My NanoWriMo — Chapter Four
My eyes opened. At least…I thought they did. How can you be sure your eyes are open, when all you can see is darkness? That’s a rhetorical question, of course — it’s very easy to be sure of this, it’s a matter of nerve and muscle movement, it’s not like as soon as the lights go off you assume you must have shut your eyes. But you get my point — I had woken somewhere pitch black, with no idea where that might be.
I tried to get up. I couldn’t. I was being held down by something: some kind of heavy strap was laid tight across my chest, pinning my arms to whatever it was I was lying on. Another bound my legs. I tried to raise my head, and felt a blinding pain shoot through it. Clearly I had not escaped the explosion unscathed. But how had I escaped it at all? The last thing I remembered was being in mid-air, screaming in terror, watching my life flash before my eyes. The surprising thing was that my life was a lot less interesting than I had remembered: most of it seemed to consist of low-scoring but reasonably tense games of hurling.
Before the explosion, I hadn’t been able to recall a single instance of myself playing hurling, and yet the vision of my life that appeared before me as I crashed headfirst into the broken bricks and dust of my shattered office included a long and successful career in the sport, including high representative honours and several national championships. My defensive game was astonishingly good, winning great praise from all the pundits and my fellow players, and although I was less well-known for my offensive prowess, I could hold my own, and the teams I played for regarded me as an integral member of the unit. It was a source of great pride to me, the success I achieved on the hurling field — yet when that career ended, I had to confess to feeling a yawning emptiness within. Trying to fill it with alcohol and meaningless sex led nowhere but to the gutter: those were dark years indeed, and I have no doubt that I was close to total self-annihilation when I finally discovered Jesus Christ, and the love and forgiveness that He gave to me saved my life and made me the man I am today. Now I still look back fondly on my hurling days, but my main focus is my wife, my children, and my work delivering the word of Christ to the underprivileged of the inner city.
As I say, I remembered none of this — in particular my missionary work seemed in direct conflict with the fact that I was a full-time private detective, and I certainly had no recollection of this wife and children. Yet that was what flashed before my eyes, and who am I to doubt the veracity of a near-death experience? Maybe it was my career as an investigator that was the fantasy. Maybe I’d dreamed it all up. Maybe I’d dreamed my father sitting in my office, asking me to find my sister. Maybe I’d dreamed the explosion. Maybe I’d dreamed my life flashing before my eyes —
Wait, no. That just confused things.
The important thing was, I was strapped down in a dark room and I had to get out. Or rather, I wanted to get out. My mother had always taught me to be precise in my language, and saying I had to get out was, I shamefacedly admitted to myself, unforgivable hyperbole. But my desire to get out was very strong. I allowed myself that much.
The first step was to determine where I was. I sniffed the air. The unmistakable scent of Coco Pops filled my nostrils. Or was it…wait…no…yes! Not Coco Pops, but Aldi off-brand Chocolate Puffs! This was a valuable clue: the place I was in clearly belonged to someone with a strong devotion to thrift.
What else could I figure out? I held my breath and strained my ears for clues in the silence. Somewhere — it seemed to be far in the distance, but who could tell in this blanket of darkness — I could hear the faint pop of toast emerging from a toaster. Two…no, three slices.
A picture was beginning to form in my head: it was breakfast-time. Good. I could use that. Advantage…Stanley. I had sound, I had smell…what else? I gingerly extended my tongue to see if I could taste anything. I couldn’t. It was pretty optimistic of me, to be honest. I tried sniffing again. There were the Chocolate Puffs, and now the toast, and…butter? I drew a deep nasal draught. Yes. Definitely butter. And jam. Strawberry — no, raspberry. Raspberry jam. I smiled in the dark: someone was enjoying their morning.
I decided to gamble. I cried out, “Is anyone there?” It was a risky move — who knew what my cry would cause? Retribution from my captor? The alerting of lethal enemies? An avalanche, burying the mountainside chalet which I was possibly occupying in many tons of snow? All possible, but I had never been one to play it safe when placed in restraints in pitch-black rooms of unidentified location. It was like my mother said: nobody ever lay on their deathbed wishing they’d done less shouting in the dark.
As it happened, what my voice triggered was, if anything, even more chilling than an avalanche. For my cry was answered, by another voice, and what it said sent a spike of ice directly into my spinal column, like an epidural of horror.
“Yes,” said the invisible voice. “Someone is here. It’s me.”
I screamed, and screamed. But nobody could hear me. Well I assume nobody could hear me. Maybe they could. I don’t know. I screamed and screamed though.
