The Weight of Souls

Nice.

I rolled my shoulders, inhaled and pressed the heel of my hand to my forehead; then I started again.

The final pin clicked into position. I took a deep breath and turned the file. The plug rotated, the lock snicked open and I pulled my tools free.

My hand shook on the handle. I added enough weight to push it downwards. The patio door swung open on thankfully silent hinges and I stepped into the house.

My shoes squeaked on the tiled floor and I froze. I pulled the door closed behind me, tucked my tools away and rubbed my arms. The house was cold. Very little light followed me in from the garden and the room was grey with shadow and shade. A piano stood in one corner and two large, overstuffed sofas faced a well-stocked drinks cabinet. A crystal decanter distilled the dim light and turned it into a tiny constellation.

Carefully I tiptoed to the doorway and peered around. There was an alcove opposite me displaying an empty vase almost as tall as I was and to my left was a carpeted dining room. It too was quiet. I sped past the large rectangular table and ornate chairs and cracked the door open.

Voices made me hold my breath. Then I recognised a familiar theme tune. She was watching EastEnders.

I poked my head around the door and faced a long hallway. Doors flanked black and white tiles that led all the way to the front entrance. Light came from beneath only one, the farthest away from me.

I retreated back into the alcove and glowered at dead guy. “I’m going to wait here. Tell me when she falls asleep and I’ll Mark her.”

“You’re not going to confront her? I need her to know who’s doing this to her. That bitch ruined my life.”

I ground my teeth. “She ended your life. I’m here to get justice, not to let you go on a rant. If you want a medium, go find one.”

The suit opened his mouth.

“Just forget it. I’m not risking myself so you can go on a power trip. You’ll get your revenge. So go. Get the alarm code so I can get out of here later, and don’t come back till she’s asleep.”

The stairs were carpeted and the carpet was thick; my shoes only whispered on the pile and the stairs supported my weight uncomplainingly. At the top I swung around the nearest wall and leaned against it. All the doors up here were closed, as if the house had been shut up for a holiday.

The suit was standing outside the only one that was slightly ajar.

“She’s in there?” I mouthed.

He nodded resentfully.

“You’re sure she’s asleep?”

He nodded again.

I slipped into the room and found the middle-aged woman passed out on the bed. She was snoring and her eye-mask had slipped so that only one eye was covered. A bottle of pills lay on the nightstand next to her. I edged closer. By the look of what she’d taken I could start playing the trumpet and she’d sleep on.

One arm lay on top of the covers, fingers twitching in sleep. She snuffled as if she could sense me, but did not move.

A twinge of sympathy wormed in my chest as I held my hand above hers. She hadn’t gained much from her dark deed. But I’d been Marked and it was her or me. I pressed my hand to her palm as if we were holding hands. She mumbled again, pulled away and rolled over. Her eye-mask slipped all the way off and her blackened hand flopped over her face in its place.

“Sorry.” I couldn’t prevent the apology from slipping out.

The suit opened his mouth but I ignored him and slipped out of the room. He’d have his revenge and if she was as reclusive as he said, no one would even know.

7 SO DISAPPOINTED

Dad had fallen asleep at his desk again. The Tale of Oh-Fa lay open beside his microscope. If I took it I could get it back in place by the morning. I ached at the thought of actually reading the words that my mother had once spoken. Automatically I picked it up and opened it to the front page. The familiar sentences danced in front of me, drawing me in.

The journal of Oh-Fa, translated from the Chinese by his daughter, Oh Yehao

Entry the first

I have consulted the I-Ching. That is how I know my son will be born on this date. The fact that I will not see him until he is near walking is a source of great pain. But my heart’s ache is unimportant; our family needs this salary.

Today we begin working on a new grid so maybe we will find the sign the Professor seeks and this interminable misery will end.

I sit on my tiny camp bed to write. The overseer I call Sunbird, because of his bright red hair, permitted me to use these old requisitions once he witnessed my industriousness. Not all of the company work so hard. Even now, despite the brutality of the sun burning through the tent, I see the lankiest of them still fast asleep, one arm slung over his face, knees off the end of his too-small bed. The others have gone for breakfast. The last of them stumbled and cursed into the glare only moments ago. Only he and I remain, one too lazy and the other too excited to eat.

I am tempted to waken him, but the last time I did so, he attacked me and today I am happy to let him lie.

Today I become a father.

First bell is ringing, calling us to work. I must go too. Still it occurs to me before I put down this charcoal that hours in different lands flow inversely. Although it is early here, in Egypt, it may be late at home. I wonder if I will feel different once the time comes.

Is it possible that I am already a father?

A wave of exhaustion rocked me and I stroked the soft paper, almost pitying the man whose story had begun with such hope but ended in despair. One more entry and I would waken Dad.

Entry the second

A miracle has occurred. The discovery has been made and, incredibly, I myself was the one to make it. As I brushed sand aside, just as I have done a million times, the visage of a dog’s head on a man’s body resolved itself from the sand. It was just as the Professor had described.

The Sunbird overseer was the first to notice my shock. Sand puffed around him as he slid to a stop by my feet, barely able to believe after all these months of failure. Then he wheezed his way to the Professor’s tent, calling for our employer who swiftly emerged with his wiry daschund, Titus, dogging his heels.

Due to an excess of coffee and lack of hygiene, the Professor’s teeth have become dark yellow. The colour ensures that his tombstone incisors are the locus of his narrow face. When he reached me, he bared these decayed markers and leaned so close to the stone that his breath shifted fine dust around the dog’s carved muzzle.

“The jackal,” he breathed. “At last.”

Then he had the company clear a four-metre space around the cell where I had been digging.