Trace Memory

'You've never been to the museum?' Jack asked.

'Cardiff museum? But you're from Cardiff.'

'I know,' said Michael. 'But my Dad always said it was for toffs and poofs. He said there was nothing in there for us.'

Jack shook his head.

'Sometimes you people amaze me,' he said. 'All this wealth of knowledge, all these beautiful things, all this history, and you just dismiss it as nothing. Come on. We're going in.'

'But why have we come here?' Michael asked. 'I mean, it's a nice building and everything but… Now? When all… all this is happening?'

'Ah, yes,' said Jack. 'Our lives are in flux. I can't think of a better time to see beautiful things.'

Walking across the vast entrance of the museum they neared a flight of steps in the centre of which was a dark statue of a young, naked boy, holding aloft what looked like a woman's head.

'What's that?' asked Michael.

'That,' said Jack, 'is Perseus. You ever heard of Medusa?'

Michael shook his head.

'She was one of the Gorgons, in Greek mythology. A monster with serpents for hair. She could turn people into stone just by looking at them.'

'Not all monsters are made up, though, are they?' said Michael.

Jack looked at Michael and shook his head. 'No. Not all of them.'

'And what about my monsters?' said Michael. 'What if they come for me again?'

'Well,' said Jack, grinning, 'this time they'll have to deal with me, won't they?'

Michael laughed.

'What's so funny?' said Jack, still smiling. 'I'll have you know I'm one tough cookie when it comes to duking it out with monsters…'

'It's not that,' said Michael. 'It's just that that's exactly what you said last time.'

Jack frowned, and then a moment later understood, and realised he already knew too much.

'Come on!' he said. 'Follow me!'

He climbed the steps in great strides, past the sculpture, towards the upper galleries of the museum, and Michael followed.

'But what's so urgent?' asked Michael, and then, with vague disdain, 'You said we were just looking at beautiful things.'

'True,' said Jack. 'But I also said we had questions that need answering. Who said we couldn't do both?'

They walked through gallery after gallery, past gaggles of schoolchildren listening attentively to prim and proper tour guides, and Michael looked at the paintings and wondered whether there would come a day when all of them would be gone for ever; burnt or buried like the pictures that had decorated his house when he was a child. Some of the paintings, so Jack told him, were centuries old; they had survived wars and plagues; but surely something as flimsy as canvas wouldn't last for eternity.

When he told Jack this, Jack felt a sudden stab of sadness. Michael had a point. Jack was beginning to realise that there was a very good chance he'd outlast every painting in the museum.

They'd walked through several of the larger galleries, when Jack said, 'There he is.'

'Who?' asked Michael.

'Sam,' said Jack, gesturing towards an old man with a mottled grey beard.

'And who's Sam?'

'He's the knower of all things,' said Jack. 'Like a kind of sage…'

'Like sage and onion?'

Jack laughed. 'No. Like a wise man. A magus. He's a friend, or as close to a friend as I've got most of the time.'

Michael looked at the old man and frowned. He didn't look all that special. In fact, he looked more like a tramp — sitting on one of the leather viewing couches with his shoulders slumped, his hands resting on a wooden walking stick, and an old and battered satchel at his feet.

On seeing Jack, the old man broke into a near-toothless grin. 'Jack!' he said.

Jack led Michael across the gallery to where Sam still sat. 'Sam, this is…'

'Michael,' said Sam. 'I won't get up, if you don't mind. Old bones. Can't get up and down too many times these days.'

His voice was deep, a soft growl like the voice Michael imagined an ageing lion might have if it could speak.

'It's been a while,' said Jack. 'How are you?'

'Oh, so, so,' said Sam. 'You know how it is. Never getting any younger. To what do I owe this pleasure?'

'I need a little information,' said Jack. About some names.'

Sam nodded and rested his chin on the top of his walking stick.

'I'll see what I can do, Jack,' he said. 'I'm not as sharp as I used to be. Things get cloudier the older you get.'

'I'm being followed,' said Jack. 'Any idea who it might be?'

The old man pursed his lips and glanced up at the ceiling, as if the answer might be floating somewhere in mid air.

'Yes,' he said. 'You're quite right, of course. But who? There's a warehouse. Near water. But it's not what it looks like, Jack. Inside… so many people. And so many rooms, and corridors. Oh, I'm sorry, Jack. Ten years ago, I'd have been able to walk you there myself, but now… What use ami?'

'It's OK,' said Jack, patting the old man's shoulder. 'It's fine. What about the name Hugo? Does that mean anything to you?'

Sam sucked air through his few remaining teeth and then smiled.

'Hugo Faulkner,' he said, nodding and drumming both hands on the walking stick. 'Posh lad? Talks like he's got a mouth full of plums?'

Jack laughed. 'That's him.'

'There's clouds there, Jack. Like storm clouds. But he's not the one you're afraid of…'

Jack shrugged this off and laughed through his nose. 'Afraid? I'm hardly a-'

'It's OK, Jack. You don't have to play the Humphrey Bogart act with me. How long have I known you?'

Michael looked at Jack and was surprised to see him blushing.

'OK,' said Jack. 'But can you see anything else? About Hugo?'

'Yes. He's not the one you're afraid of, but he doesn't know what he's doing. The man's as much of a fool as you think he is. There's a meeting? At the seaside?'

'Yes.'

'You want answers? Answers I can't give?'

Jack nodded.

'You'll go,' said Sam. 'To this meeting, I mean. And you'll get answers. They just might not be the answers to the questions you ask.'

Jack sighed. 'OK,' he said, 'I think I understand.'

'Oh, I doubt it,' said Sam, bursting into a hacking fit of laughter before covering his mouth with his fist. 'So,' he said, when he'd recovered, 'what about your young friend here?'

Jack put one arm around Michael's shoulder.

'He's like us,' said Jack. 'He doesn't really belong here.'

'Oh,' said Sam scowling, 'here?

I belong here.

Can't think where else I'd go. I'm ninety-six years old. Four more years and I'll get a telegram off the Queen. My pension just about pays for my tobacco and my bus fare in the mornings, and if I'm lucky I'll have enough left over for some liver and onions come teatime. Where else am I gonna go, Jack?'

Jack nodded.

Sam turned to Michael. 'You know,' he said, his watery blue eyes twinkling in the soft lights of the gallery, 'when I first met Jack, I was… how old was I, Jack?'