Relatively Strange (36 page)

“Far too hot.” tutted Ruth, as a small, steaming river snaked its way across the floor. To the right of the reinforced door was another keypad on which Ed was already working. He gave me a mental nod and the circular handle turned at my touch.

“Go on, he’s no different from you, you know,” Miss Peacock was brisk, “Just younger and a lot more frightened.” Reassured a little, cross that she’d know it, I moved inside, with some effort pulling the door nearly closed behind me and looked around. I was in a white tiled area, at the end of which was a blankly curtained window shutting off the room beyond. In front of the glass was a desk with a monitor screen, similar to the one at the nurse’s station. There were a couple of wall-mounted drug cabinets and a sink with long-handled taps along one wall and along the other, a row of all-in-one suits hanging lifelessly. Nearby, on glass shelves were several sets of white masks to cover nose and mouth – I don’t know how the suits and masks affected the kid in the next room, but they gave me the willies and that was with nobody in them. I could feel the irritation of the others too,

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” Miss Peacock was acerbically to the point. “What he’s got they can’t catch and if he wants to do damage, space-suits aren’t going to protect anyone.”

Adjacent to the shrouded window was the door into the next room. I drew a hitched breath and went in. The room was sparse. Plain pale walls, neutral lino floor and a range of medical equipment by the bed, drip stand, oxygen and another glass-screened monitor with wires dangling. Intermittent moonlight shone through the bars on the window, casting striped shadow on the floor. If the décor left a bit to be desired, they hadn’t gone overboard on fixtures and fittings either. A hard wooden chair was drawn up to a small round white formica table, both anchored to the floor by short stretches of thick iron links. There was a sink in one corner of the room and a door leading off, bathroom and toilet I presumed. The child in the bed was small, his body hardly mounding the covers.

He was lying awkwardly. Both thin wrists were encircled with dark leather straps threaded through short metal chains which were anchored to corners of the iron bedstead. The chains weren’t really long enough, pulling his arms uncomfortably, so he was lying half on his back, half on his side. Moving closer I could see the sore, scaley patches where the flesh of his wrists had chafed, bled, scabbed and chafed again. I could feel something rising in me, supplanting the fear. I absently registered it as ice-cold anger. The others were silent for once.

The child was sleeping, I didn’t think deeply. He was an ordinary looking little boy, snub nosed, breathing softly through his open mouth, one front tooth missing. Dark hair that looked as if it hadn’t seen shampoo in a while was damply matted on a high forehead and, as the moon moved briefly out from obscuring cloud and shafted light into the room, it showed where tears had dried on his cheeks and run down into his ears. His nose could have done with a good wipe as well. He opened his eyes and looked at me.

I reacted instinctively and if his strength was fuelled by fear and anger, I suppose mine was too. In that instant, as he woke, he used his mind to strike out as he had so often before at his tormentors. But he knew instantly, as he cut deep into me that I was something different. That scared him even more. The force of the onslaught was such that my knees buckled instantly, joints cracking in protest as they folded and hit the ground with a smack. As I went down, I banged my cheek against the iron frame of the bed and bit my tongue hard.

He flooded my head, shrieking, exultant, terrified. The savage instincts of a small boy, honed by his experiences so far and untamed by any mitigating kindnesses. Up till now, when he’d lashed out, he knew he’d been effective but never to this glorious extent. Behind me, the chair rose to the length of its short chain and met the table in mid-air and triumphant clash. The drip stand flew sideways and the monitor crashed back against the wall, showering me with spitefully sharp glass shards. It was too late to shield, he was everywhere. I lashed back in self-defence, pulling no punches and his head rocked to the left and hit the side-rail of the bed with a dull crack. When he hit out again, it was with the aim of hurting me anywhere and everywhere he could. I didn’t want to match his violence, was scared of what I could do, but this was no time for finesse. I lashed out hard again and as his face crumpled in pain, I understood he expected no different. This was what life was all about – hurt and be hurt more. I knew then what I had to do if I had any hope of getting to him. I stopped.

Unprotected, the full force of him bulleted into me, I’ve never known, before or since, pain quite like it. He lashed out with all the fear, hate, anger and bile of an abused six year old. Like any child he’d learned from experience and he hurt me in the many ways he’d been hurt. I think I may have blacked out for a bit. I was only dimly aware, after a time, maybe minutes, maybe far longer that the storm was abating. Curled as I was on my side on the hard floor, I noted it was pretty dusty under the bed, someone certainly wasn’t up to par with the housekeeping.

I spat some of the blood out of my mouth which felt bruised and swollen, come to think of it, so did the rest of me and my head – well the less said about my head the better. I didn’t think I could, or indeed ever would want to move again. I lay there for a while longer, not thinking about anything in particular.

As some more time passed, reality slowly started to make its wary way back in. And after a couple of feebly false starts, I reached out just a bit further and grabbed hold of one of the bed legs. I used that to haul myself along the floor and then, very slowly and carefully, propped myself in a semi sitting position against the side of the bed frame. I didn’t feel it was wise to go any further at that point because the room was spinning so rapidly. I shut my eyes and the room stood still while I whirled, which wasn’t an improvement by anybody’s standards. Someone was making hoarse little gasping sounds that were getting on my wick, I discovered it was me so I shut up. I rested there and concentrated on not throwing up. After a bit, and not easily, I turned my head, my eyelids felt bruised and swollen so I opened them one at a time. I was gazing, from a few inches away, into an unblinking, hostile, brown almost black stare.

He’d withdrawn as far across the bed as the leather strap on the side nearest to me would let him. There was a fresh smear of blood where it was biting into the flesh. He was still in that uncomfortable, half on his back half on his side position. His legs were pulled almost to his chest, every muscle rigidly poised, ready for an escape he couldn’t make. His lips were back from his teeth in a snarl and his breathing made an ugly rasping noise in his throat. He and I could kill each other, right there, right then without either of us moving a muscle. I knew how easy it could be. Did he?

I cleared my throat gently and in a ladylike way, spat a little blood into the sleeve of my jumper. His eyes didn’t waver.

“Nice welcome.” I said, “What happened to hello, how are you?” He didn’t react, probably appreciated my humour about as much as Miss Peacock. I soldiered on, talking softly, murmuring, as much to myself as to him, but letting him read me. His eyes flickered as he registered not only that he could, which was nothing unusual, but that I was fully aware and letting him do it.

I didn’t want to make any sudden moves, in fact, didn’t think I could, but we didn’t have all night.

“Sam,” I said, “I’m going to take the straps off your wrists in a moment, OK?” He flinched, eyes widening and I saw very clearly and with fury what they’d threatened him with. He could of course, have easily broken the straps or indeed the chains, at any time but when you’re six, even if you do have some pretty special abilities, the threat of something unmentionably terrible hiding under the bed, leashed by the straps, released with their breaking is a pretty effective deterrent. For an instant I glimpsed in his head the monster he knew was there, and it scared the life out of me too.

I could feel him nibbling at the edges of my mind trying to find out more. He couldn’t work out what I was. He knew now that although he could hurt me badly, I could do the same to him but I hadn’t, I’d stopped. He was desperate to know more, scared to move any further forward in my head in case he provoked my violent response again. I let him see and feel exactly what I was doing – I didn’t want to risk touching the leather for fear of hurting his sore wrists even more, so I concentrated on the metal chain links. It took a few moments and his fear kept distracting me. Where the hell, I wondered, were the others, always butting in when not wanted and now, when I could really do with a little help from my friends, neither hide nor hair. For a few moments after the final link on the second chain gave way, he didn’t move, could feel the release of the pressure on his arms but stayed in exactly the same position, I didn’t want to rush him but time wasn’t on our side.

“Try moving your arms a bit.” I suggested. He shifted very slightly, never taking his eyes off me, grimacing a little as stiff muscles and strained joints adjusted to the unaccustomed movement. “See?” I said gently, “No monster.”

And then he started to scream, shrill, hysterical shafts of sound drilling into my mind, hurting my head. His eyes were bulging with horror, lips twisting in panic as he tried to scramble backwards up the bed and through the wall behind to get away. For just a moment, so complete was his terror and his conviction, I bought into it and there were nearly two of us trying to get through the wall, before I pulled myself together.

Hamlet, who’d only just now mustered enough courage to move forward a little from the corner, where he’d been cowering, like the yellow-belly he was, looked bewildered at the reaction he’d provoked. But somewhere in there, was more intelligence than I’d given him credit for. He immediately stopped where he was, stretched his two front legs full out in front of him and sank down, folding his back legs neatly underneath, making himself smaller, less fearful. He knew he was scaring this small person, who was already more than scared enough and he was trying to make things better.

“Sam, it’s a dog, a dog, he’s only a dog.” I was sobbing with shock too, desperate to reassure him, panic stricken this might spiral him into violence again, terrified someone would hear the screaming. “Look it’s a dog, not the monster, a dog, I brought him, he came in with me, you just didn’t see him at first.” Hamlet, anxious to corroborate gave a soft little woof and put his head right down on his paws to make himself even less of a threat. Sam’s screams were dying slowly but he was still shaking and as far from happy as it was possible for a small boy to be. I saw his point, I hadn’t been a fan of Hamlet’s from the get go either. Hamlet wisely stayed very still and waited, eyeing the boy mournfully as his tension began to drain away a little and he sniffed hard and wiped his nose on his pyjama sleeve – where were Ed and a hanky when you needed them?

Sam eased himself fractionally down the bed, I could see the white, now reddening mark on his cheek where he’d ground it against the bed-head in his desperate need to get away. I felt him reaching out, tentatively, feeling for the dog, checking the evidence of his eyes against the weight of his fears. Hamlet rose very slowly and gently to his full height, waited politely to see if that produced any adverse reaction and when it didn’t, moving delicately for such a large creature, paced carefully round to the other side of the bed, his massive head level with the child’s. They contemplated each other solemnly for a moment and Sam, reaching into the mind of the animal found, as perhaps had happened rarely in his short life, nothing there to fear. He tentatively reached out a small, leather-braceleted hand and the dog shuffled forward a little to allow his head to be softly stroked. O.K. Good. Excellent. I heaved a sigh of relief that came out a sob. But this was no time to get complacent we had to get our skates on.

Chapter Forty-Three

“Sam?” I touched him gently on the arm and as he turned away from Hamlet I was vastly relieved to see he’d lost some of his rigidity, although he was still an awfully long way from relaxed.

“Sam, I’ve come to take you away.”

“Where?” he had a hoarse little voice, deep for a child and a soft, chocolate, buttery sort of a scent. This was the first time he’d spoken and straight away he had me stumped. I looked at him helplessly. Now I came to think of it, I didn’t actually know. I thought back over all the conversations of the last few days and drew a blank. I know they’d talked an awful lot about getting Sam out, but where we were actually getting him out to, rather escaped me for the moment. I could feel a giggle working its way up from my stomach and swallowed it sternly. I had a feeling that once I started laughing, I might not stop. And of course, this wasn’t a child you could fob off.

“Don’t know actually,” I admitted, “But let’s face it,” I indicated the room with a movement of my head. It hadn’t looked like anything out of House and Garden when I got there, but now it was a complete shambles, with what little furniture and equipment there was, scattered and much the worse for the battering it had received. “Can’t be much worse than this, can it?” He gave a quick glance round too and I could clearly read, poor little bugger, as Grandma would have said, he actually thought it could, had indeed experienced far worse. He looked at me and into me, across the vast chasm of our life-experiences to date. There was only ten years between us, but a lifetime of differences. He weighed up the pros and cons, came to a considered decision and nodded once, he’d come with me.