Immersion

by J M Hart

  Sophia could hear the sounds of the hooligans getting closer. “We have to go.”

  Father McDonald’s face looked worn and old and her heart was breaking; this was too much for him. She held back her tears as she flung her backpack over her shoulder. She had forgotten how heavy it was. She locked her arm with Father McDonald’s and Joe supported him on the other side. They hung onto him while he took a moment to balance himself. His Bible fell out of his pocket. He pointed at it and Joe gracefully — for a big fellow — scooped it up and put it inside Father McDonald’s coat pocket for him. Sophia was worried. The only place to hide was inside the caves.

  Joe took the lead, remembering the turns he made the first time he was there. They could hear the sound of the gang entering the caves behind them.

  They yelled, “Here we come, ready or not,” and laughed.

  Sophia turned, faced the last passageway, and focused on blocking the entrance by unfolding her energy. She felt it traveling around her body from the center of her being, down her shoulders —like sand running down her arms — and into her hands. She projected the energy outwards until it touched the walls and ceiling, creating a mirror image of the cave wall.

  Sophia, Joe and Father McDonald walked deeper into the caves, then stopped to listen. They heard the fading sounds of yelling and laughing. Sophia, holding onto Father McDonald’s arm, wondered who was guiding whom. She didn’t know any more, but she had to protect him. He was the only one left who knew her family; he was her family. Sophia missed Mother Catherine and she wanted to cry remembering all she had lost in such a short time. She felt angry at God for taking her friends and family, she was angry for the pain and suffering Father McDonald was going through. She had never dared before to be mad at God. She lifted her left hand up to push strands of hair behind her ears and wiped at her eyes, and noticed the red string on her wrist. Suddenly she felt old, as if she had been fighting a battle that spanned many lifetimes, and she felt that the image she treasured of running through the streets with other kids on a hot summer’s day was a mirage, an illusion. Sophia hadn’t realized she was still fixed to the one spot and that they were both shining their torches at her.

  “Sophia, what ya doing? We have to keep moving, hen.”

  Father McDonald turned off his torch and placed it in his pocket. He looped his arm tighter around hers and patted her hand. He started to tell her favorite story.

  “On a fresh Saturday afternoon,” he began, “before the end of autumn, amongst the fallen leaves, beside the lake, your mom and dad laid down a checked red and blue rug. Your sisters set out the contents of a picnic basket; they were all excited, and you stood a few steps back from the blanket, just out of their reach, taking off your diaper and clothes. You were wriggling out of your diaper when your sisters, who were supposed to be keeping an eye on you, noticed you had stripped. They yelled at you to stop. Sure enough as soon as everyone was watching, you started to run butt-naked across the fields, laughing. I was fishing one last time before the lake froze for the winter, and had a bird’s-eye view of your devilish behavior. You were hysterical with laughter. Your sisters gave chase and you ducked down, hiding in the long green grass. You burrowed under the fallen leaves, waiting for your sisters. You popped up with splayed fingers in front of your face and roared like a lion. Quickly, you ducked back down and covered your eyes with your tiny hands, thinking no one could see you. Your sisters hid in the grass around you and when you jumped up you couldn’t see them, so when they sprang up from the tall grass you fell over backwards in fright. You started crying and they were laughing; you slowly stopped crying and started laughing a little too. Your big sister scooped you up in her arms and carried you back to the rug.”

  Sophia couldn’t help visualizing the images even though she had no memory of that day, but he had told her the story so many times, it was easy to see it in her mind’s eye. She suddenly realized she had lost track of time listening to the tale as well as her sense of direction, it seemed. She searched back along the tunnels in her mind and waited. The young hooligans were lost and had given up their pursuit.

  “We should go back now,” Joe said.

  “No,” Father McDonald said, “we have to keep going.”

  “We can’t, we don’t know where we are going.” Joe’s voice was filled with panic. “We’ll end up dying down here.”

  “I had a dream, a terrible dream,” said Father McDonald.

  Sophia looked at both men and wondered why adults freaked out so much. “We have to keep walking and you are to guide us, Joe,” she said.

  “This is suicide,” he replied.

  Sophia watched Father McDonald walk up close to Joe. She tried to peek inside Father McDonald’s mind, inside his unique room, to quickly search in his grand old library amongst the polished shelves for the dream he had mentioned. But it was locked and she could only see a hardwood door with a shiny new lock. She felt suddenly ashamed and pulled out, but not soon enough. He turned towards her as if sensing what she was doing. He frowned with disapproval; she looked away, avoiding eye contact, but sensed he was also pleased that she was still practicing using her gifts. She looked back, watching the two men and wondered if she should have a peek inside Joe’s head. She pushed the thought away as quickly as it had come. She trusted Father McDonald, and even though he seemed to have aged terribly, he was strong mentally and spiritually. He showed little fear and there was no doubt in his eyes. She had followed him this far and he had protected her.

  “We should turn off our torches, save the batteries,” she said. “That will give us a few days with light so we don’t end up in total darkness all the time.”

  Joe looked at her and back at Father McDonald. “A few days?”

  “No doubt,” she said. He was such a big cuddly bear she just wanted to wrap her arms around him.

  “Oh God, what have I gotten myself into?” He looked up at the dark blank roof of the cave and back at her. “You’re special, I’ll give you that, but hen, you’re mighty cheeky.” Sophia watched him turn to Father McDonald to say, “If death wasn’t walking the streets, I wouldn’t stay, I have to tell you, I would hightail it out of here. We’re not prepared for a hike through these caves.”

  “We’re prepared enough, the best we could ever be,” Father McDonald said.

  Sophia fumbled with her torch and Joe caught her smile before she found the off button. “We love you, Joe,” she said.

  “Remind me never to play cards with you,” he replied.

  They had to take a minute for their eyes to adjust to the light of one torch; darkness suddenly seemed a little closer.

  “How am I supposed to know which way to go? Shit!”

  Sophia couldn’t see much and stayed close to Father McDonald. They continued walking, the air cooling the deeper into the tunnels they went, turning down different passageways. It seemed hours had passed when Father McDonald stopped reciting from the scriptures and suggested they take a rest. They crouched by the wall shining the torch at the roof and shared protein bars and some water. Joe kept checking his watch, afraid he would lose track of time.

  “It’s still daylight,” Joe said, aiming the torch at his watch, “but down here I suppose it doesn’t matter. I wonder what the stars would be like tonight. I can just imagine them now.”

  Sophia watched him tilt his head up as if he had a sweeping view of the sky. This was their second day travelling south-east through the musty caverns. They were exhausted and covered in sweat. The rations Joe had brought were ample: the protein bars were chocolate, mint, cherry and orange flavors, but they were now running out of water.

  Sophia was wondering how they were going to get to Israel. She wondered about Kevin and Jade and how they were going to meet. Sophia didn’t have the answers; no pictures flashed across her mind, except for images of flames and everything burning; a wall of scorching heat. She closed her eyes and started to fall into a dreamless sleep when she unexpectedly jolted awake as a chill raced up h
er spine and instantly she was worried for Casey.

  6

  Doorman for death: Shaun. Australia.

  Shaun sat on the roof, dangling his legs over the gutter, and watched the flashing police lights leave Kevin’s place, only to stop in the next street. It had been days since he had seen the two retards disappear into thin air. He had waited for them to reappear after those other jerks had killed that poor German Shepherd dog. He was surprised to find he had slept through the night in the bush and had missed any reappearance of Kevin and Tim. His cheek had been throbbing so he had left his hiding spot and headed home for the comfort of his own bed and a couple of painkillers. He wasn’t anxious about them; they were complete losers, but he couldn’t help being curious. He was surprised to see them a little while ago walking down the middle of the street with the barefoot girl. Where had they been and who was she? Mostly he wondered, Why do I care? People were just disappearing, and he wished his dad would disappear. He could hear him inside the house and could smell his cigarette smoke.

  “Shaun, is that you up there? Come here, I want to show you something.”

  Shaun looked over the side, thinking about climbing down and hightailing it out of there, but he didn’t feel like wandering the streets tonight, or riding the trains. He looked over his shoulder at the solid mass of cloud boiling up over the horizon; it moved like a flock of birds rising up from the ocean and migrating towards the city. He climbed down off the roof back through the attic. His dad was standing at the bottom of the stairs holding an old photo album.

  “Have you seen this picture of your mother? She’s just your age.”

  Shaun cautiously went down the stairs looking for a hidden agenda. His dad was drunk as usual, but his words weren’t as slurred. “No, I haven’t,” he said.

  “Well, come on, boy, why you walking so slow? Take a look.” He sat on the bottom step and moved across for his son to sit beside him. “Look how happy she is.”

  Shaun was afraid to move and he worried about his choice of words, in case they were taken the wrong way. He scratched his groin and rubbed his eyes. “She looks pleased.” She was at the beach and had star-jumped off a grassy embankment; she was in mid-air, her toes pointing down towards the white sand.

  “This was the first time we met,” his dad said. “I was on holidays from university, and had just got back from an archaeology field trip to Peru. The last thing I wanted to see was more sand. My friend dragged me along saying it would be good for me. He was right. I met your mother, and she was the best thing in my life. I took the photo on an old instant camera, and we shook it to help it dry. I told her about Peru and she said she wanted to see the Nazca Lines.” He turned the picture over and written in her handwriting was her name and phone number, with a smiley face drawn inside a flower. “I called her that very night.”

  His dad flicked through the album, stopping occasionally. Shaun was thinking his dad had forgotten that he was there beside him. They both looked down at his mother’s ruby complexion; she was exaggerating her baby bump and laughing. His father had stopped talking. Emotions had got the better of them both. Shaun used his shoulder to casually wipe his eye, stretching, pretending he was tired. His dad slammed the album closed, and rubbed his chin before picking up the bottle by his feet and taking a long drink. He rocked a little on his heels and walked away.

  Shaun sat on the step, contemplating his options. He could go to his room and lock the door before his dad started turning from a sad drunk to a violent drunk, although a locked door hadn’t stopped him in the past. He moved the pouch in his pocket and could feel the different shapes of the stones digging into his thigh. He stood and put his hand in his pocket, felt the stones, and decided to go out. He had a shower and went into his room to dress in jeans and t-shirt and grabbed a lightweight hoodie. He went back into the bathroom to fish the pouch of touchstones from his dirty pants. His dad was still in the lounge room, sitting in his mother’s recliner. During her last few days at home she had slept sitting up in it, because she had been unable to lie down comfortably. It was looking old and tattered, but his dad wouldn’t give it up. He never washed it and believed it still smelt like her. But it didn’t; it smelt of smoke and alcohol. His dad’s wallet was sitting on the side table next to an empty bottle.

  “You want another drink?”

  His dad lifted his finger and wagged it knowingly, slowly nodding his approval. Shaun picked up the empty bottle and with a little sleight of hand scooped up the wallet. He threw the empty bottle into the trash and plucked the plastic cards from the wallet. He chose a bottle of wine from the rack, then skillfully put the bottle and wallet back on the side table and pocketed the cigarettes.

  “Get a glass and I’ll give you a drop.”

  “No, I’m good.”

  “You think? Too good to drink with your old man? I doubt that. Ever since you were conceived, death follows you. You’re nothing but a doorman for death. You could start a euthanasia business, you wouldn’t have any costs, but you’re so ignorant you probably don’t even know what the word means. I’ve heard you screaming out your little girlfriend’s name at night. Rachel, Rachel. I should have left you there to be buried in the explosion with her.”

  It all came back and hit him like a giant wave. He was looking over the back seat of the Jeep, they were moving away from the caves and the mountains heading towards the Judean Desert. She stood in front of the cave as the charges his dad had laid exploded behind her. Rachel, he thought, Rachel. He couldn’t feel his legs, he couldn’t feel his body; his mind assaulted him with forgotten images. The drugged flight, his mother lying in hospital not getting any better like his dad had promised. He remembered whispering in her ear, telling her what his dad had done, and when she was an angel she had to look after Rachel. Shaun wanted to explode with anger, he wanted to cry, he wanted to run, but he was stuck with his father’s smirking face.

  “Don’t tell me you had forgotten about your little girlfriend? You’re useless. You can’t be my son. You don’t have an ounce of my brains or balls.”

  Shaun’s fists clenched, then opened and closed again. He screamed like a wounded animal. “You’re a murderer; you’re not my father. You’re a failure. Mom must be in hell. Fuck you, you son of a bitch. Even in heaven she would be in pain, seeing what you have become. I told her what you did. She never would have stayed with you, never.” The bottle of wine beside his dad came hurtling towards him. Shaun ducked; it smashed into the wall and the LED screen.

  “You’re pathetic. Who the hell do you see every time you look in the mirror? Piss off, retard,” his dad said.

  Overwhelmed by his memories, Shaun didn’t have to be told twice. He took off, slamming the front door behind him. He went to the nearest auto-teller machine, swiped his dad’s card, punched in the PIN, withdrew five hundred dollars cash and headed for the train station. He couldn’t get the images out of his mind. Feelings he didn’t even know existed were coursing through his veins. He stepped onto the platform where a cold, sharp southerly wind blew.

  Shaun felt a little spooked. The platform was deserted and vomit had dried and crusted on the only seat. There was one train scheduled to arrive in seven minutes. He walked to the end of the platform and leant his back against the brick wall. He felt for the cigarettes in his top pocket, pulled out the lighter and tapped out a smoke. He worked the lighter, then stared at the flame. The veins in his neck bulged as he screamed into the night. He slid down the wall and cried for the first time since his mother died. He thought he heard someone walking along the platform, so he wiped his eyes, spat in front of him and turned to look but there was no one else around. He lit his smoke, inhaled deeply and coughed up his guts. As soon as he stopped, he inhaled again. He drew on the cigarette as if he was drawing in the breath of life. He looked down at his hands, thinking that they were dirty; with the smoke dangling from his lips, he started rubbing them against his pants. He tossed the cigarette butt, and watched the red tip glow upon the tracks
. The arriving train lights could be seen approaching the station. Shaun kept looking at the butt, wondering if he had time to jump, jump down and stamp on it, time — but it didn’t matter really if he had time. It would be quick like the explosion, quick like it was for Rachel. He stepped forward over the yellow security line, everything was in slow motion. The train hurried forward sucking him towards it; the train slowed, losing its hold. It came to a complete stop. The doors opened right in front of him.

  No one was in the annex stepping off so he stepped aboard, grabbing hold of the cold metal pole. It was covered with smudged handprints and gum, and he recoiled in disgust. He screwed up his nose and eyes and held his breath. A bum was camped out on the lower deck, and the stale air and the aroma of fresh urine assaulted his senses. Whoosh. The automatic doors sealed behind him. The train screeched, labored, then jerked twice as it pulled away from the station. The train rocked, picking up speed and he maneuvered towards the connecting carriage door. He couldn’t believe his karma. His dad was pulling him way down, emotionally he was beginning to unravel, and when he wrenched at the connecting door lever, he found the door was locked. He let his head drop and bang hard against the window. He pushed off the door and walked through the top carriage to the other side, and this time the door was unlocked.

  A nervous, fat greasy-looking man, wearing a suit with runners, clutched a briefcase in his lap. He was watching Shaun’s every movement through the reflection in the window. At least he doesn’t smell, and it’s better than being alone. Shaun ignored him, walked to the back of the carriage and stretched his legs up onto the seat. He pulled his hoodie over his eyes, folded his arms across his chest and slouched down. He drifted into a restless sleep, dreaming of flying demonic angels and fire. He felt a soft whisper behind him and woke in a sweat. The train had jerked him awake as it stopped and started at a station. He read the station’s name off a bench; he was a few stops away from the city. He wiped the sweat off his face with his sleeve, and closed his eyes.