Moon (10 page)

    

    

    Gabby's birth had been difficult, a breech.

    She had come from the womb feet first and a purplish shade of blue, almost causing Childes, who had stayed by Fran's side throughout, to collapse with fear. He had felt that nothing looking like that, so shrivelled and frail, so darkly-coloured, could possibly live. The obstetrician had tilted the baby, drawing mucus from her mouth, having no time to reassure the parents, anxious only for the life of the child. He had cleared the blockage and blown hard against her slippery little chest to encourage breathing. The first cry, no more than a quietly-pitched whimper and hardly heard, sent relief surging through them all, doctor, nurse and parents alike. She had been wrapped and placed on Fran's breast, the umbilical cord deftly cut and Childes, as exhausted mentally as Fran was physically, had viewed them both with a spreading glow which transformed his weariness into a relaxed tiredness.

    Fran, her features wan and aged after the ordeal; the baby, still wet and bloodied, her face screwed up and wrinkled like an ancient's; both so peaceful in the struggle's aftermath. He had leaned over them, careful not to crush, yet needing to be as close as possible, the sterile hospital smell mixing with the sweat odour of battle, and had thought then that nothing could ever disrupt their unity, nothing could make them part.

    In the ensuing weeks it was as though Gabby was slowly emerging from a deep and terrible trauma, as indeed she was - the transition between mere existence and dawning awareness. He had begun to understand the shock creation brought with it.

    Sleep laid claim to most of her life in those early days, releasing her in gentle episodes to absorb and learn, to sustain herself, and the transformation was fascinating to see. Her growing was a marvel to him and he spent hours just observing, watching her develop, become a little girl who toddled on unsteady legs and who had a great affection for her own thumb and a ragged piece of material that had once been her blanket. Her first word had delighted him, even though it hadn't been 'Dadda', and her unbounded reliance on him and Fran and her uncomplicated love had drawn from him a new tenderness that was reflected in other areas of his life. Gabby had made him understand the vulnerability of every living person and creature; a time-consuming career involved in machines and abstractions had tended to blunt that perception.

    The newfound compassion had nearly destroyed him when he had mind-witnessed the indecent destruction of the children.

    Three years later the thoughts still haunted him and, just lately, their power to do so was greater than ever.

    Childes had spent the evening preparing exercises for the next day's lessons, the Tuesday afternoon he had promised to Miss Piprelly and which had already come into practice. Examinations for the girls would soon be upon them and Computer Studies would be one. He was irritated that his thoughts had kept wandering throughout the evening, thinking of Gabby, the years of happiness they had shared as a family, even though Fran had never completely laid to rest the ghost of her PR career. So much had happened to spoil that in such a short time, and the intervening years could not quite dispel the anguish of it all.

    He stared unseeingly at the papers spread before him, the shielded desk-lamp casting deep shadows around the small living room. Was Gabby asleep by now, glasses folded next to her pillow for security? He glanced at his watch: nearly half-past nine. She had better be. Did Fran still read her a bedtime story, or was she too busy nowadays, too exhausted when she got home? Childes shuffled the papers together, dismayed that some of the girls he had tested today with quick-fire questions still did not know the difference between analog and digital computers, or that they could be combined in a hybrid. Simple, basic stuff that shouldn't have been a problem. He dreaded the exam results, hoping practice would prove more fruitful than theory.

    He ran a hand across weary eyes, his contact lenses feeling like soft grit against his pupils. Food, he thought. Ought to eat, they say it's good for you. So tired, though. Maybe a sandwich, a glass of milk. A stiff drink might be more beneficial.

    He was about to rise when something cold, numbing, stabbed at his mind.

    Childes put both hands to his temples, confused by the unexpected sensation. Blinking his eyes, he tried to rid himself of the coldness. It persisted.

    Outside he could hear the night breeze stirring the trees. A floorboard cracked somewhere inside the house, a timber settling after the warmth of the day.

    The numbness faded and he shook his head as if dizzy. Too much paperwork, he told himself, too much concentration far into the night. Concentration disturbed by thoughts of Gabby. And other things.

    That drink might relax him. He rose, pressing down on the desk top to heave himself up. The icicle touched nerves once more and he swayed, hands gripping the sides of the desk to steady himself.

    His thoughts were jumbled, tumbling over each other in his head, the iciness now like probing fingers pushing through those thoughts, taking them and somehow… somehow… feeding upon them. His shoulders hunched and his head bowed. His lips drew back as though he were in pain, yet there was no hurt, just the spreading numbness and the mental chaos. A groan escaped him.

    And then his mind began to clear. He remained standing, leaning over the desk, breathing heavily, allowing the sensation to subside. It seemed to take a long while, but Childes knew it was no more than seconds. He waited until his quivering nerves had settled before crossing the room and pouring himself a drink. Strangely, the whisky was almost tasteless.

    He choked on the next swallow as the burning flavour came back at him at full strength. Spluttering, he wiped the back of his arm against his lips. What the hell was happening to him? He tasted the drink again, this time more carefully, sipping slowly. He was warmed.

    Childes looked around the room uneasily, not sure of what he was searching for, merely feeling another presence. Foolish. Apart from him, the room was empty, nobody had crept in while he had been hunched over paperwork.

    The shadows thrown by the metal desk-lamp made him uncomfortable and he went to the switch by the door, bandaged hand outstretched to turn on the overhead light. He stopped before touching the switch and stared at his fingers, surprised by the sudden tingling in them, as if they had received a mild electric shock. They had not touched the light-switch. He glanced down when the peculiar tingling began in the hand clutching the whisky glass and it seemed as though the glass itself was vibrating.

    The unseen, insidious fingers probed again.

    His body sagged and he quickly sank onto the nearby sofa, pushing into its softness as if trying to evade a pressing weight. The glass fell to the floor, the rug soaking up its spilled contents. Childes' eyes closed as the sense of intrusion became intense. Images whirled inside his head, computer matrixes, faces, the room he was in now, numbers, symbols, floating in and out, something white, shimmering, past events, his own face, his own self, his fears, dreams long-forgotten recalled and pried into.

    He moaned, pushing away the delving ice tentacles, forcing a calmness in his mind, willing the confusion to stop.

    Childes' muscles relaxed a little when the cold probing faded once again, his chest rising and falling in exaggerated motion. He stared blankly at the shadows cast against the opposite wall. Something was attempting to reach him, something -
somebody
- was trying to
know
him.

    With scarcely any relief, the creeping sensation came back, tautening his body, infiltrating his consciousness. No! his mind screamed. And
'No!'
he cried aloud. But it was there, inside, searching, sucking at his thoughts. He could feel its existence, delving into him like some psychic thief. It invaded him and dwelt on thoughts of the island, the schools he taught in, thoughts of Amy, of Fran, of… Gabby. Of GABBY! It seemed to linger.

    Childes forced himself off the sofa, struggling against the extraneous consciousness, painfully dislodging each numbing tentacle as though they were physical entities. He felt their grip loosen and the effort sent him to his knees. He made himself think only of a white mist, nothing else, nothing to distract him nor give sustenance to the intruder, and soon his head began to clear.

    But before relief came fully, leaving him crouched and shivering on the floor, he heard a sound so real it caused him to twist his head and search the dark corners of the room.

    He was alone. But the low snickering seemed close.

    

    

    Jeanette was late. The other girls from her dormitory had already gone down and she was still in her dressing gown, furiously brushing her teeth.

    Today of all days! Exams! Maths!
Aargh, maths!
Jeanette sometimes wondered if she were a bonehead as far as figures were concerned.

    Morning sunlight poured into the washroom, reflecting off the rows of porcelain basins, making them gleam; water gathered in small pools on the tiled floor, liquid debris from the girls' washing rituals. She was alone and preferred to be: the others often embarrassed her by comparing breast sizes and shapes, all of them eager competitors in the development race. Jeanette was a long way behind most of the other thirteen- and fourteen-year-olds in her class and did not care much for the comparisons. To add to her feelings of inadequacy, her periods had not even started yet.

    Jeanette rinsed her mouth, spat into the basin, dabbed her lips with a face-cloth, and dumped her toiletries into her pink plastic washbag. She padded to the door, bare feet nearly slipping on the wet tiles, then hurried along the gloomy corridor, leaving damp footprints on the polished floorboards in her wake. Bare feet were forbidden inside the school, but she had not had time to rummage beneath her bed for skulking slippers, and besides, everyone, staff included, would be downstairs by now tucking into breakfast.

    It was shivery in the dormitory she shared with five other girls, despite the bright sun outside, and Jeanette quickly laid out her underwear, plain regulation navy-blue panties and white vest, on the narrow, rumpled bed. Shrugging off her quilted dressing gown, she pulled her pyjama top off over her head without undoing the buttons and threw it onto the bed alongside the underwear. She briskly rubbed at the sudden goose-pimples on her arms as if to brush them off, then reached for the vest. Before pulling on the garment, she paused to examine her chest and sighed at its complacency. The nipples were longish, erect now because of the chill, but the tiny mounds they thrust from were, as usual, a disappointment. She tweaked the nipples to make them harder and tugged at the soft bumps to encourage growth. A delicate flush of pleasure warmed her and she imagined her breasts had swelled a little more. She sat on the bed, still in her pyjama bottoms, and cupped a mound in each hand. It felt pleasant and she wondered what it would be like if… No, no time for that - she was late enough already!

    She stripped off the pyjama legs and swiftly donned vest, panties, and white socks retrieved from the bottom drawer of her bedside locker. Since the weather had changed for the better, La Roche girls were allowed their light blue, short-sleeved summer dresses and Jeanette shrugged on hers, shoes, badly in need of a polish, following. She tidied the bed, hiding her nightwear beneath the sheets, then grabbed a brush and attacked her long, tangled hair, wincing at her efforts. The small blue-rimmed mirror, a china butterfly frozen on one top corner, standing on top of the locker, reflected the results, which were not pleasing. In spite of her haste Jeanette leaned close and examined her face for overnight blemishes. She had almost entirely cut out chocolate and did her utmost, puke-making though it was, to finish off all the green vegetables on her dinner plate, but the spots came up with predictable regularity, and nearly always on special occasions. But there - today wasn't special, only rotten exams, and her skin was clear! She bet that on her wedding day there would be at least five zits to every square inch of flesh on her face and she'd have to wear a veil all through the ceremony and she'd be afraid to lift it afterwards for her husband's kiss and when she eventually did she would look like an ice-cream topped with raspberry pips.

    Jeanette moved even closer to the blue-rimmed mirror, looking deep into her own dark eyes, dreamily wondering if she could see the future there. She had been scolded enough by her parents and tutors alike for spending too much time day-dreaming and not enough time
thinking,
and she had tried to concentrate on more serious things, but after a few minutes her mind always drifted inwards and became lost in her own fantasies. She tried, she
tried,
but it seemed her thoughts had a separate will. To look through a window at the sky meant seeing herself soar over tree tops, swooping down into valleys, skimming over white-crested oceans, not as a bird but as her own free spirit. The sun warming her face would evoke fiery deserts, golden beaches, sultry days spent with - a keen-edged excitement with the word - her future
lover.
To catch a flower's fragrance initiated thoughts on the existence of all things, large or small, animate or inanimate, and her part in such order. To see the moon-

    A shadow passed behind her.

    She turned and there was no one there; save for her, the dormitory was empty.

    Posters and cut-outs of pop stars, movie stars, tennis stars, hair styles, fashion styles,
crazee
styles, covered the walls in carefully assembled groups. One or two raggedy teddy-bears and dolls, kept now as mascots rather than the cuddly, loved companions they once were, watched with dead eyes. Colourful mobiles over beds stirred gently as if touched by a breeze.