The Emerald Tablet: Omnibus Edition

by JM HART

  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.

  The sound of the rushing wind alerted Shaun to the fact someone had just come through the connecting doors. He kept low, his eyes closed, listening to a group of teenagers walking in the lower carriage. There was a loud bang. It sounded like something or someone hitting at the windows. The noise stopped. Shaun looked up and could see the fat guy in his seat up ahead and that his shoulders and head were shaking. He then heard the first footfall on the steps leading up to the top level. The train came to the next station, the signs and building flashing past. The train didn’t stop. There were three hooded guys coming up the stairs and one was banging a metal baseball bat on the rail.

  “Well, looky here,” the guy with the bat said, pointing it at the fat man.

  Shaun kept low, knowing what these guys were capable of doing. Their tormenting and teasing had begun. Th
e big guy was scared out of his mind. They pulled his briefcase off his lap, rummaged through the contents and tossed it about the train. Shaun heard them slap the guy on the side of his head. Yelled at him to cough up and dig into his back pocket, and hand over his wallet. Shaun had treated others the same. He knew the fat guy would be pissing himself in shock. He moved slowly, fearfully, and then the guy with the bat laid it down onto the man’s shaking shoulder. He gripped the bat with both hands and yelled, “Home run!” The window became painted abstract red. Shaun kept low, avoiding being seen; he rolled off the seat and onto the floor, listening.

  The assailants pulled off the guy’s watch and Nikes. They dug into his pockets, pulling out his phone. Shaun kept as quiet as possible. The gang started to turn, leaving the way they had come. Shaun panicked as his mobile start to vibrate.

  The train was pulling into Kings Cross station. Shaun was ready to leap out of hiding and throw himself down the stairs and out the door. He could see their feet heading towards him. His phone had stopped. They kept coming. They were talking amongst themselves.

  “Try him again,” one of them said.

  Everything seemed to be muffled and in slow motion. Shaun held his breath; they had stopped halfway down the stairs and the last guy was swinging on the rails inches away from Shaun’s head. The train jerked to a stop and they jumped down and off, onto the platform. He still couldn’t see them, but he waited till the last minute before jumping up and off the train. He pulled his hood up, dug his hands into his pocket and headed in what he thought was the opposite direction. He hid amongst the few people waiting to get on the train when he thought he heard his name being called. He ignored it and kept walking, picking up his pace. He didn’t understand what had gotten into him and why he was afraid of his own shadow. The world had become crazier than he was. His phone started to vibrate; he pulled it out of his pocket to see it was his mate Kyle. “Where the fuck have you been?” he said into the phone.

  “Where you at, man?” Kyle said.

  “Just got into the city.”

  “Same, dude.”

  “Stop shouting into the phone, you asshole.” Then Shaun realized he could hear his name being called from somewhere behind him. The three hooded silhouettes were coming towards him; the guys from the train. One had his hands dug into his pockets. This is it, Shaun thought, some dude coming for revenge. As he watched, the guy removed his hand from his pocket and he saw the shape of a gun.

  “Look what we found.” It was his mate, Kyle, shouting and waving the gun above his head.

  Commuters kept their heads down, getting on the train and out of sight. Shaun looked at his phone and pushed “end”. His friends looked and acted differently from usual. They were more violent than he could remember, and it had only been a week at most. Or had he become weak.

  “Hey, mate, where have you been?” Kyle said.

  “Around. Had an awesome fist-fight in the city last week, had to spend a few hours in hospital. The other dude was pretty fucked. You should have been there, man.”

  “Yeah, what you score?”

  Shaun reached into his pocket and pulled out the wad of money he had taken out of his dad’s account and waved it in the air.

  “Alright, Let’s party,” Kyle said.

  “Who’s that?” Shaun asked, nodding towards the third guy.

  “That’s Homer.”

  Shaun didn’t recognize the guy at first. He wasn’t wearing his school baseball jacket, which he practically wore everywhere as a status symbol. He’s the state’s star baseball player, headed for the big league in the US. Shit, he’s even dating the retard’s sister.

  Kyle chattered on. “He’s got the virus and has come over to the dark side, and I think he likes it. He has one hell of a swing, man, and has found swinging at things other than balls to be more fun.” As if on cue, Homer picked up the bat and swung at the ticket booth and started to beat the shit out of it. Kyle and his offsider started cheering him on and laughing as he became more enraged with each swing. Shaun started walking.

  “Hey, wait up,” Kyle yelled.

  They followed Shaun like a pack of wild pit bull dogs, attacking and frightening people randomly.

  The flashing neon lights of the city looked different, they no longer seemed real to Shaun. The menacing and minor crimes — like smashing some geek’s headlights so he can’t drive home, or getting drunk and picking fights, the things he generally saw and liked to do — were somehow different: there was no order to the crime he was seeing. There were guys smoking ice on the street and the little discretion prostitutes may have had was gone. There was a sense of something forbidding. Shaun felt sick. The image of a burning lion deep within a cave haunted him, waiting to drag him to hell. Relieved, Shaun saw there was no bouncer on the door of Frankie’s Laboratory and they walked straight into the bar. Fluorescent lights strobed the wall and the DJ was kicking ass. The waitresses came over with a tray of syringes and injected shots of mixed alcohol into their open mouths.

  Shaun’s head soon started to spin and he needed fresh air, so he got up and went outside, with Kyle and the others following him. Why do they keep following? he wondered, and accidentally bumped into a hooker. He stepped back, nearly apologizing, but blurted out, “What the fuck! Move your skanky ass.”

  Kyle walked up to the woman and stuck his face into her breast and asked how much for her to get on her knees. “Pay the lady,” he said to Shaun, not waiting for her to reply.

  Shaun didn’t recognize these guys. They’ve become hard-core. They’re not just a bunch of idiot teenagers any more. I need to get home.

  “Yeah, great idea, Kyle. What about you two?” Shaun said. “Are up for a blow job? My shout.”

  “Shit, yeah,” Homer said.

  Shaun pulled out a couple of hundred and stuffed it between her breasts. She led them into the alley and Shaun lit a smoke.

  “You’re not coming,” Kyle said.

  “I’ll join in after I have this smoke.” Shaun dragged on his cigarette and waited till they were deep in the shadows. He turned the corner and walked away. He threw his butt into the gutter and crossed the road, slipped into an alley on the other side and waited. A pack of drunken girls walked past him and he pushed himself into the wall. They were tormenting an old guy who had become too friendly. They pushed him to the ground and started kicking him while people just walked on by. The virus had taken over the city. Shaun realized he had created enough negativity to fester in his aura to be able to hide in the darkness. He saw his mates come out of the shadows, looking up and down the road. They were crossing the road, heading in his direction.

  They stopped to watch the girls beating the guy. Amused, Kyle said, “Let me help you, ladies,” and pulled out the gun. He had a crazed look on his face and his eyes were blacker than the night. Kyle lowered the gun into the old man’s face. The man held up his hands, begging for his life. Kyle fired. The girls cheered and welcomed him and his mate into their fold. They walked off, slinking into the nearest bar together.

  Shaun waited for the prostitute who had given his mates a blow job to come out of the shadows, but she never did. He started to make his way back to the station, then a loud explosion lit up the streets. People ran towards the sound, excited. He kept moving through the back streets, keeping just inside the shadows. A fire truck pulled up in front of a burning skyscraper and Shaun couldn’t help being entranced by the flames. People started pushing the firemen out of the way, wanting the building to burn. The spectators soon became violent, yanking the hoses from them. One police car showed up. The officers had no chance of getting out of the vehicle, because the crowd descended upon them and began rocking the car, flipping it onto its back. Then someone hurled a petrol bomb. The firefighters hosed the people away from the police vehicle and dragged the cops to safety. The crowd booed. Windows on the upper levels of the skyscraper exploded, and people were drawn to look up and cheer as shards of glass pelted down. Shaun saw that the police and fir
emen were searching for a place to hide and were heading in his direction. Stepping backwards down the laneway, watching the chaos, he managed to trip over his own feet. Stuff this, he thought, and started running to the train station.

  There was one train waiting at the platform, so he ran at the security wire cyclone fence, jumped up, climbed over it, and bolted to the train. The carriage he entered was empty. He stared through the window as the train pulled out of the station. Red and orange flames licked the walls of the tall buildings. Shaun’s thirst for fire had been quenched, perhaps gone forever. In that moment, watching the city burn, he felt no desire, he felt lost. The city that held happy memories of his mother was burning.

  *

  The wine was dripping down the wall when he realized Shaun had stolen his cigarettes. He slowly pushed himself out of the recliner and went into the kitchen for another pack and another bottle of wine. Before plugging in the old fan, he used his shirt to wipe away the red wine from around the socket. He liked the feeling of the breeze on his skin as he dropped back into the recliner. He uncorked the bottle of wine, took a long drink, then opened the packet of smokes. He cupped his hands around the lighter’s flame, protecting it from the fan, and dragged deeply on the cigarette before sitting back and slowly blowing out the smoke. His wrist dropped onto the armrest, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, as he smiled at the wedding picture hanging on the wall behind the fan: his beautiful wife, her beautiful smile. He closed his eyes, capturing the image. The smoke continued to burn and slipped from his fingers, falling as he was sinking into a deep sleep.

  The old fan shuddered back and forth over the smoldering cigarette and his slumbering body. The wine trailed down from behind the picture and over the edge of the power point into the sockets. A blue spark flared and ran up the cable into the fan’s motor. It ignited into flames which instantly enveloped the nylon curtains.