The HUM: The complete novel

by Michael Christopher Carter

  There was a lengthy pause while the phone was left off the hook. Carys was sure she’d be told he wasn’t in. Or perhaps they were arguing over what she could possibly want. Getting their stories straight.

  After an inordinate length of time, Stephen finally answered. “Hello?” his voice, quieter, more timid than she remembered.

  “Stephen. This is Carys Ellis.” She knew he already knew but was keeping business-like and matter-of-fact. “I won’t bother with ‘How are you,’ because I don’t particularly care. I’m phoning out of common courtesy to inform you that you are going to be a father. I’m six weeks pregnant.”

  The announcement was greeted by complete silence. Carys had to prompt him for a response. “Did you hear me?”

  “I can’t be,” he stated calmly. “Nothing happened. Don’t you remember?” It was Carys’s turn to be stunned into silence. “Look. I am truly sorry for my behaviour. I thought you liked me. Every other girl does. I was frustrated. I thought you were ...” he was going to say something more accusatory but opted for, “playing hard to get.”

  Carys didn’t say anything, but something in the manner of her silence assured Stephen she was still listening. He continued.

  “You don’t remember, do you? It’s taken a while for things to come back to me, and I don’t remember everything. But some things are crystal clear. Believe me.” Carys was in a whirl. Stephen’s calm tone had the resonance of truth about it, but how could that be? If she believed him, where did that leave her?

  “Like I’ve said,” he persisted, “I deeply apologise for how I behaved, but nothing happened that could cause you to be pregnant. I promise. Nothing.” His tone changed to incredulity.

  “You must remember the bright light? And those… those things?” Carys could hear the judder in his voice. “I couldn’t have done anything with you then, even if you’d begged me to!”

  Carys didn’t remember. She couldn’t. But what Stephen had said chilled her to her core. If Stephen wasn’t her baby’s father, who was?

  A nausea like she’d never known hit her like a punch from a heavyweight. She couldn’t speak. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came. It didn’t matter; she had nothing to say.

  Replacing the handset with a slow deliberation, the silence was filled by the pound, pound, pound of her racing heart. A wail fell from her lips as she jerked round in her seat, eyes darting, searching for a hiding place; anywhere to get away from where her thoughts were taking her.

  She knew. She had known all along. The baby wasn’t Stephen’s. It was theirs.

  Clutching her tummy, desperate to protect the burgeoning life within her, she scrabbled up the stairs, steadying herself with her upper arm against the wall when her peculiar posture almost caused her to fall.

  Bolting the bathroom door behind her, she slumped on the floor, the cold tiles sending a shiver through her.

  “What are you running from, Carys?” she taunted herself. “You know you can’t run from them. They’ll take the baby. It’s not your baby any more than it’s Stephen’s; and they’ll take it away. You won’t be allowed to keep it. It’s Rosemary’s baby: like the film.”

  “But I want it!” she shrieked. “So, so much. I love him already. He’s been with me for weeks, and I know I only just confirmed it, but, deep down, I knew. I’m sure I knew…” She broke into silent sobs, snot caking her nose and mouth, deformed by the red swelling of her grief.

  “Please don’t take my baby… Please don’t take my baby…,” she begged. And then, as though on cue, the noise she dreaded; the noise which always proceeded terrible things happening in her life echoed through her head.

  Her face shot up, eyes piercing every corner of the room, daring them to appear with a wounding intensity.

  “Go AWAY!” she screamed, tears streaking her horror bloated face. “Go away. Please, please, go away…,” she begged. But the hum continued, resonating from everywhere and nowhere as it always did; reverberating in the chamber of terror in Carys’s head, destroying any other thought.

  Clutching her knees to her chest, Carys checked out, rocking back and fore… back and fore… back and fore.

  The humming endured.

  Chapter Twenty

  Sinking in

  A sudden nausea forced her back onto her feet. Throwing the loo seat up and catching it before it bounced back closed again, she could hold back the surge of bile no longer.

  In-between retching torrents, gushing to form spectacular kaleidoscopes of stomach debris adorning the sides of the bowl, missing the small pool of water which might have eliminated some of the odour, she detected a gentle rapping at the bathroom door.

  The sound from the real world immediately banished the hum to the annals of her mind. Carys shook her head. She was cracking up.

  “You okay in there?” to which Carys’s only answer was another bout of violent vomiting.

  “I used to be sick every morning when I was carrying you,” her mother’s slightly concerned, amused voice came muffled through the wood. “It might mean you’re having a girl as well!”

  A girl what though?

  The unforgettable scene from the eighties' series ‘V’ assaulted Carys’s thoughts: where a baby is conceived with questionable terrestrial parentage. Born, and plonked—still umbilically attached—onto its mother’s chest; she sighs with relief at its apparent normality. But then a forked tongue slithers from its mouth, its face contorting into a demonic demeanour, denoting its part-alien status!

  The memory of the cheesy film was amusing, in strict contrast to her current situation which was not amusing at all. It was preposterous. Could she seriously be considering the baby inside her might not be human?

  There had to be an alternative. The figures surrounding Stephen’s car; why was she assuming they were Extra-Terrestrial? Wasn’t it far more likely they were normal, everyday people? Just because the farmers who owned the field denied being there, didn’t make it true. Especially if they had something to hide: like one of them had beaten Stephen and raped her!

  But she knew, even as the thought grew solid in her mind, that she didn’t believe it. Stephen wouldn’t have called them ‘those figures’ if they’d simply been some other boys. He’d been clearly terrified.

  Another viable alternative that failed to gain a foothold on her psyche was that Stephen may be lying. She was certain her parents would think so… well, maybe her mum might believe it. Carys gulped, memories from her childhood swirling in her mind, ripping at her resolve for calm as surely as a tornado.

  She knew. He was telling the truth.

  Dying down in the face of acceptance, the horrific hurricane of the realisation eased. What should she do now? Could she leave the alien embryo to develop into god knows what? Would it not be the best thing to arrange a termination?

  More bile found its way to the back of her throat and she struggled to swallow it down. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t kill her baby.

  She’d not be the first. Other hybrid children surely roamed the world. There must be a purpose to their interference. It made no sense to Carys that she would be the only one; chosen out of all the millions and billions of women on the planet, now and throughout history. No. there had to be others. And if that were so, her child would look normal enough to not arouse suspicion, or…

  Just when she thought she had a handle on it, she came out of the eye of the storm, straight back into the tumult of terror once again.

  What if she couldn’t keep it? What if she was just a surrogate? An incubator for them; until they could harvest her baby as mercilessly as a farmer culling a cow? Could that be the cause of many miscarriages? Maybe her own mother’s miscarriages had been caused by exactly the same reason.

  Carys slumped, flinching against the chill of hard porcelain, convinced she was the latest in a long line of mothers destined to provide safe gestation for an alien race until her fruit had ripened for picking. No wonder the hum so terrified her mother.

  A cold l
ump of sick sat in her throat, blocking the scream of anguished frustration which threatened to explode from the depths of her despair. Gazing down at her unchanged stomach, fear of what was there, and of what was to come, jittered in her chest making her giddy. She wanted her baby. She wanted to be a mother. Would that even happen, or could she be forced to relinquish an unrecognisable foetus? Would she even realise when it happened?

  Talking to the one person who might know: her mother, was impossible. She’d never broken her promise to her father to keep her secret. Diane was more stable and happy since their move to Narberth than during any time in Carys’s life so far. She couldn’t risk ruining that; and for what?

  Her mum could offer no useful advice, could she? It wasn’t as though she had come through her own experiences unscathed. She may be the very last person she should talk to. Her dad wasn’t well enough to bother either. She was on her own, like always.

  There was another knock. “Are you feeling any better?” the high pitch of her mum’s concern wafted in. No, she definitely was not. Sighing a deep sigh, she made a reluctant grasp for the bolt and opened the door.

  Diane took her quiet demeanour and pale complexion as evidence of her morning sickness. She rubbed her arm reassuringly and accompanied her downstairs where Stella stood waiting, bag packed at her feet.

  “I thought I wouldn’t see you again before catching my train!” Stella said, laughing. “I hope you won’t be sick for the entire pregnancy,” she declared earnestly, regretting the humour when she saw the look on Carys’s face. She wasted her breath with her reassurances that every pregnancy is different.

  Morning sickness could be the least of Carys’s concerns. But it was the perfect excuse to lie low. Feeling terrible was just the smoke screen she needed.

  Having used her sickness as a defence for returning to bed, Carys saw no-one until dinner time. Geraint was home from work, and Diane had provided a hearty meal of traditional Welsh Cawl.

  The non-availability of ready meals in the sleepy town’s convenience stores combined with a subconscious acceptance of encouragement from a bombardment of ‘Pembrokeshire Produce’ posters adorning every shop window to prompt her to learn to cook.

  After purchasing the latest books promising satisfaction for even novice chefs, she could now create a handful of signature dishes that weren’t half bad. Disaster remained only ever round the corner if any vital ingredient was missing, or something didn’t cook exactly to the recipe.

  Tonight, though, the only dampener was Carys’s miserable face. Geraint and Diane shared a few knowing looks before Geraint decided to venture into the troubled waters of his daughters distressed disposition.

  “I heard from Dan Paulo today,” he began. Carys’s ears pricked. “He was wondering if you were ready to book your baptism.”

  Carys balanced cheese on crusty bread. Scooping up some of the lamby broth, she stuffed it into her mouth as the cheese melted into the bread so she couldn’t possibly answer. Geraint continued without feedback. Years spent deciphering Diane helped him cope.

  “I suggested you might be feeling a bit delicate,” he continued. “I wasn’t sure it was possible to be baptised in your… er, condition,” he said, his cheeks reddening. “But he seemed to understand; catching on a little too quickly if you get my drift.” Geraint’s steadily increasing Welsh lilt floated on the air. “Does he know?”

  Carys finally left enough of a pause between mouthfuls to speak. “Yes. Sorry. I told him first. It just came out. He said it would be fine for me to be baptised whilst with child. I’m not sure if I’ll feel much like it any time soon though. I’ve been really sick today.” She glanced across at her mum for confirmation. Diane, pleased to be included, smiled her support.

  The next question made Carys splutter gravy onto the tablecloth. Geraint wanted more. He thought he knew it hadn’t gone well but had to ask about the call with Stephen Holmes. Recovering with another cough, she froze. She should have expected it. She should have prepared some sort of believable response.

  Just lying that Stephen had accepted the responsibility of impending fatherhood was impossible. They’d pressure him to be involved; to pay maintenance. Goodness knows what he might say in his defence. Lying could buy her time, but also more uncertainty. For her peace of mind, she had to face her dilemma head-on.

  “He denied any possibility it could be his,” Carys announced with a feeble fake tone of annoyance, tutting like he’d been caught littering or some other banal misdemeanour; not denying the serious charge of rape.

  Geraint stiffened with barely concealed rage. He wasn’t fond of people getting away with things. “He can’t just deny it!” he spluttered. “When the baby is born we’ll get DNA tests done and prove he’s the father.”

  Carys remained silent. It’s what she would have expected from him, but she didn’t know how to move on. Geraint was riled now. “Don’t you want him to pay his way?! He has to take responsibility! He raped you for Heaven’s sake! If he says he’s not the father, then who does he suggest is?!”

  He realised he was making assumptions about his daughter’s virtue. But surely, they were safe assumptions. After all, she never went anywhere. And she had been so certain herself of Stephen’s culpability. There’d never been any question of it up until today.

  It was too much for Carys. Shoving back her chair, she fled from the room. She heard her name being called as she rushed upstairs, but didn’t answer. Bounding up the stairs, batting tears from her eyes, she leapt to the sanctuary of her bedroom, struggling to refrain from slamming her door. She didn’t want to antagonise her father. She just needed to be alone.

  Desperate days passed with Carys spending most of her time in her bedroom. Whilst she hoped her isolation was being blamed on her feeling lousy, she hadn’t felt in the slightest bit nauseous. She just hadn’t wanted to talk about how she was feeling, in case she couldn’t help but betray her true worries about her unborn baby.

  She was afraid of appearing foolish and neurotic, but more of what would happen if she was believed. It wasn’t just them she had to fear. It wasn’t just them who would take her baby away; he’d be wrenched from her and subjected to merciless testing if anyone in authority suspected what she herself believed.

  She had only known about her baby for a short while; perhaps it wouldn’t be so distressing if she couldn’t keep it? Would she even want it if it was alien in some way? Despite grave misgivings, she knew she would.

  Her parents loved her, but they had to, didn’t they? Yet, her peers, and most conspicuously, peers of the opposite sex, had never embraced her. But her baby would love her. She would feel complete as never before. She definitely wanted, no, needed her baby, no matter what.

  Remaining in her room, sleeping erratically day and night, she failed to notice how much sleep she was indulging in. With eighteen years’ experience of her mother’s descent to mental illness, perhaps the signs should have been clear. She should have known what was happening, but her own clinical depression was creeping up on her unnoticed.

  Unnoticed, that is, by herself. Not by her doting parents. They were both acutely aware of the signs. Conscious of Carys’s dark view of the world and how people treat her, they’d long concluded she must have something of a persecution complex. How could anyone not adore their delightful, charming child?

  Carys put their kindness down to parental bias. They had hoped their concerns were unfounded and that Carys’s introverted nature was nothing more than that. But Diane saw too much of herself at the same age to not worry.

  Since she’d announced her pregnancy, their monitoring of their daughters mood had amplified. Diane had suffered terribly in her pregnancies. It seemed anybody could, and that Carys was certainly pre-disposed to it. They had taken action and Carys was about to learn what that action was.

  Lying on her bed, staring into space, she became vaguely aware of some unusual exuberance downstairs. Remaining detached, she considered there must be a visitor. As anxie
ty bubbled to the surface, it burst harmlessly into a smile of satisfaction that she was safe from unwanted social graces in her room.

  Her ears pricked alarmingly to the thud of footsteps ascending the staircase. Surely it was just her mum or dad, but there was something in the sound that was unfamiliar. She became more and more certain the footsteps assailing her ears, step after step after step were unknown. It must be the visitor!

  Why would her parents do that to her? They knew she wasn’t feeling well. They must be aware of her fragile state of mind. Why would they upset her this way?

  Detecting the last creak of the stairs, it was most likely whoever owned the feet pounding Carys’s heart in her chest, would turn left. That would mean they’d come upstairs to use the bathroom. Perhaps the downstairs toilet was occupied, or had a plumbing problem, or something.

  Carys wouldn’t know. She’d been ensconced in her room for days. Downstairs had been a night-time domain she would visit to snack when she was certain Geraint and Diane were sleeping.

  Her ears almost hurt with the strain of listening. Her hand shot to her mouth and she bit hard on her fist to control a cry desperate to escape the prison of her emotion. The footsteps did not turn left as she expected, but instead, turned right - towards her own room!

  Surely the visitor wouldn’t call on her? Diane and Geraint couldn’t possibly have sent someone up to see her! They wouldn’t know if she was decent or not. They certainly wouldn’t know if it wasn’t absolutely the worst thing they could do to her. She knew that she couldn’t cope with a visitor and they must know too. Unless…

  The visitor wasn’t invited! The raucous behaviour she had heard might not have been as jovial as she’d assumed. And then she imagined the worst possible visitor. The one she feared most of all.

  She worked herself into a frenzy, so that when there was a gentle rapping on the door, she was certain an alien was about to enter the room and perform some extra-terrestrial anti-natal procedure.