by Lavie Tidhar
Browning, if it is possible, stands even more erect than before. The Old Man turns to the other, younger man.
– This is Dr Alan Turing, he says. He is here in an advisory capacity.
– Hello, Turing says, shyly.
– I expect you to listen to these two men, the Old Man says. They are here to help you. They are here to make something out of you.
The Old Man surveys Fogg and the others. Says, Each of you has something unique. A quality. And you have a unique opportunity. To serve king and country. You should be proud.
The giant shuffles his feet. Fogg himself needs to go to the bathroom. Still, the words are real. They remain with you. To serve. To be something. Each of you unique. Every boy’s secret dream.
27. KINGSTON UPON THAMES 1926
Henry, in hiding. Their house has an attic, the wind blows cold through the oak beams, the floorboards creak when the boy steps on them. A trunk in the attic, old books with the musty smell of age on them, foxed pages, water stains. Jim on Treasure Island, Huck Finn on the Mississippi River. Henry Fogg, a blanket around his bony shoulders, a paraffin lamp casting curious shadows over the slanting walls, reading. In the words he’s free, on the page he can be anything.
A hero.
What makes a hero? the young boy asks. But answering is easy. A hero stands up to injustice. A hero triumphs over odds. A hero fights pirates, sails a raft down a volatile waterway, a hero is a boy and a boy is a hero, good triumphing over bad.
Downstairs he can hear them fighting, screaming at each other. Father drunkenly threatens to stab the bitch through the heart with a knife. The sound of pots crashing to the floor. A scream. A hole in the floorboards, he can put his eye to it and look down, look at them, but he doesn’t want to, he huddles closer to the wall, the book like a screen before his eyes. Closes his ears with his fingers, hums, rocks in place, in his mind he is free, flying, he has special powers, he is strong, super-strong, stronger than his father without lifting weights or barrels or crates of vegetables, he can push a wall down with a press of his fingers, he can leap tall obstacles, his mother cries with gratitude as he lifts his father up, effortlessly, tosses him aside, carries his mother in his arms and takes flight, into the clouds, into bright sunshine, and his mother says, Henry, you are the best boy in the world, I never knew you had this power and he says, I always knew but it’s a secret, no one must ever know.
With the Three Musketeers in Paris, Henry Fogg with a blade in hand, fighting the Cardinal’s men, his comrades beside him, he has friends, All for one and one for all! The villainous Comte de Rochefort strangely resembles his father, downstairs his mother screams, Put that away! I’ll call the constables! Another crash, a table toppling over, his sister screaming, but Fogg with a whisper of blade disarms the Comte de Rochefort, On your knees, he tells him, and the villain obliges, Please, do not hurt me, I will never raise my hand against you and yours again, Fogg, magnanimous, You must depart hence, toad, downstairs the fighting stops, his father’s voice, Oh, Gertrude, what have I done, doll, I’m so sorry, the sound of his mother crying, Get away from me you drunken lout, Gertrude, Gertrude, the sound of two bodies close together, Fogg hums louder, closes his eyes shut tight, despatches the Comte de Rochefort with a hiss of his blade, runs, alongside Parisian rooftops, leaps high into the air, sword in hand, flies, nothing can get him, flies to Neverland, fairy dust in the air, Wendy calls to him, Peter, she says, Peter! He lands on the deck of the ship, Hook turns with a grimace, his features strangely like Henry’s father, but he has a hook for a hand, it flashes at Henry, he meets it with his sword.
– Henry, his mother calls from below, what are you doing up there, get down here now! He pretends no one can see him, he is like Griffin, he has the refractive index of air, he is invisible, he can walk through a crowd, pass like the wind, none can see him, but he can see them. He breaks into a bank, opens the safe, guards rush in but they can’t see him, he disarms them and takes off with the loot, he can be anything, do anything, he has special powers, he is special, special, Henry Fogg come down here this moment!
28. KINGSTON UPON THAMES 1932
Standing by the train tracks in his special hiding place, the train from London journeys towards him and the air ripples, a wave of something he can’t describe hits him and time slows, the world seems frozen, he can see each leaf on the trees, the movement of a worm under an upturned rock, small white blind thing burrowing into the earth, can smell each individual smell of fresh earth and rain and steam and oil and pupa, his hands raised as if he’s dancing, fog clings like fur to his arms, when it comes it is not at all what he expects, it is what he dreamed of but never believed and, now that it’s here, he is scared.
What makes a hero? the boy Fogg thinks. Time resumes, the train speeds past, deeper into Surrey, the people inside stare out of windows like eyes, did they feel it too, what has happened, what is happening? He raises his hand and the fog follows it like a dog, he lowers his hand and opens his palm and the fog spreads outwards, forms a shape in the air, seems to nod. Scared, Henry runs away. Runs for home. His feet leave muddy imprints on the bank. A trail for anyone to follow. The fog follows. He can’t escape. It follows him to the house, to the attic, it crouches besides him and at last, exhausted, he wraps it around himself like a sheet.
29. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
– To serve, the Old Man says. Nods to himself. Says, I leave you in most capable hands. I trust in you. Don’t let me down.
Walks towards the parked Rolls-Royce. His driver, Samuel, materialises by his side. Opens the door for him. The Old Man gets in the car. What has Samuel got? How can he appear like this, as though from nowhere? Never speaks. One of the changed, too, Fogg realises, with some surprise. Samuel gets into the driver’s seat and starts the engine. The imposing black car pulls out, follows the path to the gate. Fogg looks after it. They all do. Their last link to the world beyond the fences of the Farm, it passes through the gate, which closes, climbs up the hill, goes around the bend and is gone.
– Atten … tion! Sergeant Browning says.
They all turn back. Look at him, the sergeant examines their faces, one by one. His face is darkly tanned, it is lined, Fogg instinctively thinks: He is not one of them.
Neither is Turing, standing beside him. A kid, looks like he belongs in a lab, a library, anywhere but here on this Devon farm, facing Fogg and the other changed.
– We will make something of you yet, Browning says. Paces slowly, hands behind his back. Walks past them again. Says, Show me what you can do.
30. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
The dormitory building is long, divided into boys’ and girls’ quarters, and different rooms for the different classes. It is cold inside. From the outside it is a low white stone house, with ivy growing over the cracks. Inside there are bunkbeds and shower cubicles, a row of clean white sinks, a row of sturdy wardrobes. Fogg shares a room with Tank and Mr Blur and a couple of the others. We know. We see. Mrs Tinkle sticks her head through the open door. Cooey! she calls.
– Hello, Mrs Tinkle, Mr Blur says.
Mr Blur is an achondroplastic dwarf. He has the head of a regular adult, a small body with short arms and legs. He is rather muscular and the blue shirt sits tight over his chest. He is busy shaving.
– So what do you do, big guy? he says, turning to Tank. It’s easy to see what Tank does, though. He’s a giant, and has the curious action of a very large person who tries to make himself seem smaller, without success. Tanks says, This, and plucks a steel bar from the windowsill, as if it were a twig of dried hay. Tank bends the steel bar, knotting it effortlessly, like the bow on a birthday gift.
– Name’s Tank, he says, shyly.
None of them have been properly introduced yet. Browning dismissed them. Turing led them to a medical lab where they were each measured and tested. Then they were sent to the dormitories to settle down. Dinner’s coming; they can smell cooking from the main building. Tank’s stomach keeps rumbling, loud bo
oming sounds as of the roiling sea. Mrs Tinkle, her head still through the door, making her look like a turtle, says, Big lad, aren’t you!
Tank, shyly: I wasn’t big before. The change made me big.
Tank looks at Mr Blur. Did the change make you small? he says.
– No, Mr Blur says. I was born small.
– So what do you do? Tank says.
– This, Mr Blur says.
Mr Blur … blurs. His features seem to distort, as if each molecule in his body is moving suddenly at exceptionally high speed. He seems to blink in and out of existence as the cloud of distortion shoots across the room, around Tank, returns before anyone’s had the time to even move. The shape settles again, distortion easing, and Mr Blur stands there, grinning, holding a locket in his hand.
– Call me Mr Blur, he says.
– Hey, that’s mine! Tank says.
Mr Blur smirks. What is it? he says. Girlfriend?
– Give it back! Tank says.
Mr Blur blurs. Disappears rapidly down the room. Tank chases with a roar, smashing things in his wake.
– Oh, dear, Mrs Tinkle says.
Her head disappears from the doorway. Fogg sighs, continues to fold his clothes over the neatly made bed. This wasn’t quite what he had hoped for.
31. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
Food is served in a common hall. Students, if that’s what they are, all these young men and women, serve the food from large metal trolleys that can be wheeled around. Everyone is in the common room. Fogg notices a very tall, pale man standing with a short, dark-haired girl. Both look in his direction for a moment, then look away. It’s just like school, Fogg thinks. The same uncomfortable, childish, spiteful environment, the same quest for who to sit with, choosing a table, the hidden undercurrents of popularity and rejection. But he’s not a child any more. None of them are. Fogg takes his tray and finds an empty table and sits down. Close to the window. A clear night outside. His fingers tense on the blunt knife, making a little bit of fog rise outside. Makes him feel better.
Has his schedule in front of him. Mimeographed, blue ink on thin rice paper. Digs into his food, without a huge appetite. Fish and chips and mushy peas. Heaps on a fork, puts in his mouth. Chews. According to the schedule he is to work in the kitchens as of tomorrow. The Farm is kept running by the students themselves. Others are on pots and pans, or dormitory cleaning, or working in the vegetable patch. Fogg didn’t know there was a vegetable patch. Sits alone. Likes it that way. A shadow falls on his tray. Fogg looks up to see the shy face of Tank. Mind if I join you?
Fogg shakes his head. Tank sits down opposite. Out of nowhere Mr Blur appears. Takes a seat next to Fogg, without being asked. Suddenly Fogg isn’t alone at the table any more.
A feeling he didn’t expect. The fog clears outside. He says, So you two sorted your differences out?
Feels lighter. Mr Blur grins. Just having a laugh, he says. Tank fingers the locket around his neck. Us new kids got to stick together, he says.
Fogg smiles through a mouthful of food.
32. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
The adults, for lack of a better word, have a table of their own. Browning, Turing, a couple of other young men in smocks, the gatehouse guard, a few other faces: the staff at the Farm seem to be equal parts military and scientific, with a few Devon women working as cooks and den mothers. It is a strange mix of summer camp and military training camp, Fogg thinks, watching them. A fresh-faced girl at a nearby table throws her water in a companion’s face, following a remark Fogg didn’t catch. The water flies in a curved line but does not hit the other girl. The water squishes together into a ball, in mid-air, it seems to shimmer like a cut diamond, then shoots up and explodes like fireworks, spraying water over the other diners, who shout out. The girl laughs. Browning glares disapprovingly from his own table but says nothing. The Farm, Fogg thinks. It is a place in which the laws of what is real seem suspended, for just a moment. It was beautiful in the daytime, the bright primary colours of blue sky and yellow sun and green grass and white stone. At night it is more of a chiaroscuro, the play of light and shade. The colours leach out of the day when night settles. The air feels colder, though inside it is warm from the cooking and the pressing together of human bodies.
Tank and Mr Blur are chatting. Fogg pushes the plate away. Look, I’ll catch up with you two, he says. Need fresh air. Picks up his tray. Takes it to the bins, empties the leftovers, hands his tray and dirty dishes to a serious-faced boy in the uniform of the Farm. Walks out. Cool air. Fog rising from the ground. Comforting.
33. MINSK, BELARUS 1941
The two British observers are not meant to be here, not now, but the Old Man had decreed, and the Old Man always has his way. Fog masks them. German tanks dance across the ice like migrating geese. Artillery fire turns the old city into a demonic fairground, the air burns with sulphur, the city is awash with red light. Smoke and fire make a second sunset in the sky. Oblivion passes Fogg a bottle of vodka, liberated. Lines of civilians are being evacuated out of the city, Soviet artillery returns fire on the approaching Germans but each burst is like an apologetic cough, a tacit acknowledgement that the city is lost. What the hell are we doing here, Oblivion says, Fogg takes a sip of vodka. They’d been parachuted down, their only hope of getting away now lies in themselves and in what they can do. Does that make them heroes or fools, Fogg wonders. The truth is there is nothing they can do for the city or its people. They are here merely to observe. They had found shelter in this abandoned house, on a thick rug beside a massive fireplace. But the fire burns outside. Family portraits glare at them from the walls. What’s this, Oblivion says. Fogg looks at the thing, says, It’s some sort of Jewish candelabra, I think.
It’s cold. Gunfire outside. They lie down on the rug. Cover themselves in liberated blankets. Huddle close, their bodies against each other’s, for warmth.
– Miss the Farm? Oblivion says.
Outside, the city burns. The house is surrounded by fog. Invisible. Tomorrow they will make their way back through enemy lines, to the pick-up point. The Farm, Fogg says. Remembering.
They press closer against each other, trying to find warmth.
34. THE FARM, DEVON 1936
His steps make almost no sound on the thick grass. Night, from inside the dining room the lights shine behind windows but outside it is cool, dark, quiet. Fog surrounds him like a well-worn coat. Away from the buildings the field stretches out, a silver moon hanging like a pendant in the sky.
A voice startles him. Soft feet coming through the fog. A tall, slim figure, pale white skin, fine cheekbones. Even the ridiculous uniform doesn’t change his inner silence, this sense of completeness in him.
– New boy, he says.
Fogg pauses, turns. What do you want, he says. The other one makes a motion with his hand. You’re not in there with the others? he says. Fogg says, It’s like a zoo. The other smiles. It is a zoo, he says. And we’re the specimens.
Fogg reflects on that. How did they get you? he says. The other laughs. I volunteered, he says. Takes out a cigarette case. Opens it. Proffers it to Fogg. You want one? Fogg says, Sure.
The other lights the cigarette for him. Fogg takes a drag. Coughs as smoke enters his lungs. The other smiles. Like he knows things. Fogg’s never really smoked before. He makes the smoke dance across his knuckles. A white snake of it, crawling. The other says, There’s a girl in there, she can make fire. Clicks his fingers. Says, Like that.
– Must be handy, Fogg says.
The other shrugs. Takes a drag. Blows out smoke. Fogg, idly, makes it into tiny airships that burst apart.
– Girl in here, she can spit at stuff. Break it. Like she’s firing bullets, the other says around the cigarette.
– That sounds disgusting, Fogg says.
The other looks at him. Those deep dark eyes examine Fogg. The other says, You’re not very sociable, are you.
Fogg shrugs.
– It’s Fog, isn’t it? the other says.
– Fogg, Fogg says. With two Gs. Henry Fogg. Chews on it. You? he says.
– Oblivion, the other says.
Something passing between them. Fogg says, These names are stupid. Oblivion says, These names are necessary. Suddenly serious. Even angry. But his voice is even. Says, You want to use your real name? You want everyone to know who you are, what you do? You think they’re going to like you? To thank you for it? I make things not exist. You know what would have happened if the Old Man hadn’t found me in time?
He’s in a rare talkative mood that night, as Fogg later learns. Oblivion, usually, is a man of few words. Fogg just shrugs. Says, Why are we here?
– Training, Oblivion says. So we can be useful.
Fogg, a little petulantly, repeats himself. It’s like a zoo in here!
Look, I don’t know, Oblivion says. I don’t like people all that much either. But you’re an interesting case, Fogg. I don’t know if I like you, but you seem all right. Keep yourself to yourself. Half these clowns, they’ll be out in less than a week. And let me tell you, I don’t know where unsuccessful candidates go, and I don’t want to know. So this is just a word of advice. That Old Man, he didn’t bring us here for fun and games. He’s got a use for us. And he can keep us safe. From the others. Do you understand?
The others, Fogg thinks. The cigarette makes him cough again and he drops it. It falls on the grass and lies there. He crushes it with his foot.
35. KINGSTON UPON THAMES 1932
The others surround Henry. Caught up with him during the break. Five of them, two older boys and three from his class, their uniforms are dark and their faces are flushed with the excitement of the hunt. You, Fogg, the oldest boy, Roberts, says. Did I say you could run away?
