Tunnels

matter. Once your in their clutches, there's no telling what—' She stopped short as Bartleby, who had been curled up asleep in the corner, woke with a protracted yawn, then ambled over and started to lap at the water in the bowl.

'Stop that, you stupid cat!' Cal said, pushing him away.

''E's just thirsty,' Auntie Jean said, then assumed the most preposterous baby voice. 'Poor puss, are you a liccle firsty?' She took hold of the astounded animal by the scruff of his neck and began to lead him toward the door. 'You come with Mummy for a treat.'

* * * * *

A lava flow moves portentously in the distance, its heat so fierce on Will's exposed skin that he can hardly bear it. Silhouetted by the vertical wall of streaming crimson behind him, Dr. Burrows frantically indicates something sprouting out of a massive slab of granite. He shouts excitedly, as he always does when he makes a discovery, but Will isn't able to catch the words due to the deafening white noise intercut with the cacophonous babble of many voices, as if someone is randomly scanning the airwaves on a damaged radio.

The scene shifts into close-up. Dr. Burrows is using a magnifying glass to examine a thin stalk with a bulbous tip that rises a foot and a half or so out of the solid rock. Will sees his father's lips moving, but can only understand brief snatches of what he is saying.

'… a plant… literally digests rock… silicon-based… reacts to stim-… observe…'

The image cuts to extreme close-up. Between two fingers, Dr. Burrows plucks the gray stalk from the rock. Will feels uneasy as he sees it writhe in his father's hand and shoot out two needlelike leaves that entwine around his fingers.

'…gripping me like iron… feisty little…,' Dr. Burrows says, frowning.

There are no more words, they are replaced by laughter, but his father seems to be screaming as he tries to shake the thing off, its leaves piercing his hand and threading straight through the flesh of his pam and wrist and carrying on up his forearm, the skin bruising, bruising and bursting open and becoming smeared with blood as they twist, interweaving in a snakelike waltz. They cut tighter and tighter into his forearm, like two possessed wires. Will tries to reach out to his father, to help him as he battles hopelessly against this horrific attack, as he fights his own arm.

'No, no… Dad… Dad!'

* * * * *

'It's all right, Will, it's all right,' came his brother's voice from a long way away.

The lava flow was gone. In its place was a shaded lamp, and he could feel the soothing coolness of the washcloth Cal was pressing against his forehead. He sat up with a start.

'It's Dad! What happened to Dad?' he cried, and looked around wildly, unsure of where he was.

'You're all right,' Cal said. 'You were dreaming.'

Will slumped back against the pillows, realizing he was lying in bed in a narrow room.

'I saw him. It was all so clear and real,' Will said, his voice breaking. He couldn't stem the flood of tears that suddenly filled his eyes. 'It was Dad. He was in trouble.'

'It was just a nightmare.' Cal spoke softly, averting his eyes from his brother, who was now sobbing silently.

'We're at Auntie Jean's, aren't we?' Will said, pulling himself together as he saw the floral wallpaper.

'Yes, we've been here for nearly three days.'

'Huh?' Will tried to sit up again, but it was too much for him; he rested his head back against the pillow once more. 'I feel so weak.'

'Don't worry, everything's fine. Your aunt's been great. Taken quite a shine to Bart, too.'

* * * * *

Over the ensuing days, Cal nursed Will back to health with bowls of soup or baked beans on toast and seemingly endless cups of oversugared tea. Auntie Jean's sole contribution to his convalescence was to perch at the foot of his bed and burble on incessantly about the 'old days', though Will was so exhausted he fell asleep before she could bore him senseless.

When Will finally felt strong enough to stand, he tested his legs by trying to walk up and down the length of the small bedroom. As he hobbled around with some difficulty, he noticed something lying discarded behind a box of old magazines.

He stooped down and picked up two objects. Shards of broken glass dropped to the floor. He recognized the pair of buckled silver frames right away. They were the ones Rebecca had kept on her bedside table. Looking at the photograph of his parents, and then the one of himself, he slumped back onto the bed, breathing heavily. He was distraught. He felt as though someone had stuck a knife into him and was very slowly twisting it. But what did he expect from her? Rebecca wasn't his sister, and never had been. He remained on the bed for some time, staring blankly at the wall.

A little later he got to his feet again and staggered down the hall into the kitchen. Dirty plates sat in the sink, and the garbage bin was overflowing with empty cans and torn microwave-ready food boxes. It was a scene of such carnage that he barely registered the plastic tops of the faucet, melted and brown, and the flame-blackened tiles behind them. He grimaced and turned back into the hall, where he heard Auntie Jean's gruff voice. Its tones were vaguely comforting, reminding him of the holidays when she would come to visit, chatting to his mother for hours on end.

He stood outside the door and listened as Auntie Jean's knitting needles rattled away furiously while she spoke.

'Dr. bloomin' Burrows… soon as I laid eyes on 'im, I warned my sister… I did, you know… you don't want to be getting 'itched to some overeducated layabout… I mean, I ask you, what good's a man who grubs around in 'oles in the ground when there's bills to pay?'

Will peered around the corner as Auntie Jean's needles stopped their metronomic clicking and she took a sip from a tumbler. The cat was looking adoringly at Auntie Jean, who looked back at him with an affectionate, almost loving, smile. Will had never seen this side of her before — he knew he should say something to announce his presence, but somehow he couldn't bring himself to break the moment.

'I tell you, it's nice to 'ave you 'ere. I mean, after my little Sophie passed on… she was a dog and I know you don't much like them… but at least she was there for me… that's more than you can say for any man I met.'

She held up her knitting in front of her, a garishly colored pair of pants, which Bartleby sniffed curiously. 'Nearly done. In just a mo' you can try 'em on for size, my lovely.' She leaned over and tickled Bartleby under the chin. He lifted his head and, closing his eyes, began to purr with the amplitude of a small engine.

Will turned to make his way back to the bedroom and was resting against the wall in the hallway when there was a crash behind him. Cal was standing just inside the front door, two bags of dropped shopping spilling open in front of him. He had a scarf wrapped around his mouth and was wearing Mrs. Burrows's sunglasses. He looked like the Invisible Man.

'I can't take much more of this,' he said, squatting down to retrieve the groceries. Bartleby padded out from the living room, followed by Auntie Jean, a cigarette perched on her lip. The cat was wearing his newly knitted pants and mohair cardigan, both a strident mix of blues and reds, topped off with a multicolored balaclava from which his scabby ears stuck comically. Bartleby looked like the survivor of an explosion in a Salvation Army shop.

Cal glanced at the outlandish creature before him, taking in the shocking display of colors, but didn't comment. He appeared to be in the depths of despondency. 'This place is full of hate — you can smell it everywhere.' He shook his head slowly.

'Oh, it is that, love,' Auntie Jean said quietly. 'Always 'as been.'

'Topsoil isn't what I expected,' Cal said. He thought for a moment. 'And I can't go home… can I?'

Will stared back as he searched for something to say to console his brother, some form of words to quell the boy's anxiety, but he was unable to utter a word.

Auntie Jean cleared her throat, bringing the moment to an end.

'Suppose this means you're all going?'

As she stood there in her scruffy old coat, Will saw for the first time how very vulnerable and frail she seemed.