Peter

A Chapter by Sharrumkin

Met with a wall of silence Alex tries giving the boy a name hoping to spark some interest. In a round about way it works.

Chapter Four

Peter

Alex had enjoyed silence once. During the stillness of the night, he

would sit beside the lake and listen to the water lapping against the

shoreline. Most of all he loved looking up at the stars, wondering at

their mysteries or admiring a shower of meteors puncturing the

blackness. At those moments he came closest to being at peace with

himself. This taste for silence soured when he moved into his

office. Sitting in his room, deep into the night, the stillness

became suffocating. When he could bear it no longer, he would pull on

his coat and hat and go out. Protected by the dark, he walked the

empty streets of Kilmarnock until he reached the dock. He would sit

and remember what the land had been like before the buildings, just

rock, trees, lake, and the sky. Alex sat with his memories until the

stars faded into dawn. He would then rise and stumble back towards

his room, locking his door as Kilmarnock woke. His nightly strolling

ended when Campbell brought the boy.

***

The boy did not speak to him that morning. With his breakfast he withdrew into the far corner of the room sheltered by the dresser. Swallowing great spoonfuls of porridge, he resumed his reading of Ivanhoe. Next to his right hand he kept the broken glass stripped of the clothed Alex had wrapped it with. Alex went about the few chores that he had. The dishes washed, he poured out a sliver of whiskey and swallowed a white tablet. His breakfast seen to, Alex faced the unpleasant task of deciding what to do next. He had not slept well. The throbbing pain in his abdomen persisted despite the tablets. The whiskey and pills had done little to relieve it. Added to this was the memory of the incident on the stairs with the pail. He regretted his rudeness to Anna. She had no business prying into his affairs but she had only been trying to help. He should not have snapped at her. Anyway, Anna would attribute it to his growing senility. She would leave it at that. Anna was a sensible woman. Why should she want to be different from anyone else?

Alex slumped down into the old pine chair in front of his desk. He studied the litter that covered his desktop, old receipts, a bill that he would never deliver. The time had come to shed this mess and other things. Alex shuffled to his dresser. He pulled open the top drawer. As he took out the tin box, the doctor could feel the boy’s eyes watching him. Alex shook the money out onto the top of the dresser. He then turned to face the boy. “You want to leave? There’s the money that I promised you. The steamboat bound south from Perth will be here in a couple of hours. If you want to go the other way, you’ll have to wait until evening. You can stay by the dock until it comes.”

Behind his book the boy knew what Stinky was planning. He would have him arrested for theft to keep him from running. Stinky was just like all the others, believing that he was so stupid. “Keep your stinking money,” he muttered not looking up from the book.

   Alex strode over and knocked the volume from his hands. “When a person speaks to you, have the politeness to look at him.”

   The boy seized his piece of glass. Holding it up in front of him, he squeezed back into the corner.

   A sudden burning spasm twisted Alex’s stomach. He leaned against the dresser for a moment. As the spasm ebbed Alex took out his watch. He fumbled with the clasp, cursing the shaking of his hands, and dropped it next to the small cluster of coins and pound notes. “Keep it if you like,” he told the boy, his voice a grating whisper. “Sell it for a shilling or two. Take whatever else you want, except the microscope. That’s not mine.”

The boy watched him sag. Then the man straightened. He pulled himself up, his body tense, as if he were expecting something. His voice sounded strained.   The man was hiding something from him. Perhaps they were outside, waiting. He pushed the money away. “I do not want your help. I never asked for it, did I?”

“No. You didn’t,” Alex stumbled towards the table. Where had he put his pills? “Maybe, you’ll find someone from whom you can ask it.” Alex choked back the nausea rising in his throat. As the pain in the stomach surged the one thought in his mind was that he had to get to his pills. Somewhere a voice shouted at him, to be pushed aside by the searing pain swallowing him.

      Stinky would say that he had stolen the money and the watch. The

others must be coming soon. Yes, he would leave. He would be glad to

leave. He hated this room, but first he would tell the old man what he thought of him and his stinking lies. “I am going but I am not taking anything. Do you understand? Nothing! I do not want anything from you. I am not a thief, no matter what

Her rRadek says. I am never going back. Never! Do you hear me? You piece of ....”

He swept the money off the table. Grabbing his coat from the nail on the wall beside the door, he shoved his feet into his shoes. The old man did not even look at him proving that he had never cared. The boy grabbed the knob and remembered that he had locked the door. He fumbled for the key in his trouser pocket.

   Alex leaned against a bedpost. One hand gripped the rounded knob of the post; the other pressed against his stomach. The man crumpled to his knees, falling against the bed. Alex groaned one word, “Jesus” and slid onto the floor.

         ***

    The pain had stopped. Odd. Alex had it for so long that he could not imagine a life free of it. He found himself walking up the trail that led to the cabin overlooking the lake. The cabin was the same small brown, square-timbered hut he and James had lived in when they had first come. He carried a fishing pole and five plump pickerel. With potatoes and carrots from the garden, it would make a fine supper. He could see Jean waving at him from the top of the hill.

   As he climbed the hill, the pain returned a deep, distant throbbing. Jean and the cabin receded into the dark. He tried to follow her but he could not shake off the pain. Neither could he rid himself of something pounding at him and shaking him. Alex opened his eyes to see the boy on top of him, pummelling his chest. Alex longed to go back to the cabin on the hill. Instead he folded his skeletal hands around the boy’s balled fists. “It’s all right, lad,” he croaked. “I’m not going anywhere.”

    The boy gaped. Then he closed his mouth and pulled back, drawing away his hands. “I . . . I thought . . .”

   He had not known what he had thought or why he had wanted to think it. The boy stepped back. What was he to do now? He surmised that he had done the right thing. If anything should happen to the doctor, they would blame him.

Alex had dropped his head back resting against the planks of the floor. Again The pain marched forward.
“Do you . . . need something?” the boy asked. “Water? Mede . . . medicine?”

     “My pills.” Alex tried to focus his mind. What was he doing here? He was supposed to be helping Jean, was he not? He reached towards the large chair. “In my coat.”

    Fumbling inside the coat pockets the boy found a folded white envelope containing several small tablets. He brought the envelope over to the man. As
    Alex’s shaking hands fumbled with the flap of the envelope, the boy poured some water into a pewter mug. Alex made a hurried estimate of how many tablets he would need, took three and swallowed them down. Aware that he would sleep for hours, he struggled to raise himself onto the bed. Without being told, the boy helped him up onto the mattress. Before the pills took effect, Alex wanted to know one thing. He turned towards the boy busy placing the mug back on the table. “Why are you still here?” Alex asked, his voice a dry whisper.

    The boy looked down at the floor. “Do you want me to go?” The voice was flat, expressionless.

     “Not if you don’t want to, lad.”

     “I will stay until tomorrow. You should sleep, yes?”

     “Aye.”

     His head growing too heavy for him to support, Alex lay back. As he drifted away, he felt the blankets being pulled up around him.. Alex opened his eyes. “Who are you?”

    The boy stepped back. He knew what he was. He knew all the words, in three different languages and could have told the old man any of them. The boy chose the nicest. “Nothing.”

   The child had not understood the question. Alex rephrased the question. “What’s your name, lad?”

   The boy knew what the doctor expected him to say. “Peter.”

    Alex realised that in giving the boy a name, he had blundered. That did not come as a great surprise. Some physicians specialised in diseases of the heart or of the mind. James had always told him that Alex’s speciality was in bungling. What should he do now?   He decided to ask again. “What’s your real name, lad?”

“Peter.”

    The boy was lying. Alex knew that. He also sensed that the boy knew that Alex was aware of his lie. A touch of uncertainty underlay his words as if he expected Alex to challenge him.

    “Peter is a good name, yes?”

     “Aye.” Alex sank back. The pain receded drawing after it his consciousness. As the dream like effect of the drug swallowed him, Alex struggled to think. What the hell. Let him be whom he likes. How could it hurt? The boy would be gone when he woke. Alex closed his eyes and slept.

    Peter curled up with his book in the large leather chair. As he watched the old man sleep, he asked himself what he should do.   If he had been wrong, if the old man did not know about the others, then maybe they did not know where he was. Did that mean that anything had changed?   No. If they did not know, they would. The longer that he stayed in any one place, the greater would be the chances of his being found . . . if they were looking for him. Were they looking for him? Why would he be that important to them? He was nothing. Why should nothing have any importance? They would be so far away now. Would they come back all this way, just for nothing? The doctor was right. He needed a few days to rest.   For that long he could be Peter.

   The morning hours dragged by. He remained in the chair, sometimes dozing off, sometimes reading a little. Then, tiring of sitting, he roamed the room. His wandering brought him to the microscope. Next to it were three glass slides.   On one written in Alex’s shaky handwriting was a word “Aquaspirillium.” Water something, Peter thought. He remembered the doctor trying to explain to him how the device worked. He had pretended that he was not paying attention, but he had listened. Peter slipped the slide under the lens and played with the knob for a moment. At first he could see only a blur. Then it sharpened to reveal a living creature, the like of which he had never seen a blob of pale green water stretching out in eight tentacles.

    This creature was what Herr Doctor . . . then he corrected himself, English always. The doctor had said that creatures lived in tiny drops of water. Just another lie, he had thought. He was twisting the knob trying for a clearer view when footsteps sounded on the stairs outside. He froze. Someone knocked against the door. If he did not make a sound, Peter told himself, the intruder would become discouraged and leave.

    A woman called out for the doctor. After rattling the doorknob, the caller gave up and left. The voice had belonged to the woman who lived downstairs. She had brought up biscuits. The doctor had thanked her, tasted one and given the rest to him. An older, stouter woman had also come, bringing foodstuffs. Her name had been Rebecca. He remembered that she had been angry with the doctor about something, not that he had paid any attention. He had remained in the back of the room, saying nothing, remaining as inconspicuous as possible. The woman had not liked him.

   Yesterday the priest, Father Burn something, had come. He hated priests. They were all s**t. Everyone was. Except, maybe . . . He looked at the old man.

   Evening approached Peter decided that the best thing to do would be to leave. If they were looking for him, they would come here. As he buttoned his cloak, he heard Alex stir. The doctor murmured one word, “Mary,” and then subsided. The boy went over to him and felt his forehead. Alex was burning with fever. He had made the man ill. Still, the man was a doctor. He should know how to take care of himself. What was he supposed to do?

    Peter took a towel, dipped it into the washbasin and placed it on the old man’s forehead. He could do nothing more. Peter turned away and stepped softly towards the door. The boy looked back for a moment. On the table was the small pile of coins and the doctor’s watch. No. He had come with nothing. He would leave with nothing. Better that way. He would miss the books. Opening the door, he looked up at the sky.

     The stars had settled over Kilmarnock. The boy could never hope for a better chance than this and yet he hesitated. He knew what he had to do. Lock the old man in his room, throw the key away and run. Still, he hovered at the door. He would have liked, for a little while, to have been Peter.

    Why not Peter? The boy knew the reasons.   The old man was ill. They were too close. What he was, and what he had done, he could not change. Peter closed the door behind him and stepped out onto the landing, leaving it unlocked. He would just leave the keys beside the door.   He glanced down the stairs at the street below. Peter had been down the stairs before, quick trips to the outhouse at the back of the yard, the doctor locked inside the room. This was different. He would never be back. By morning he would be far away from this village, from the old man, and from what could have been if he had known that the doctor was not one of them.

    The man needed someone. Peter would tell the woman that lived downstairs . . . Anna. He shook his head. No. Why would anyone want to listen to him? The old man was the only person he could speak to, who would not turn away. The doctor might wake in the night and need help. Would it make so much difference, just another night? The doctor had promised him that he could stay for a week. No. He had to go. They would find him. They would find Alex. Running was the only way. But . . . not tonight. Tomorrow. Please, not tonight.

   He must be out of his mind thought Peter as he opened the door. It was a mistake. They would punish him. Knowing that, he still unbuttoned his cloak and hung it up on the peg. He went over to Alex. The cloth he had placed on the doctor’s forehead had tumbled down onto the blankets. Peter put it back and sat in the big chair. Pulling Alex’s coat up over him, he settled back. As he waited for sleep, he wondered why he was doing this. Every sound filtering in from the outside reminded him what would happen to him, what would happen to the old man, if they found him? But would they? They all seemed far away. It was so peaceful here in this room. Peter remembered Maminka’s tales of the Jezenky, ugly to look at but kind to children. Still remembering he fell asleep in Alex’s chair.

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