Strangers in the Night (4 page)

With that one gone too, and stowed safely in his pocket, Mitts reached out and dug his fingertips in underneath the edges of the ventilation hatch.

Prying it open with his long fingernails.

It was another brief struggle, but Mitts eventually pulled the hatch loose.

Dust puffed up into the air.

As he bent down to lay the hatch on the plastic container, Mitts breathed the dust into his lungs. He felt it line his throat. He coughed it loose, waited a minute or so for the dust to clear from the air, and then he turned his attention upward once more.

To the now-open space in the wall.

His heart thudded hard in his throat, and in the underside of his wrists, and up at his temples.

For a few moments, Mitts thought that he might lose consciousness.

That his mind might find some way of escaping him.

But he held himself steady.

Told himself to breathe in deeply to keep himself calm.

This was no time for him to lose his nut.

Mitts glanced off in the direction of his bedroom door, half expecting to hear another of Heinmein’s knocks up against the metal. But there was no sound.

Not of footsteps, or of heavy breathing.

Or anything, for that matter.

Mitts glanced at the face of his wristwatch, saw that he had a good few hours or so before his father would
think
about calling him in for dinner.

That was all he needed.

Just a little time.

Mitts stepped up onto the plastic container, and then he reached up for the open space. He felt his hands reach inside. He tried to grip something within. He wanted to find something he could hang onto. Something he might be able to use to drag himself upward.

He thought back to being at school, to when he had gone to PE and passed by the gym: the one which was open to older kids and to the general public.

They had had one of those chin-up bars there, and Mitts could still recall observing those flabby-bodied, stay-at-home mothers, or else the beer-bellied widowed pensioners all red-faced and hauling themselves upward.

A couple of times, on his way past, Mitts had observed them through the steamed-up glass. He had watched as they managed maybe two or three repetitions on the chin-up bar.

Mitts would never give it a try himself—he didn’t
need
to—he knew just from looking that he wouldn’t have been able to manage so much as
one
repetition.

Not with
his
scrawny body.

But he had to try now.

His fingertips ran over the surface of what felt like a sturdy pipe.

He gripped hold of it.

Squeezed it.

Then, again sinking his teeth into his lower lip, he tensed all the muscles in his arms.

He pulled with all the strength he had.

Felt the soles of his trainers leaving the plastic container beneath him.

He managed to keep himself suspended in the air for ten seconds.

He knew because he counted them out in his mind.

But he couldn’t tug himself up any further.

It just seemed impossible.

Mitts let go of whatever it was he clung to within the hatch.

His feet landed back down on the plastic container with a twin pair of
thuds
.

Feeling a tingle all over the surface of his body, he just stood there, breathing in the dust lingering in the air. And Heinmein’s stench of rotten oranges and cheesy feet.

He stared back up at the ventilation hatch and told himself that, later, he would give it another go.

When he’d got his strength back.

* * *

In the evening, Mitts sat about the enormous kitchen table with his father.

Each of them on one of the towering stools.

The two of them were chomping on the spaghetti his father had prepared, and Mitts was just about losing his mind from the basil-flavoured tomato sauce which accompanied it.

What Mitts wouldn’t have done for a light sprinkling of cheese. But there was little prospect of cheese until he could find his way out through the ventilation hatch.

Mitts managed to shake himself free of the thought of cheese when he saw Heinmein come skulking in for his portion of dinner.

Mitts’s nostrils filled at the remembrance of that cheesy-feet stench which followed Heinmein around.

Even when he had slipped out of the kitchen again.

As he chewed away at his spaghetti, Mitts felt his whole body ache.

Not just his forearms like he would’ve thought.

His calves, all the way up to his thighs, and then his stomach, his shoulders.

Even the soles of his feet seemed to have been straining themselves.

He wondered if he’d been in such bad physical condition when he’d arrived to the Compound, or if he had got weedy during his time here.

Still, the aches and pains didn’t dishearten him.

He knew his family’s safety depended on him getting up into that hatch.

Even if it cost him his arm, he would do it.

Like always, Mitts got through with his dinner before his father had really started. Now that there were only two of them at the table for meals, he had only to give his father a wide-eyed look—and his father a dismissive nod—so that he was permitted to go fetch seconds from the pot.

When Mitts sat back down at the kitchen table, ready to tuck into his second helping of spaghetti, he felt something overpowering within him.

It seemed so long since he had last seen his mother.

And it sent a slight pang to the base of his gut.

In all the silent hours which Mitts spent by himself—about the Compound, in his bedroom—he had had time to think. To think about just what sort of a life they all had here.

Hiding away from the outside world as if that would make things better.

Would they ever go outside again?

Mitts wanted to discuss his mother with his father, but he saw that his father seemed preoccupied.

His father stared down at his plate of spaghetti, pronging the odd strand here and there, but never really making progress.

Mitts saw that a single splash of red sauce had landed on the collar of his father’s shirt.

He thought of telling him about the stain, but supposed that, in the end, his father would find out for himself.

That when it came time to wash his shirt, his father would see the stain and take care of it.

Although Mitts still had half his plate remaining, he didn’t feel like having any more. He felt a touch nauseous, actually. He put it down to his exertion this afternoon.

Mitts laid his fork down on his metal plate with a slight
clang
. He looked back at his father.

“Mitts,” his father said, his tone flat, “there’s something I need to tell you.”

Mitts felt his heart pump harder.

He felt the blood fizzle up to his brain.

His vision went a little fuzzy.

This sounded an
awful lot
like that day . . . the day when . . .

“It’s about your mother,” his father continued, “the reason why she’s been in bed for so long.”

Although Mitts tried his best not to show interest, to widen his eyes so much that his father might see the anxiety which gripped him, he couldn’t help it.

“What?” he said. “What is it?”

His father broke off his gaze with Mitts and stared down at his emptied plate.

Next, he pressed his hands together, almost as if praying.

He jabbed his index fingers into the underside of his chin.

Mitts noticed the slight pulse in his father’s throat, the gentle, almost undiscernible beating of the vein just beneath his skin.

Mitts breathed in the scent of buttery water which clung to the kitchen air. He could still taste the tomato-sauce flavour at the back of his throat, and would continue to do so for much of the night, he was sure.

“Your mother, we . . .” his father went on, and, as he did, Mitts noticed the slight film of tears in his father’s eyes.

Mitts stared harder at the side of his father’s face, wondering what he might be about to say next.

Were they going to leave? Was that what it was?

Or was it worse . . . had his mother’s condition deteriorated?

Had Heinmein ‘recommended’ that his mother leave the Compound?

Mitts felt a tremor pass through his chest, but he forced himself to listen to his father’s words.

When his father turned back to him, his eyes were red, and his cheeks had gone all puffy. It was almost as if he had had some sort of an allergic reaction to the sauce, or to the pasta, or
both
.

“You’re going to have a little brother, or sister.”

In that moment, Mitts felt his mind unstitching itself.

All at once, he felt as though he was high—
too high
—up from the ground.

For some reason, within his mind’s eye, he pictured that he was surrounded by pointed, dark-purple hills.

Buffeting winds.

Winds which he couldn’t possibly resist.

Not even if he’d been the strongest kid on Earth.

So he fell.

As she stepped away from the French doors, he felt a cool breeze blow against his face. He took another sip of champagne. Savoured the bitter taste. Felt the bubbles tickle his throat. Hang in his chest. He breathed in the hidden roses once again. The string quartet fluttered away on the air. Never quite in range of hearing. Never designed to be heard out here, up on the balcony.

Her face was fresh, peachy, her cheeks slightly red as if she had pinched them to make them that way. She looked so much younger than she had seemed only moments ago. When they had stood inside the large hall, among all the others: the endless penguins, in their tuxedos; the endless birds-of-paradise, in their brightly coloured frocks and sparkly trimmings.

They had been just like any of the others.

Components of a larger universe.

Just a pair of twinkling stars.

Just as unique, and just as rare.

And equally commonplace.

He had expected her to follow. But, still, seeing her here now, it seemed strange.

Otherworldly.

She took another few steps forward.

Until she—like him—was lost to the dark.

A VISION OF HELL

M
itts could hear the sirens wailing out.

They dragged him awake.

Snagged his eyelids.

Peeled them open.

Rain pounding on the rooftops.

Its
scent
on the air.

He heard scurrying, about the house, someone screaming.

His mother?

A deeper voice, harder footsteps.

Mitts turned to his bedroom door.

It flew open.

His father stood there.

Barking instructions.

Instructions that simply couldn’t be heard.

Not over the wailing sirens.

Mitts blinked himself around.

Felt his father’s harsh grip on him.

Dragging him up and out of bed.

Telling him to
pack
.

Mitts could smell sulphur, too, amongst the rain.

He tasted ash in his mouth.

The house . . . was it burning down?

His father was gone.

Before he had the chance to ask.

Mitts hurried himself, matching his father’s panic.

His whole body trembled, his mind still half seeped in sleep.

His heart hummed, up in his throat, unable to believe.

Mitts didn’t pause to think. He only dragged the drawers open. He pawed about. For what he needed. For his clothes. A few books. He tossed everything he had into the sports bag he used for PE—throwing out his PE kit as he went.

He threw the bag strap over his shoulder.

He slipped out through his bedroom door.

Between the two of them, his parents lugged a hard-shelled suitcase.

One of those enormous, two-hundred-litre capacity ones they’d taken on a family trip to Australia, a few years before.

Dizzily, Mitts eyed the
Australian Air
tag which continued to cling to the handle of the suitcase.

Neither of his parents had thought to remove the tag either before or right now.

There was no time.

Mitts had no clue what was happening.

But there was no time.

Mitts followed his parents down the staircase, toward the front door. He felt some of the books he’d crammed into his sports bag jab him in the spine.

But he tried not to allow it to bother him.

He
couldn’t
allow it to bother him.

Whatever was going on was a matter of life or death.

As Mitts descended the staircase, on his parents’ heels, the smell of smoke grew stronger. He felt the ash layering itself into his lungs. He could feel his blood fizzle about his veins. And he wanted—more than
anything else
—to close his eyes and return to sleep.

Then this might all go away.

When Mitts crossed the threshold of their home, he heard himself calling out to his parents: the two of them already trotting across the driveway, headed for a battered, grey-blue estate car.

The car sat on the curb, idling, its exhaust puffing white smoke into the night-time air.

Its windscreen wipers slashing back and forth—
double-time
—attempting to keep the rain from completely covering the glass.

Mitts called out for the key.

So he might lock the front door.

But neither of his parents responded.

They lugged the bag between the two of them.

No time to use the wheels on the bottom to drag it along.

Mitts trudged after them, glancing back over his shoulder with each step, to the still wide-open front door of their home. Staring back into his house now, he saw that the welcoming, yellow light continued to shine.