Imagine There's No Heaven Page 11

When Guy entered the train station he hardly noticed the few businessmen stood downing coffee in the foyer. Though it was five o’clock in the morning, he was wide awake. He was beyond awake. He was at that point where sleep seems an illusion, something that happens only to other people. He felt he would never rest till he finished the one mission that now consumed his life: to discover the truth about his family. He marched straight over to the ticket desk.

  ‘When is the next departure from platform 3B?’ he asked the lady at the booth. She lazily lifted her head, rubbed her eyes and glared at him as though to say, Look, kid, we’re open, but no one is actually supposed to be here at this time. Bugger off. Still, at least she hadn’t noticed his injuries; either the hoodie was doing its job or she was too tired to notice. She eyed the clock, yawned and said, ‘Twenty-five minutes.’ She turned to her newspaper as though she had forgotten he was there, then looked up and said, ‘You want a ticket?’ Guy shook his head.

  He waited until the lady at the booth had fully lost herself in the newspaper, and then rushed up the stairs to the barricade before the platforms. There was only one security guard; a young guy wearing a yellow hat. He was fiddling with a cell phone, probably thinking no one would come up at such an hour.

  Guy waited at the top of the stairs until he heard the train approaching the platform. When the hissing of the breaks fell to silence he stood up, sneaked over to the barricade, jumped over and ran down to platform 3B. Once he made the platform he looked up to check he had gotten away with his crime. The guard looked at him, shook his head but then shrugged. He probably thought his boss wouldn’t notice Guy hopping on the train for free so there was no reason for him to care. About time I had some luck, Guy thought.

  The same waitress was working in the coffee shop when Guy left the train. Guy tipped his head to her as she eyed him. He might not have time for picking up women, but he wasn’t going to be disrespectful either. She tilted her head to the side, pointed and mouthed the words, ‘Do I know you?’ Guy chuckled to himself.

  It was seven in the morning when Guy reached Roy’s home. It was a moderately sized house for a downtown location. Roy did all right. He wasn’t loaded but he made damn sure to look after his family. Good for him. He deserved it, Guy thought.

  Guy tapped the knocker twice quietly, just in case Julia was still in bed. He leant his face to the door and peered through the peephole. Roy was in the kitchen talking to someone Guy presumed must have been Julia. He put a tea-towel down on the counter and came to the door.

  ‘Guy, what are you doing here?’ he said, standing in the doorway.

  ‘Hi, Roy,’ Guy said awkwardly. He had only just realised how bizarre his appearance must have looked, especially given his condition. He put his hood down and eyed Roy shyly. ‘What the hell happened to your face?’

  ‘It’s nothing, just a scratch.’ Guy wrapped a hand around his wrist, worried his self-inflicted wound might reveal itself somehow. A punch was one thing, but he couldn’t let Roy know what he had done to himself.

  ‘That’s a bit more than a bloody scratch, Guy. Does your father know?’

  ‘Yes, he knows, Roy.’ Guy huffed before realising quite how presumptuous and inconsiderate he was being. ‘Look, Roy, I’m sorry I’m here at such a time but—’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Roy waved Guy’s concern away. ‘It’s not like I’ve got work or anything at the moment. Come in, come in.’ He stood aside and welcomed Guy to his home.

  ‘You lost your job?’ Guy asked.

  ‘Ahhh pish, sod ‘em. I needed a better one anyway.’ Guy nodded his understanding. ‘What can I do you for?’

  Roy led Guy into the lounge. It was a rather humble lounge; just two settees, a small television set and one heck of a lot of books, mostly on politics and history. Guy wondered whether he might be able to find out something about his mother by reading those books, but then, why would he need to? He had Roy. He laid his rucksack beside the door and took one of the settees. ‘I want to ask you about my mum.’

  Roy’s eyes widened with consternation. He folded his hands across his chest. ‘Not for me to say, Guy,’ he disputed. ‘That’s for your father.’

  ‘You know I can’t talk to him,’ Guy insisted, pleading to the wall Roy had put up.

  Roy shrugged dismissively. ‘Maybe you should make more of an effort.’

  ‘Roy, come off it. You know my dad thinks the less I know the better off I will be.’

  ‘And maybe he’s right.’

  Guy leapt up from his seat and stamped his foot down into the floor. ‘Oh no,’ he insisted. ‘No, don’t you say that too.’ He looked like he was about to trash the place in anger until he suddenly caught himself, leant over to one side and eyed Roy knowingly, having seen the chink in Roy’s armour. ‘Wait,’ he halted. What am I thinking? You don’t believe that. You, the one person more desperate to make the truth known than anyone else in the world, couldn’t possibly believe that bullshit. You know I need to know the truth. You know how important the truth is. And you’re the one who can tell me.’

  Roy scrunched up his face as though he were tasting bitter medicine. Finally he swallowed. ‘You want a tea?’

  Guy took a steadying breath; the idea that Roy might finally discuss his mother with him came like the ringing of the bell in boxing. It signalled for him to prepare himself, to be ready to fight. He was ready, and he thanked God for the opportunity. He cautiously lifted his aching lips into a smile. ‘Two sugars, please.’

  ‘Sit yourself down. I’ll be back in a minute.’

  Roy was deliberately slow in moving to the kitchen; Guy figured he was buying himself time to consider what he might say, if indeed he was going to speak of Imogen. Guy sat back on the settee and stretched out wide and indulgently. Finally he’d a right to relax, if only a little. He had finally plucked up the courage to take his first step on his true path. Soon he would know the truth. He stiffened in fright. Was he ready to hear the truth? He hadn’t considered how knowing the truth might affect him, he’d just felt certain that not knowing wasn’t helping. He let his eyes dart about the room, searching for something to focus on to calm his beating heart.

  Guy hadn’t been to Roy’s since he was very young, when he had visited with his father. He had completely forgotten what the house was like. For years he had only met Roy at protests, after which they would go for drinks and a meal in the city centre. He looked about the room. Photos of Roy and Julia sat in frames on tables and across the walls. The bookcases were overflowing, mostly with very old books that were starting to fall apart at the seams. A large cross hung on one of the walls, and opposite it, rather incongruously, hung a giant fish which Guy guessed Roy must have caught himself. A placard gave a date of 1988. Wow, old fish, Guy thought.

  ‘I’ve got some biscuits here, too,’ said Roy, carrying a tray of tea and biscuits into the room. ‘I was considering having bacon and eggs though, if you want some.’

  Guy shook his head. ‘Nice fish,’ he said, pointing to the wall-piece.

  ‘Ha ha. Old bugger he is. Gave me a right good fight did he.’ Roy fidgeted with his hands and his eyes flicked with excitement as he remembered the day he’d bagged his prize catch. Then his eyes lowered and he asked, ‘By the way, how on earth do you know my address?’

  ‘You’ve not moved in fifteen years, Roy. I found my mum’s old address book. Found it years ago, before dad hid everything.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s an idiot...?’ Guy offered jokingly.

  ‘No,’ Roy laughed politely. He reached his hands out wide. ‘Why have you decided to ask about her? I told you, you have to let her go.’

  ‘I can’t,’ Guy resolutely stated. ‘I won’t. I have to know what happened to her, and dad won’t tell me a thing.’

  ‘And what makes you think I will?’ Roy sipped at his tea. He was wearing the same expression he always did when he was testing Guy. The first time had come when he was 12, at his first protest. He’d asked
Guy why he thought a protest was important. ‘To hear,’ Guy had said. ‘To hear what?’ Roy challenged. ‘To hear the voice of the people.’ Roy had clapped with pride and joy. Back then, Guy had known the answer from listening to his father, and Roy had been impressed. Now he was alone and being asked to impress Roy again, to prove himself. Guy didn’t mind. Roy’s caution came only out of concern for Guy himself. Roy couldn’t just give him answers. He had to know that the place Guy was coming from was sincere, mature, and ready to hear the truth.

  ‘Why do I think you will tell me?’ Guy repeated. ‘There are lots of reasons. First off, you’re my mum’s oldest friend and I know you would do anything for her.’ Roy nodded an agreement; whether Imogen were alive or not, their friendship and her memory were still present. ‘You’re my friend, and I know you would do anything for me. More than that, though, you live for the truth. To deny me my own truth would be to go against everything you have ever stood for.’ He didn’t need to check Roy’s reaction. He knew he was right. He sipped at his tea.

  ‘Have you considered why your father won’t tell you?’ asked Roy. That was a harder question. Part of Guy felt his father wouldn’t tell him just because he was too weak to bring up the painful memories, but that wasn’t fair. Another part thought it was because his father was in some way guilty, that he had coaxed her into going, but he knew that was absurd. Then there was the possibility that his mother had made Jerry promise not to say anything in order to protect Guy. That couldn’t be right either; had his mum even considered there to be the slightest chance of her being lost in her mission she would never have gone, not after having Guy. ‘Because he wants me to live for myself, for my life, not for the past,’ he settled on. ‘What he fails to realise, however, is that my life is and always has been all about this history and I cannot focus on my future until this story is over.’ This time he did watch Roy’s reaction, and he was impressed. He raised his chin and nodded slowly.

  ‘And what if I don’t say what you want to hear?’

  Guy tried to read into Roy’s eyes. Did he have bad news? Was that why no one had wanted Guy to know, because they were afraid he might not be able to handle the truth? Roy was too good at keeping a poker-face. Still, how could things be any worse? ‘Whatever you say will be better than not knowing. At least that way I can move on.’

  Roy eyed the cross on the wall unconsciously. He closed his eyes softly, just for a moment, and mouthed words Guy couldn’t distinguish. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you what I know.’ Guy leant forward, listening intently.

  ‘Your mother was called in when you were three years old. It was one month after your birthday. She didn’t speak to me much of how she felt about it; she just wanted me there for support.

  ‘As you know, there was a lack of medics in the field at that time, not that that was anything unusual, our forces had been short of medics for years, that’s largely how your parents were so successful, and why they were so needed. And your mother knew that. As patriotic as she was, she was always ready to answer the call. And she did. Fifteen years ago she was called upon by one General Swanson to undertake a most unique mission to rescue one Lieutenant Daniels. It was a dangerous mission, Swanson knew that. Hell, it was hard enough getting the soldiers to feel confident about it, let alone a medic. He knew your mother was not of the typical mould; hell, we all knew that. So it was that she picked up the bill. It was all very quiet. I was there at the press conference, though to call it a conference is a joke. We weren’t told anything.

  ‘It was all the same old bullshit. They had decked out a great hall for this press conference— of course, I was working for the Tribune at the time. Anyway, it was all the glamour, cameras flashing, big wigs and power players dressed to the nines. They made it seem some spectacular event, as they always do. Yet when it came down to it we were given nothing; no information whatsoever.

  ‘Of course, I did what I could to uncover the story. I called in some contacts, but all I could get out of that was that this Daniels chap was a relative of a very highly ranked General. They weren’t going to lose him without a fight. He had been taken by the enemy and, it was suspected, was being held up in a prisoner of war camp. They knew they were running out of time. There’s no man can survive in one of those prisons for long. Oh, Daniels was strong, but not that strong. No, they had to get in immediately, find him, and if he was pent up in one those prisons, well, they’d have to take the building by force in one swoop, get to Daniels and see to him there and then. That was all I knew. Everything else came after.’