The Mariner (54 page)

I’ve gone mad
, he thought to himself.
I’m feeling strange bonds with complete strangers. First the corpse, then the widow and now this poor grieving mother, a victim whom I’m tormenting with the idea that somehow I knew her child.

Except I did know her. I did.

Feeling absurd and with an awkward deep breath he held out his hand. She looked at it, perplexed and slightly afraid.

“How about we go get a drink? You can tell me about your daughter.”

Heidi shook her head, reluctant. “I don’t think so, I don’t know you...”

“Please, let me-”

The words ended abruptly as an insect flew between them, and lazily landed upon his hand. A wasp. He could feel its light yet confident weight as it slowly crawled across his skin.

Wasps were shits. He’d known this for years, ever since his little compassionate experiment in which one had betrayed his trust. Ever since then, he’d killed every wasp he’d seen without mercy.

But now, looking at this small bug, he couldn’t help but feel enthralled by its alien gait. Hadn’t he dreamed something about a wasp?

The creature stopped its slow crawl and looked up at him. In his heart he knew that the wasp had no concept of minds, or human beings, it couldn’t look you in the eye and convey an emotion. Yet he could have sworn that was exactly what this wasp was doing.

It was staring him right in the face. A challenge to a worthy adversary.

“Go ahead punk,” he growled.

And it did.

The wasp plunged its stinger down into his hand, throwing its whole body behind the strike, eager to exert authority over the stupid monkey who’d dared to taunt it.

Nothing happened.

Two black eyes looked up at him, and despite their insectoid nature, he could have sworn he saw an emotion. Confusion.

Shocked, the wasp hopped an inch or so forward and tried again, being even firmer with its barbed behind.

Still, nothing happened.

Furious, the wasp rolled around, trying to sting any surface it could find, until, unsuccessful, it lost its grip, slid from his hand and dropped to the ground with an angry buzz.

Wasps won’t sting...

And suddenly he remembered.

He looked around, back at the widow who grieved for a man who’d woken the world and then put it back to sleep. Around her, the crowd had retreated to a respectful distance. Some had offered their jackets to lay across the body, others merely waited, keen to offer any assistance she might need.

They love her, just as I do.

And as he watched, it seemed the very land around them bent towards her, straining to be close, and a sudden certainty filled his heart: this woman would never grow ill, suffer crime, or feel deep pain. This was the last suffering she would ever endure, there would be no other. The world would not allow it.

“I hope she gets the support she’ll need,” Heidi said, looking fondly at the Mariner’s true Grace.

“She will,” McConnell replied, certain to his core. “I know it.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because the world looked through his eyes.”

“What did it see?”

“Her.”

And suddenly he was laughing, legs buckling as he slumped to the floor, vision waving as if about to faint. He laughed because he remembered thinking that poor wretch had been akin to Jesus Christ, someone who could sew the world together. He’d been wrong. But he’d also been right.

Perhaps saints didn’t exist? Perhaps the most angelic of men are those who are willing to acknowledge their demons? Perhaps the best of men are those who believe they’re the worst?

On the pavement, the wasp looked up at the crazy monkey, now dangerously close, and deciding to cut its losses (and reassess a life without a sting) flew off into the London sky.

Heidi got to her feet, embarrassed at the sudden reaction of the strange, yet charming man. “Sir? Sir are you ok?”

But he couldn’t stop laughing, because the absurd memories still filled his head and although they were beginning to fade, the brief truth they told was too much to bear.

“People are looking! You can’t laugh when someone’s died!”

Tears streamed down his face as he looked about his home city, wondering just what else the Mariner might have changed.

“Christopher? Can you hear me? Christopher?”

But there was no stopping him. He laughed at the absurdity of belief. He laughed at the fragility of thought. And he laughed because although depression strips a man of his all, love will remain, even if he does not know it.

And after a while, Christopher McConnell stopped. He’d completely forgotten what he was laughing about.

48
BEFORE, BEFORE IT ALL

H
E OPENED HIS EYES TO
the harsh glare of the sun. It cooked his skin, sea water evaporating, leaving large chunks of itchy salt, and yet he welcomed the rays. Deep down in his muscles there was a chill, a cold ache that needed banishment, and this sunlight was just the medicine. He closed his lids, relishing the notion for a moment longer, distancing himself from the impending pain.

Agony was coming. He knew it. That ache was just the vanguard, sooner or later the main force would be upon him, a multitude of cuts and wounds, breaks and sprains. They would band together to overthrow their cruel master, the fiend who had unleashed them.

And yet he had no recollection of how he’d received them. No notion whatsoever. Just a certainty that he had done this to himself, he had done some terrible wrong to light this fire.

Deep in his head there was a fizzing, like pins and needles but within the brain. He raised a hand and rubbed his temple.

Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour?
he thought, the idea scaring him. Certainly he had never felt such a sensation before.

He sat up and looked about. If he felt surprise at his surroundings, it was the basic surprise of a new-born’s first glance at its mother’s legs, for he had nothing else to compare. The ship was there and he aboard. It was as simple as that.

I’m a mariner, and this is my ship.
It seemed to make sense, because somewhere deep inside him was an urge to find something, a place, an
island
.

“Where all the secrets can be found,” he muttered.

But where had this belief come from? Who was he?

Perhaps I’ve got a brain tumour?
he thought, the idea scaring him. But hadn’t he thought that before? His memory was hazy, difficult even remembering something that had occurred mere seconds ago. That damn fizzing – no, not fizzing,
buzzing
- was driving him to distraction and he slammed his palm against his temple, trying to dislodge the irritation.

I’m alone.
The thought hit him suddenly. He was alone and he was certain it was all his fault. Why else would he be forsaken if not for his own actions? An urge to throw himself into the sea became overpowering, a need to die consuming his mind. What use was finding secrets when the seeker was so wretched? Best to die now and cease to think.

“Arf!”

He turned his head to see a small squat creature blinking at him. She looked like a little dog with the head of a rat, white stripes upon her black fur. Distracted from thoughts of suicide, he reached out a hand. She hesitantly sniffed it, as wary of him as he was of her.

“And who are you?”

The creature shuffled away, startled by his voice.

“It’s ok, it’s ok,” he said trying calm her, but it was no use. Like an explosion, she released a roar with the bottom of her belly.

“Bllllleeeeuuuuughhh!”

He fell back, momentarily afraid, but as the beast pushed the noise out her throat, the action propelled her backwards, falling comically on her rump.

He laughed as she fell silent, looking bashful.

“Are you and I going to be friends?”

“Arf!”

He smiled, the fizzing gone from his head, memories starting to stick.

“You need a name,” he said, unsure as to how he would come up with anything appropriate. But then, against all logic, a name swam up from his fractured mind. If the Pope had been told, he would never have believed it. Once gone, things cannot return.

“Grace. I’ll call you Grace”

And with the name upon his lips, the Mariner felt a little less alone.

Epilogue
NOT EVERY STORY HAS A HAPPY ENDING

L
IKE RAINWATER CASCADING THROUGH
A filthy gutter, shame flushed out all other feelings from the boy’s system as he lay prone across the bed. As usual that night he’d snuck into his parents’ bedroom, aware they wanted him to sleep in his own, yet determined to feel that closeness supplied only by theirs. Being a toddler, he had little understanding of an adult’s needs for privacy, nor did he have any concept of right and wrong, other than a rudimentary instinct instilled during the few years he’d been alive.

After complaining and whining he’d eventually won his way into their nest. His father was away, out of town for work, an absence that had weakened his mother’s resolve to keep him out. With a warm feeling of safety he’d climbed into the bed, pulling the thick duvet up over his shoulders.

The boy thought it must have been his breathing that had caused the problem, as no other reason could be deduced in his infant mind. Sometimes his asthma made the air struggle as it escaped his lungs, causing a whistle out and a hiss in. This must have kept his mother awake longer than she could bear, and for that the boy was sorry. His mother meant the world to him. Sometimes he would imagine what he’d do if he saw her fall from a cliff; at the thought tears would come to his eyes (even though it were all a fiction) and he promised himself he would hurl his body after her. Better to be dead than to lose his mother.

And thus, the suggestion that he would deliberately keep her up at night was preposterous, and yet he must have, because clearly she’d become frustrated with his wheezing; a pillow was held tightly over his face, hard enough to block out any possible breath.

He wanted to struggle free. His mind and body were already revolting against the suffocation, auto-survival instincts telling him to thrash about, anything to reunite him with life-giving air. It were as if he were deep beneath the ocean, the water seeping into his throat, the pressure pushing down upon his lungs. But still he couldn’t - no – wouldn’t move.

But suddenly, a feeling… A sense triggered by the thought of the ocean, the feeling of water seeping into his lungs instead of the pillow against his face. He hadn’t the words, but later in life he would recognise the peculiar sensation of repeating a moment, the feeling of déjà vu. He had drowned before.

Not again.

Never again.

This time he’d breathe.

He began to push, squirming until his tiny arms found purchase beneath the pillow. Slowly they strained, quivering, infant elbows shaking in the exertion of competing against an adult’s. He wanted to stop, to give in to his mother’s pressure and in that way please her. But that was wrong. He was just a boy. It didn’t matter if he pushed the blame to her. Such blame was too great for an infant. A boy who deserved to breathe.

And suddenly the pillow was removed from his face, tiny lungs sucking in deep gasps of air, and his mother was pulling him into her arms and crying, saying over and over that she was sorry. It was her fault, not his. The blame was hers.

He hugged her back, because every boy loves his mother, and as she soaked his face with kisses he let himself forget the pillow and the pain. He let them go.

No need to take blame when there’s no blame to hold. No need to dream that you cannot breathe.

Because some don’t get a happy ending, but occasionally, just occasionally, they can get a happier beginning.

And for the first time in two or a billion lives, the Cog shifted.