’t argue.”

  Another kiss, and this time, Bobby slid his hand under Mike’s T-shirt and stroked the warm skin he found. “Now that’s more like it,” said Mike, cheeks flushed once more.

  No matter how good it felt to have Mike so close, Bobby knew he needed to get home. “I need to tell my dad. He’s been waiting for today for as long as I have.”

  Mike groaned but rolled off. He helped Bobby to his feet. “Here’s probably not the best place to do this anyway—imagine if we got caught kissing by one of my brothers?”

  As he stood, hand in hand with Mike, Bobby stared across the fields to the farmhouse, and swore he could hear the disgruntled moaning of the cabbages and the chattering of excited carrots. Even with the overcast weather, the farm looked bright and alive, filled with nature in all its glory. Every story his dad had told him raced through his mind, stories that, until now, had been nothing more than the abstract ideas of long-dead men and women, of impenetrable myths and legends. But now, as the energy of the land charged through him, Bobby could appreciate the legacy his family held.

  “Come on, we’d better go.”

  “Promise to come over to mine later?” asked Mike. “Maybe we can work out just what you’ll need me to do as your sidekick.”

  “Definitely!”

  They set off down the field toward the farmhouse. Bobby could only guess how he would use his powers in the future, but for now, he would be happy if all they ever did was keep the happy smile on Mike’s face.

  Part Two: Away From the Land

  THE alarm clock’s insistent ringing couldn’t be ignored, and Robert flailed out an arm from under his duvet and silenced it with a barely aimed hit. Groaning, he dragged himself from the warmth of his bed and, shedding his pajama bottoms as he went, padded out of his bedroom and into the bathroom. His vision still bleary from his interrupted deep-sleep cycle, Robert fumbled with the sliding door of the shower and then swore loudly as he caught his toe on the shower’s tray while turning on the spray. Not the best start to the day.

  Dressed in the black trousers and luminous orange T-shirt that was the garden center’s uniform, Robert made himself a cup of coffee, although he had to do without milk since what remained in the carton was well on its way to becoming yogurt. And the mold on the bread made his decision to skip breakfast all too easy. His journey to work passing in its usual haze of anonymous faces on the bus, Robert rested his head against the window but was careful not to close his eyes in case he nodded off to sleep and found himself at the end of the route. Last time that had happened, he’d received a warning from his manager, and she’d made it pretty clear that it wouldn’t take much more for her to give him his final marching orders. While the job was hardly the best in the city, it was the best he could hope for with only a handful of qualifications from school—none of them particularly impressive—and a performance record that didn’t have prospective employers vying for his talents.

  The day was overcast, not dark enough to threaten rain but dense enough to spread a blanket of dullness across the day. Robert stared up at the gray sky as he got off the bus, and if he believed in the sentimental claptrap spouted by bad poets, he would have said it mirrored his mood beautifully. He walked around to the staff entrance of the garden center and punched in the code on the keypad to the left of a gate, waiting for the click of the lock before he pushed open the gate and entered the corridor to the staff-only area.

  Robert nodded in the direction of Clive, a spindly teen with unfortunate acne who wore an expression that said the coffee he was gulping would not help how he felt but it was his best shot. He trudged past, stopping only to clock-in and check the schedule. Seeing he was assigned to restocking the greenhouses and getting the new delivery ready to display, he decided against a trip to his locker to dump his jacket, preferring to keep it with him.

  The warehouse operated on a different shift schedule than the main store, so while Robert was just starting the day, others had been there for several hours, getting ready for the store to open. He nodded in the direction of two men heading out for a cigarette break, whose fat, short statures always reminded him of Tweedledee and Tweedledum.

  “Just left you a pallet,” said Trev, who was midway through rolling a cigarette.

  “What are they?”

  Trev shrugged. “Flowers.”

  Robert thanked him and managed not to roll his eyes as they walked away. He’d been disappointed, but had learned pretty quickly, that most people weren’t as interested in plants as he was.

  A pallet of sorry-looking petunias was waiting for him. He grabbed the handle of the low loader connected to the pallet and dragged the flowers out of the warehouse and toward the glass-ceilinged annex of the garden center where the majority of the outdoor plants were kept. Stopping in the preparation area, which was nothing more than a small room with a deep sink and a number of hoses and a wooden bench, he ran his fingers over a flower. Its drooping petals made for a sad picture and one not likely to entice anyone to buy it. His inner powers stirred slightly, and he sensed the dryness of the petunia, as if the poor thing was desperate for a drink.

  He buried his fingers in the dry soil, which crumbled as he delved into it. Apart from the lack of moisture, the soil was rich; he sensed the nitrates and phosphates and the goodness in the mulch that just needed some water as a carrier. Robert tutted as he withdrew his fingers, wiping his hand on his trousers. It was nothing that couldn’t be fixed, and he grabbed a hose and set the adapter to spray before pulling the trigger and watering the petunias. He heard their tiny sighs of pleasure and grinned as the flowers trembled happily.

  Satisfied, Robert dragged the pallet into the main annex, where more of his colleagues were stacking shelves with compost bags and refilling the seed stands; he knew they weren’t hearing the welcome calls from the plants on display. A cluster of dwarf cherry trees wolf-whistled as he passed and the azaleas wished him a good morning with a friendly wave of
their leaves. The scene was repeated by the other plants in the annex as he walked to the empty row of shelves where he would display the petunias. Robert smiled to himself at the warmth of the welcome; it never grew old, even though it happened every time he showed up for work, and the plants’ response to his presence made up for the minimum wage.

  His shift flew by in a mix of plant maintenance and customer queries, including a confused woman who clearly couldn’t tell a rose from a geranium. He sent her away with a number of plants he thought would thrive in her mother’s hands, given a limited description of her mother’s garden and her green-fingered talents. Thankfully, his mobile phone stayed silent until he was in the locker room preparing to go home.

  The ringtone was assigned specially—no need to check who was calling.

  “Yes?” he answered.

  “Suspected bank robbery at the Barclays on Meriwent Road.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  STEVEN placed the bottle of beer in front of him. “There you go, Bobby.”

  “Robert,” he automatically corrected, leaning around his uncle to see the TV screen in the corner of the bar. He winced as he watched the shot on goal go wide.

  “How’s things going at the garden center? Still wearing that horrible orange T-shirt that makes you look bilious?”

  Robert sighed. His uncle was always like this, even on days after a mission. It was as if he needed to talk about the mundane aspects of daily life, ignoring the incredible and the impossible, and focusing on the little boring bits that made up the lives of normal people.

  “Another dreary Wednesday,” he said, giving up on the idea of watching the rest of the game and turning to talk to Steven. “I even managed to persuade the gladioli to save their budding for the weekend when we have more customers.”

  “Good lad. You will let me know when you get the new lot of dahlias in? Your auntie wants some for a friend’s back terrace.”

  His two cousins arrived, and as usual, they were in the middle of a squabble. The taller of the two was sporting blue hair and looked angry, while his younger brother was smirking, and Robert saw traces of blue dye under his fingernails.

  “Bloody hell, Gavin, what have you done to your hair?” said Steven in horror, spotting his oldest son.

  “Ask Git Zit here. He laced my new shampoo with hair dye.”

  Robert laughed and tried to hide it behind his beer bottle, but his uncle was not impressed. “Jesus, Stuart, you’re worse than the twins!”

  “Hey, that’s not fair,” said Stuart, affronted. “At least it wasn’t puce.”

  Steven scowled. “You’re not twelve anymore. Time to start acting your age.”

  Stuart and Gavin took seats at the table, beer bottles already in hand. “I can’t believe I spent most of the afternoon giving a police statement,” said Gavin, helping himself to the nuts Robert had bought earlier. “You’d have thought that by now the cops would take ‘I have superpowers’ as a legitimate response to how I stopped a bank robber.”

  “It’s not like we’re in the States, Gav,” said Robert with a shrug. “The British police are still getting used to the idea that the comic books were right.”

  “I blame that twat, the Green Furnace, for his viral YouTube video. If he hadn’t filmed himself torching that van, I doubt we’d get half the shite we do.”

  “The important thing was we stopped the robbery and none of us were hurt,” said Steven, raising his bottle for a toast, and then the three other men clinked bottles. “And that brings me to what I want to talk to you all about.”

  Gavin looked confused. “Something wrong, Dad?”

  “I know we’ve talked about this before, and you’ve all been dead set against it, but it’s time for me to take a step back.”

  “Is this about what happened with the guard?” asked Robert. “Because none of us could’ve known he was in on the job. He’d have got the drop of any of us.”

  “It’s good of you to say, Bobby, but you know that ain’t true.”

  Gavin and Stuart rushed to disagree, but their dad wasn’t having any of it. “I’m sorry, boys, but my mind’s made up. One last mission, and I’m hanging up my cape for good.”

  “You retiring? What you gonna do, spend days watching daytime telly and gardening? I’m telling you, Dad, you ain’t made for sitting on your arse.”

  “No, I’m going to go and help Bobby’s dad with the farm. Since John’s spent his life making sure we’ve a home to go to, seems only fair that I lend a hand now we’re both getting on a bit.”

  “You’ve spoken to my dad about this?” asked Robert, surprised. He’d suspected his uncle had been thinking about quitting, but he didn’t think Steven had actually started making plans. Maybe he just hadn’t wanted to believe Steven would really walk away from them. They worked well as a unit, but it was more than that. Having his uncle and his cousins by his side had made it easier when he’d left the farm, given him an anchor when he’d most needed it, when he’d doubted himself and the decisions he’d made. And on days when a rescue didn’t go exactly to plan, he still needed them.

  “Yeah, spoke to him last night,” said Steven. “He called to tell us about one of the neighbor’s farms being put up for sale, and wondered if we should consider an offer.”

  Robert nearly knocked his beer bottle over. “Which neighbor?”

  “The Flints—the ones to the west.”

  The mention of Mike’s family caused a bubble of bile to burn in Robert’s chest, and he knew there was no way he could blame it on the beer. “Dad didn’t mention they were having trouble last time I phoned home.”

  “And when was that?” asked Steven.

  Robert shrugged. “It’s been a couple of months,” he admitted.

  “Yeah, well, it’s only been a week since Flinty spoke to your dad—he’s not what you’d call a gregarious bloke.”

  The thought of Mike brought back a slew of memories he refused to dwell over, and stamping down on the rush of regret, he drained his bottle and stood up. “Sorry, I gotta go. Said I’d meet a friend.”

  Robert grabbed his coat and headed out of the bar, not giving his family the chance to question him. He emerged into the city, the streets comprising of rows of bars and takeaway places. It was already dark, and when he checked his watch, he realized it was nearly eleven. Given the time, Robert knew exactly where he wanted to go. He wanted to lose himself for a few hours, to clear his head both from thoughts of rescues and the memories that had left him feeling more unsettled than expected.

  Heading off the high street, he took the next left, and was shoulder barged out of the way by a teenager in a hoodie, who grunted an insincere apology without looking back. Robert was glad he’d grown into his tall frame and was no longer the beanpole his dad used to call him. The kid would’ve probably sent the old Bobby flying before giving him a mouthful for getting in the way and having the gall to share the same pavement.

  The neon lights of Club Nirvana beckoned, its garish orange sign reflecting across the wet pavement and making the front of the club glow in an almost unworldly manner. Being a Thursday night and relatively early for the hard-core clubbers, it wasn’t a surprise to see there was no queue at the door, which would’ve been unheard of on a Saturday night.

  He hurried across the road after a cursory glance to check for traffic and bounded up the steps to the club. At the payment window, he flashed his membership card and handed over a five-pound note to Lulu, a green-haired drag queen with electric-blue lips and more mascara than a Max Factor counter.

  Lulu grinned when she spotted Robert. “Roberto, my sweet,” he said in a voice ravaged by cigarettes. “Not like you to visit us on a school night.”

  “It’s been a long day.”

  “I get you, hun. Some days need vodka and pretty boys in hot pants.”

  Robert laughed and accepted the change Lulu handed him. “Bring ’em on.”

  He headed into the club, Lulu’s filthy cackle drowned out by the blare
of music as he climbed the stairs to the main room. Robert figured the rest of the city must’ve been in the same reflective mood, as the club was much busier than he had expected it to be. The dance floor had a respectable number of men grinding and swaying along with the heavy bass. He caught the barman’s eye and bought a beer, avoiding the temptation of the cheap and lurid cocktails. He found a spot by the wall with a view of the dance floor and the entrance, an ideal vantage point to identify a likely companion for a spot of mutual stress relief. The club was gearing up for a weekend of themed events, already partly decorated in readiness for the “Ride ’Em Cowboy” Friday night special, although there were a few too many Stetsons about for Robert’s taste.

  There were at least three young men who matched his usual type on the dance floor and another leaning against the bar on his own. The man at the bar had a compact build, not overly muscular but with an allusion to strength, and his dirty blond hair fell over his eyes, which, if Robert were really lucky, would turn out to be blue. Robert didn’t dare dwell on the reason for his particular taste in men; he didn’t want to overthink things tonight, wanting instead anonymity and an easy path to forgetfulness.

  Robert pushed himself off the wall, and with a lazy saunter, made his way over to the bar. The blond watched him approach, his head cocked to one side and his expression switched from curious to interested when he realized Robert was heading in his direction.

  “Can I buy you a drink?” asked Robert. He leaned closer to be heard over the music and catch a whiff of an earthy cologne that delighted his senses.

  “I’ll have a beer,” he replied, holding up the nearly empty bottle he had in his hand.

  Robert ordered the drinks at the bar, receiving two bottles, his change, and a knowing smirk from the barman.

  “The name’s Robert. You?”

  “Ian,” he replied, accepting one of the bottles and saluting Robert before taking a drink. “Y’know, I’m not one for small talk, and you don’t strike me as Mr. Happy Ever After.”