Authors: Eddie McGarrity
First Person
First Person
by
Eddie McGarrity
Copyright © 2014
Eddie McGarrity
All rights
reserved.
ISBN:
ISBN-13:
978-1495232947
DEDICATION
For Colin Parker
sail on, silver mug
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Cover image © 2014 Gavin Campbell
Reproduced by kind permission
Contents
Green Room
E
yebrows lift before
I can even move
my eyelids, which flicker open to reveal only darkness. I’m lying on my arms
and move to release them but I’m stuck. My fingers tingle and, from the right
pinkie to the wrist, my hand feels numb and meaty. To get the circulation
going, I flex my hand and it rubs in soft earth. The ground I’m on feels warm
and dry. I open and close my mouth, my tongue searching for some moisture.
Twisting my head I see a faint ragged circle of light behind me, an opening of
some kind, which leads to where I am. I can’t see a ceiling. And then it hits
me. I’m lying on my back, under the ground, and I start to panic.
I can feel dread
growing inside me. My feet start to kick at loose dirt and it’s only when I
connect with something hard that I realise I can move my legs freely. The
movement has shifted me slightly and I move onto my side, relieving some
pressure on my arms, which I now realise are held by rope scraping at the
wrists. I can only move my fingers. Panic subsides when I realise I’m breathing
cool air wafting in from the far away circle of light.
Figuring it must
be the way out of this underground chamber, I start to shuffle. Kicking again
strike the same hard surface. It gives a dull thud but it gives me some
purchase to sit up slightly. Moving gingerly in case I hit my head on an unseen
ceiling, I struggle my way into a kneeling position to find there is actually
quite a bit of room. It’s only when I try to stand, that my head hits strands
of loose dirt which patters down around me, clinging to my sweaty face. Some of
it lands in my already dry mouth. I manage to tongue it out and look around.
Meagre light
from the opening shows a rough-cut tunnel which leads to this area, like a
burrow made just big enough for a man. I try to think how I got here, remembering
only nodding off on the bus, which I normally do on the way home from work.
Dread fills my gut again. Daring only to glance at the opening, I know the only
way for me is to go there to it. I’ve either been put here for some purpose, or
something awaits me at the tunnel’s edge. Already my shins are hurting from
kneeling, but I make to move forward, one knee at a time.
Pale green light
rises behind me, lifting the gloom. It stops me. Anxiety slumps my shoulders.
My tie is missing and the top button of my white short-sleeved shirt has been
undone. It does help me breathe though. Whoever put me here has thought of
this. I dare not look over my shoulder. I force my eyes to keep focused on the
opening in front of me and imagine the cool freedom beyond. Fear of not turning
is too great and I’m forced to turn away from the opening and confront the
green light behind me.
I see a room.
Its normality shocks me and I shuffle round on my knees, as best I can with
hands still tightly bound behind me. Dragging thin trousers through granules of
dirt, I come closer to the room and see now what my feet kicked against. A
thick glass wall separates me from the room. My breath, coming shallow and
fast, mists it slightly and I move head and shoulders to take in all the details.
Beyond the glass is a pretty little room, perhaps for a girl, but
old-fashioned, like something from long ago. A short fluffy bed, strewn with a
shiny blanket, is over to my left. To my right is a four drawer chest. Despite
the green haze I can see the furniture is white, though the paint is chipped,
and golden flowers around the corners are worn and smooth.
The hypnotic
green light is from a bulb set into the wall above the bed. Between the bed and
drawers is a dark doorway, framed by glossy wood. It is set into the wall,
which is covered in faded flower wallpaper. Something coalesces in the doorway,
its outline emerging from the shadows as it comes forward. I’ve stopped
breathing. Elegant and slow, the outline resolves into that of a young woman. That
gets me breathing and I fall back off my knees, gasping in fright.
I see the woman
step out of the doorway, her golden hair is floating in the air. She seems to
fall into the room and I see that she herself is floating. Her feet are off the
floorboards as she drifts into the room. Eyes closed, her arms are lifeless and
raised at the elbows, fingers curled in a resting position. I see now that she
is followed by little pieces of debris which float alongside her. She is
floating in water, with debris tumbling in her wake. I move to my knees again
and scurry forward to the glass.
Made green in
the light, she wears a blue dress, buttoned to the neck and flouncing out to
her feet, which are in neat shoes. A small apron is fastened at her waist. I’m
reminded of a viewing room in a resort swimming pool as she continues her
movement. She remains straight backed but her head is dropping down as she
floats towards me. Perched on her head, a tiny tiara glitters. She is getting
closer. Her face is young but the skin is puffed and slack like that of a
specimen in a jar. Dread pulls at me again as I begin to wonder if the room
beyond this glass is filled not with water but some kind of preserving fluid.
She bobs towards
me. Her face is nearly at the glass. Half-expecting her eyes to open I watch
her float right in front of me. My breath mists the glass. Her foot catches on
the metal frame of the bed and her head plinks on the surface, pushing her back
onto her feet, which in turn pushes her back to the glass. This time the tiara
touches. A tiny jewel scrapes on the glass and leaves a mark. The sound is
almost nothing where I am, but I can see it happen.
She bobs again.
The tiny jewel, a diamond, strikes the glass again. And again. A spider-like
crack begins to spread.
Out
M
id-winter sunshine
threads through
cold air and reaches me from between stripped branches as I step carefully
through long pale grass. The ground beneath is soft despite the chilled air and
time of year. My boots compress yellowing stems of grass into damp earth. I
sniff. I can feel my nose numbing. It is probably already red. There is no
smell in the air, save the damp boggy terrain, though for a moment I think I
can smell the remnants of cigarette smoke, but then it is gone. The air is so
still, I believe, that there would have been a man standing here minutes ago
smoking and the smell of nicotine and tar has clung to this spot like a
fragrant memory.
My hands are in
gloves and I wear a thick coat. I feel myself heating up with the exertion. I
take off my hat, fold it up, and put it into a coat pocket. The cold air
instantly attacks my damp head as the sweat evaporates.
I stand in a
landscape shaped like a massive natural flat bottomed bowl. In the distance,
all around me are low hills forming a horizon that means it will get dark
sooner than if the topography had been fully flat. It is already half past two
in the afternoon. It has taken all day to get here. Across the vale, limp
grasses are punctuated by groups of dense trees, bare of all leaves. I pass
from the filtered shadows of one of the groups of trees as I walk. I do not
hear any birds. I am heading for a building on the other side of a line of
trees. I cannot yet see it, but I know it is there. I have not been here in
many years and hope, that even though it was a ruin when I was a boy, it will
still be there. I keep moving towards the line of trees. I stride confidently,
purposefully.
Often I have
recurring dreams that are like an episodic story. Each night’s instalment picks
up from the previous one. Though the episodes can sometimes be separated by
years, they form a narrative in my head, and I can follow the story. Even if,
during my wakened state, I had completely forgotten the dream, my unconscious
mind can pick up the strands. It is like watching a soap opera on TV where even
if you miss a few episodes you can still understand the plot on your return. My
dreams contain almost the same amount of sadness, loss, and pain as a soap
opera, although I do not live my life like a soap opera. I would never leave
the house to cross the street to buy a cup of coffee. What I do is listen to my
dreams, and try to decode their meaning. This is why I am here. I have had a
dream about this place. I have a mission.
Many years ago,
when I was a boy, I lived not far from here. I liked the scenery in winter; the
quietness; the solitude. My favourite spot was the ruined control tower. There
had been an airfield here during the war, and there had been many buildings,
but the control tower was the only thing that was left. During the war they
would have called it an aerodrome and, unlike many other wartime aerodromes, it
did not become a commercial airport, but instead became a ruin. As a boy I
imagined it in its glory and not just the thin shell of red bricks that was
actually there. Using my imagination, I could see what it would have been like.
You could still make out the tall windows on the upper storey, and you could
imagine the spitfires and the tornadoes and the bombers taking off and landing
here. I imagined my grand-father in the control tower, much younger, looking
out of those tall windows through powerful binoculars as the spitfires and
tornadoes and bombers took off and landed. I played there all the time but I
dared not enter the tower. My grand-father told me the basement was dark, deep,
and dangerous. I loved my grand-father. He was a wonderful man. I lived with
him in his house until he died and when I became very sad I went to live
somewhere else in another part of the country.
I approach the
line of trees. Something catches my eye. It is brown and large, and has red
parts. I ignore it for a moment as I approach the trees. This copse is thick
but looking through I can see that I will be able to pick my way through fairly
easily. There is a small barbed-wire fence I will have to negotiate, but it is
broken and low, and I will be able to step over it easily. I do not remember
this fence and am confused as to what boundary it might mark. I follow the line
of the rusty wire to my left and catch sight of what I had noticed previously.
It is a deer and, caught by its neck in the twisted barbed wire, it is dead.
Birds have been pecking at exposed flesh. Strangely, the dark eyeballs remain
untouched. They stare out queasily in motionless terror, rolled to the side
showing a crescent white, a frozen moment in time like a photograph of a
painful memory. The deer's head is twisted at an awkward angle. It must have
struggled vainly to free itself. I feel ill, step over the fence, and keep
moving.
Once, as a boy,
I was playing near the abandoned control tower, imagining myself a squadron
leader waiting for the call to scramble, when I heard a noise. It was a man
running towards the tower. My memory of him shimmers into life as he came
towards me. I was startled as he paused briefly to regard me with a puzzled
look, before darting in the door and down the stairwell that led to the
forbidden basement. My memory shimmers again as he darted out of sight. I never
saw him return from the darkness.
I keep moving.
Springy black moss-covered branches lick past me as I make my way through the
trees. I could have gone round, but I prefer the adventure of clambering
through the trees like a child. I have not done this since I fell ill as a
teenager. I think of the deer, trapped in the fence, and wonder of the events
in its life that brought it to that fence. If the deer had been human, and
could see its destiny, I am sure it would have made different choices.
Despite
the ongoing narrative of some of my dreams, there is one dream I have that
recurs again and again. It is of that same mid-winter day when I was a boy and
the strange man ran into the tower. In the dream I can hear another sound. It
is a thin, frightened voice, calling out, “Help! Help!” For many years I
thought it was the man who had become trapped in the forbidden basement and was
crying out for help. The dream recurred over and over across many years. The
man runs in, and then I hear the cry, like a voice calling out to me across
time in a thin, frightened voice. Details in the dream were always the same.
Until last week, I was sure of the events. My conscious memory told me that the
man ran in and that was all, but my unconscious mind had created its own
memory. Consulting books on the subject of dreams, I concluded that my juvenile
anxiety about not seeing the man again meant I was concerned about his welfare.
Therefore my unconscious had constructed a cry for assistance that reflected my
own neurosis about the dark.
But now I was
not so sure about the sequence of events. A new dream had happened where the
sequence was different. Sleeping as normal in my own warm bed, I returned in my
mind to this place. I was playing at war planes when I heard a thin, frightened
voice call out, “Help! Help!” I felt a chill in dream, as my boyhood self froze
on the spot. I could hear it again. “Help! Help!” The sound was emanating from
the basement of the control tower, and for a moment, just a moment, it sounded familiar.
Unable to move, I shuddered as I heard it again. “Help! Help!” I moved towards
the control tower. At its base, a narrow doorway lay open to the elements.
Rusted hinges showed where a wooden door would once have been. Cement steps
inside the doorway led both up and down but I dared not move. This was a dream,
of course, but it was terrifyingly real.
“Help! Help!”
This time the voice was definitely familiar. It was me. I must have called out,
to whom I could not know, but all of a sudden the man from my memory entered my
dream. He shimmered and appeared in front of the boy me, and headed for the
basement-leading steps at the inner doorway. He paused only briefly, to look
down at me with a puzzled expression, before he shimmered again and disappeared.
I awoke in a
terrible sweat. I could now no longer be sure of the sequence of events all
those years ago. My dream had made me question everything. Perhaps the man who
looked at me was puzzled because he could not understand why someone had
ignored a plea for help. Immediately, I discharged myself and resolved to solve
this mystery. I would return to the control tower and look for details of the
events. I would investigate.
Not many people
come here. It has taken me three hours and two buses and a one hour walk to get
here. I am tired, and very warm, despite the cold December air. I remove my
gloves and put them in my coat pocket as I emerge from the trees. It has been
worth it. I can see the ruined aerodrome ahead. I am elated. The control tower
is just as I remember it, even though I am now questioning my memories. My
happy boyhood in this place has been like a lantern that I have carried with me
on my journey to becoming a man. Childhood illuminates adulthood. Understand
the boy and you will understand what motivates the man. What we do as children
resonates through our adult life like a wind chime in an autumn breeze.
There is a
breeze now. It is from the north, and brings chilled air across this depressed
landscape, having rolled off the low hills in the distance. To my left, the sun
dips its toe beyond the horizon as if testing how it would feel to be on the
other side of the world. I feel the breeze moving through me, exhilarating me.
I am alive. I feel sure the events of my life have led me here, to this spot,
to reach my destiny. It is as if I am suddenly taller.
Heading towards
the red-brick shell of the ruined control tower, I take in all the details.
Nothing much has changed. Pale yellow grass grows a little longer, and the
tarmac surface of the runway is more cracked, and weed-ridden, but the features
are still recognisable. The red-brick shell of the control tower rises into the
air. I see now that the roof is crumbling, but the structure still seems sound.
Perhaps I will save up to buy this place and renovate the building. The tall
windows would be a good vantage point to see for miles. I have never stepped
inside the tower, but I imagine myself up there in renovated splendour,
surveying the land with bakelite binoculars, visualising aeroplanes taking off
and landing. I picture the sounds of spitfires and tornadoes and bombers in my
mind, as I stretch out my senses into the chilly air, listening out for any
real sounds. I remember I have not heard any birds since I got off the bus.
Suddenly I stop.
I have heard
something. I am sure of it, though I cannot be certain if I imagined it, or
whether it was real. It was very faint, as if distant, or muffled, or below
ground. It is something I have not heard for many years. The sound of it is
like a shadow on an x-ray; something ominous and unknown. I feel lost,
frightened, and alone. I am reminded of the smell of disinfectant on a hospital
ward floor. I have heard a voice and I have heard this voice before. It sounds
thin, and frightened. “Help! Help!” It is unmistakable. I am no more than
sixteen metres from the doorway into the control tower. I can see the doorway.
Rusted hinges on a rotted doorframe mark where a wooden door would have been.
Beyond that, there are concrete steps that lead both up and down. The stairs up
twist round to where I cannot see them. The stairs down lead to darkness.
“Help! Help!” The voice is coming from where the darkness is.
Blood rushes in
my ears like the sound of a train rushing through a tunnel. Shivers wave down
my neck and body. I have not breathed for moments but, when I do, I am pressed
suddenly into action. I launch myself forward. Compelled to propel myself ever
faster, it will take me less than fifteen strides to reach the doorway. Darting
towards the opening, a startled young boy seems to shimmer and appear in front
of me. Puzzled, I wonder where he appeared from, but I hear the voice again,
“Help! Help!”, and I dart inside the doorway, giving the boy not a second look.
I take the first few steps down and I am swallowed up by darkness.
Behind me, I can
feel the remnants of the afternoon winter sun. Dimly aware of it, as if I am in
a tunnel, I feel the light getting smaller as I descend. I slow my progress,
unable to see ahead in the dark. Holding each hand out against the wall, I feel
it damp and slimy. I hear dripping water somewhere ahead of me. I do not hear
the voice.
Terrified of the
dark, I keep moving. I want to throw up, scream, and run back up the stairs,
but I must keep moving. I force myself to concentrate. Step after step I keep
going down. The stairs twist around like a square spiral. I am dizzy and
disorientated. It is utterly dark. Fighting the urge to flee, I feel my breath
becoming more intense. My chest heaves and my nostrils flare, my jaw clamps
shut. It is as if I am on the edge of a cliff looking over, pushed back from
falling only by a high wind, as I lean over to get a good view of the rocks.
Finally I am at the bottom. I can hear nothing, see nothing.
“Hello?” I call
out. “Is there anyone here? Are you hurt?”
I step forward
on the basement floor. My hands reach feebly out to make sure I do not bump
into something. My feet shuffle along the slimy cement floor. Suddenly,
inevitably, I slip and stumble. As if in slow motion I feel myself fall into
what feels like a pool of icy water. It engulfs me, and when my head comes up,
I gasp for air, shocked by the blast of freezing, fetid, water. It is only as I
grasp around the edge of the cement floor I realise my right leg has become
caught in something metal. I imagine this basement floor laid with iron bars to
strengthen the concrete, crumbling under years of neglect, and filling with
trickling rainwater.
