A Flash in the Pan (2 page)

Christine got up from her knees, but turned as she was about to leave.

“Father, which one did I miss out?”

“Number
six
– Thou shalt not kill.”

“Oh, didn’t I mention that one? I don’t know how I could have forgotten. It was on Thursday
...” She returned to her knees.

4. Memories

I called you today and got through to your
v
oice
m
ail. I can’t talk to those things, so I thought a quick email to explain would be in order, even though I said I wasn’t going to contact you again. Well, that’s what I said to myself anyway; I don’t think I actually said it to you. I’ve forgotten so much. It was all so insignificant.

I thought you might have called me back, but
…
well, you didn’t and I didn’t want to leave things hanging in the air unfinished.

Oh, wait … you didn’t know I’d called, did you? I didn’t leave a message; silly me! I told you I keep forgetting all the stuff that isn’t important.

Would you believe, last night I forgot that I gave up smoking two years ago? Yes, I actually forgot and bought cigarettes. When I got home, I realised I didn’t have a lighter. Well, I don’t smoke
–
so why would I have a lighter? I ended up lighting the cigarettes from the gas cooker. I smoked five that way. Boy! Was my throat sore. That was when I remembered I don’t smoke any
more. Scatty, or what?

Anyway, why am I writing to you? I seem to have gone off the subject a bit. O
kay
, yes, back to the point. I thought you should know I’m not going to be bothering you any more. In fact, after I’d struggled to remember your name, I realised there’s a whole list of things I’ve completely forgotten. I’m sending it to you as proof that it’s finally over from my side too.


        
I’ve forgotten about pizza and cartoons on Friday nights.


        
I
can’t remember that ghastly after-shave your mother gave you.


        
I have no recollection of your weakness for strong coffee (with three sugars).


        
Your taste in music escapes me completely. (Hey, did you know Bon Jovi’s touring in March?)


        
If I could remember anything, I’d tell you to renew your prescription; you must be running out of Ventolin by now.


        
I never even think about the electricity of our first kiss or the ecstasy of lying naked in your arms, or the touch of your hands, or the taste of your body, or the many other joys of our lovemaking.

You see, I do know it’s over, and I’m
okay
with that, at last. So, I guess I’m writing to set you free.

I’m sure there was something else I wanted to say, but right now I’ve forgotten what it was. Perhaps I’ll call you when I remember. (Not that it’s important, or anything.)

O
kay
, well, that’s about it from me. Have a nice life.

Love you lots! (Just a figure of speech – between friends, you know
…)

5. Night School

Schools are just fine in the daylight. Wide corridors, huge plate glass windows and lots of people; children mostly, but people nonetheless. Around midnight, in winter it’s a totally different matter, but usually no-one’s there to notice.

George had been head caretaker at Park Road Primary for
thirty
years. He’d seen a lot of kids and teachers pass through its doors. He loved the place. The work wasn’t too demanding and he had a good team of cleaning staff. He was respected, even loved, by the school community and next year he’d be retiring on a comfortable pension. His savings would pay for a retirement home in a local complex where he would live out his days in peace and maybe write his memoirs. Life was full of promise.

At
nine-thirty
on Friday night, George walked through the building, checking all the locks, making sure that his beloved charge was safely tucked up for the night. He set the alarms, locked the outer door and walked across the playground to his house. Free on-site accommodation was a definite advantage.

The phone woke him just after
eleven
. It was an automated call from the security console informing him that movement had been detected in the main building. He figured it was probably a glitch in the new system, but he had to check anyway. He pulled on a track suit, slipped his bare feet into his training shoes and sprinted across the yard, letting himself in through a side door and disabling the alarm system. Everything seemed to be in order as he patrolled the corridors, flashlight in hand. He made his way to his office in the basement. The ‘intruder’ light was flashing on the console panel, highlighting the science lab. He switched on the monitors and selected the appropriate camera to view the room.

“Nothing there,” he muttered. “Bloody motion sensors probably caught a draught or something.”

Resetting the system, he remembered there was no coffee at home, but there was always some in the staff room. He locked the office and climbed the stairs. The staffroom was next to the science lab, so George tried the door as he was passing. It was unlocked.

“Uh oh! I must have missed this earlier.” He shivered a little as he took out his keys to rectify his error.

The moan from inside froze him to the spot. Should he call the police or had he imagined it? Fishing his mobile out of his pocket, he keyed in
nine-nine
, listening all the time, his thumb hovering, hesitating to make the call. The moaning had stopped, if it had ever been there. Keeping the phone in his hand and cursing himself for leaving the flashlight in his office, he pushed the door open and reached for the light switches to his right.

The stench of putrefaction assaulted his nostrils at the same moment as the fluorescent lights dazzled his eyes and a piercing scream caused him to spin to the left in search of its source.

“Amanda?” he whimpered, as his vision cleared and the little girl came into view. “It can’t be!”

Her once blonde hair was matted with dried blood. Her blue eyes, dull and lifeless, were fixed on George. He wanted to go to her, to hold her in his arms and tell her how much he loved her, but the stench was overpowering, causing him to gag and vomit, emptying the contents of his stomach in a foul stream onto the classroom floor. The child screamed again and George fell to his knees, helpless and hopeless in his desire to reach her. Her arms were reaching out to him, but it seemed that the gap would not be closed. George buried his face in his hands and wept.

The headlights were coming towards them.

“He’s on the wrong side of the road.”

“No, George, we are!! Pull over, I told you to let me drive. For Fuck’s sake, pull over!!”

“Daddy, Daddy! The truck’s coming at us! Make it stop!”

He swerved. The truck hit the passenger side. He escaped unhurt, physically.

He never drank these days; didn’t drive anymore either.

He raised his head and looked at Amanda.

“I’m sorry, honey, so sorry.” He reached out to her and felt her ice-cold hand grasp his.

“It’s
okay
, Daddy. Mummy and I have been waiting for you.”

6. Coming Home

“You’d rather be somewhere else, wouldn’t you?”

Tom was shaken out of his reverie by the voice from the past, a voice he would recognise anywhere. He turned towards her.

“Is it that obvious?” She’d hardly changed at all. A little silver was barely noticeable in her dark hair, and the laughter lines around her eyes and mouth were slightly deeper, but she was still a knockout. “Lucy Rogers! You haven’t changed a bit.”

Lucy ignored his proffered handshake and stood on tiptoe to kiss his cheek instead. He bent awkwardly to assist her.

“I didn’t get any taller, that’s for sure.” Her laughter was still like music. “So, Tom, why don’t you want to be here? Are we so boring now that you’re a big shot?”

Tom shuffled uncomfortably. “Not at all, it’s just me. I’m out of the loop here. I don’t know what’s going on any more. It’s been a long time.”

“Twenty-five years
–
yeah, that’s a long time.
Are you on your own tonight? I thought you might have brought your wife.”

Tom shook his head. “Ex-wife. We’ve been divorced for two years.”

“I’m sorry ...”

“No need. I’m not. It was all a big mistake. I suppose you’re living the small town dream
–
husband, kids in college, white picket fence?” He regretted the acid in his tone as soon as the words were out.

“Not exactly.” Lucy wasn’t looking at him now, but gazing out of the window. “Single mum, grown-up daughter, apartment above the greengrocery. I’ve done well for myself, haven’t I?”

“I didn’t mean
...
oh shit! I knew I shouldn’t have come. I’m sorry, Lucy. Can we start over, or should I just leave now?” He offered his hand and this time she took it.

“Don’t go,” she said. “Buy me a drink and we’ll start over.”

That was all it took. Later, lying awake, listening to her soft breathing as she slept, he knew he was home to stay.

He wondered how things would have turned out years ago if he’d said “I’m sorry” and she’d said “Don’t go.”

“Belle, wake up. It’s time!” Martin is shaking my right arm.

“Leave me alone, Marty. Go and play in your own room.”

That’s not right. I’m forty years old and my ‘little brother’ is only three years younger.

I open my eyes to the sight of my bedroom, the one I slept in as a child, not the one I’ve shared with my husband for the last fifteen years. My eight-year-old brother sits on the end of my bed, swinging his legs.

“At last!” he says. “Get dressed; we have to go to the sorting.”

“I don’t understand. What’s the sorting?”

Marty rolls his eyes. “It’s time for the sorting. You know, Father John told us about it last Sunday
–
when they sort out the sheep from the goats.”

His face looks funny and I giggle. I swing my legs out of bed,
young legs, not the legs of a woman with the beginnings of varicose veins. It dawns on me that I am eleven years old and Marty has come to take me to the sorting. His ideas are always the best; that’s why I love him so much. He turns his head away while I pull on my jeans and sweatshirt.

What is the dress code for the sorting? Father John didn’t tell us that. Maybe we should be wearing bed sheets or something?

Marty takes my hand and we leave the room. There’s not much left of the house. We can just about get down the stairs
;
everything is in decay. Outside, things aren’t any better. The street lies in ruins and we have to skirt the huge potholes that have appeared in the road. There’s no traffic. Cars sit abandoned, doors hanging open, as if their owners left in a hurry. I’d be worried if Marty wasn’t here, but he always makes everything fine. I’ve missed him so much since
...
since?

Since he died; that’s right. Marty’s been dead for four years. He never got to celebrate his
thirty-third
birthday.

There’s a silvery mist descending on us. It settles on our faces and hair and we glow. I squeeze my brother’s hand and he squeezes back so I know all is well.

“Not far now, Belle. See
– 
the others are coming.”

We are ascending a hill in the park. We used to run up here and then roll all the way down in the summers of our childhood. In the winters we’d drag the toboggan up, then jump on together to hurtle
through the snow
to the bottom
.
Now we are climbing to the summit for the sorting and I still don’t understand, but Marty does.

Our numbers are growing; ragged people of all ages and races make the climb. At last we reach the barrier where the shepherd stands to greet us. He indicates which way each person must go
–
right or left.

Now I understand what Marty has been trying to tell me. This is the sorting that Father John told us about, but he called it Judgement Day.

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the angels with him, he will sit on his glorious throne. All the nations will be gathered before him, and he will separate the people one from another as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats. He will put the sheep on his right and the goats on his left.” (Matthew 25:31-33)