Another workbench. Already there. And the walls had the symbols on them. Of course they did. That had been one of the first things he had done when he moved in.
The symbols. The cycle of life. The seasons of life. Birth to death to rebirth. And on. And on. Paul had taught him well. Made him understand.
Paul. He could hear him now, from where he was. Crying softly, pleading. He ignored him. Looked at the symbols.
Everything had its season, everything had its time. Everything in the garden lived, everything died. Paul’s words. And the Gardener had taken them to heart. Because the Gardener wanted the Garden to continue. And it had done. But not without sacrifices.
Every season. Every solstice. Every equinox. A child had to be sacrificed in order for the Garden to continue to flourish, to thrive. He had made the rest of the Elders understand that. If they wanted to do what they did with the Garden, he had to be responsible for making it grow, keeping it alive.
And he had done. For years. So many, he had lost count. Select an offspring, prepare it, sacrifice it. And keep the Garden alive.
The offering was never wasted. Blood and bone and flesh were reused, put back to work. It helped feed the Garden. It helped it grow. Made it strong. And it needed it now. More than ever. That was why this boy – this sacrifice – was so important. Because he had been there. Had seen for himself what was happening. The Garden was dying.
The rest of the Elders could talk, about new blood, about revitalisation, about all those things. But if he didn’t keep the sacrifices going, if he didn’t appease the earth the Garden grew in, it would never flourish again. And it had to.
There was another reason for the sacrifices.
He enjoyed them.
Fed on the screams, the cries. Luxuriated in the blood. The power.
All seasons under his control. Birth, death and rebirth. All down to him.
At his behest.
He turned back to the boy, who cowered away from him. Chain rattling and clanking as he did so.
‘You should be honoured,’ he said. ‘You have been chosen. Soon. Soon… ’
He turned away once more.
Ignored the boy’s cries.
Ignored Paul’s.
Went to pick some flowers.
83
Phil felt numb. Like his body had become disconnected from his brain, the nerve endings deadened, unresponsive. The room seemed to tunnel away from him. He was viewing his partner and the man he had regarded as his father from the wrong end of a telescope.
The feeling didn’t last. The raging conflicting emotions that Don’s announcement had triggered in him had built up and were now unleashed, adrenalin crashing into his system, like the kind of rush he would get from a car crash.
He didn’t know who to look at, to speak to first. His eyes swivelled, settled on Marina.
‘You knew?’ he said, the adrenalin becoming knife-like, stabbing him, bleeding internal betrayal, ‘You knew?’
‘Just before you did,’ she said, eyes imploring him to believe her, not wanting to hurt him even more. ‘Don and I talked, just before we came to the hospital. I said you should be told.’
There was nothing more he could say to her. He turned to Don. He knew there were more subtle, complex emotions that his body and mind were struggling to get him to feel, but he couldn’t process them at the moment. For now he wanted to feel something direct, something visceral. He felt the anger rise within him once more.
‘You knew,’ he said, his voice dangerously low, ‘you knew all this time. All those years. All my life… ’ His hands twisted and twined. ‘And you never said anything… ’
Don sighed, shook his head. Looked at the floor, then back to Phil before continuing. ‘We thought it best… you didn’t know.’ His voice weary, tired.
Phil nodded, lips pulled tightly across his mouth. ‘Right. So… ’ Hands still twisting. ‘Every time… every time I asked about my parents, my real parents, you told me you didn’t know.’
Don said nothing, found the floor between his feet fascinating.
Phil kept going. ‘Every time… you talked me out of going. Out of going to look for them. Every time. When I was younger. Every time… ’
Don looked up. Pain in his eyes. He seemed to be hurting as much as Phil was himself. His face appeared frozen in pain, unable to release the words he wanted to say.
‘You always said I’d never find them,’ Phil continued. ‘That you’d tried and they didn’t want to be found. That they were nowhere in the system. Every time… You lied to me, Don… Lied to me… And a sister… a sister… ’
‘It was better you didn’t know… ’ Tears had sprung into Don’s eyes as he found his voice.
‘Better?’ Phil gave a harsh, bitter laugh. ‘Better? Shouldn’t that have been my decision?’
Don said nothing, mouth contorting once more.
Phil’s voice was getting louder. ‘Shouldn’t it?’
‘No.’ Don’s voice as loud as Phil’s. ‘Perhaps if it had been an ordinary adoption, yes. If there is such a thing. But not in this case. No.’
‘Why not?’ Shouting now.
‘Because you weren’t there… You didn’t see what I saw… ’ Don’s voice ragged, breaking. His hand went to his face, rubbing his eyes, tears streaming round the edges of his fists.
Silence fell once more, hitting the room with the force of a bomb. The three of them sat, barely moving. Questions rising like fearful bubbles in Phil’s mind, letting them pop, dissolve away, unanswered.
But not all of them.
He turned to Marina. ‘The nightmares,’ he said. ‘The designs on the wall. The cage. The guy in the mask.’ Hands twisting, locking and unlocking once more. ‘Why? Why all of that?’
‘Because they were real,’ she said, voice calm and low. Soothing him. ‘They were all part of your life. Aspects of your life.’
‘But I… I didn’t know. I couldn’t remember any of it… ’
‘No,’ she said, ‘you wouldn’t. You were very young at the time. Your mind was still forming. And if you’d been lucky, it might not have left any impression. But because the memories were so horrific, so traumatic, your brain just… shut them off. Buried them. Repressed them deep inside you.’
Phil nodded.
‘So why now… ’
‘Like I said, it was too horrific. Your mind buried the past, but you still experienced it. It couldn’t get rid of it completely. It can’t. Because it still happened to you. So the memories lay dormant somewhere within your mind. Buried at the back. Just waiting for some trigger, some event to spark them off again. And this was it.’
‘Right… ’ Phil’s mind was buzzing. Like a nest of wasps in his head. Marina spoke, cutting through the noise.
‘Can you remember your parents at all?’
Phil closed his eyes. All he could hear was the humming. ‘No… ’
‘Probably just as well,’ she said. ‘If you were there when they were killed… that won’t be a memory you’ll be in a hurry to access.’
The wave of anger was receding within Phil. But questions were still buzzing and fizzing, his head aching from everything he had to process. He didn’t know what to think, what to say. What question to ask first. Don and Marina said nothing. Waited.
