Part IV: Rich
This time the sun woke him, and for just a moment he was frozen with terror.
Lazily opening his eyes he was momentarily blinded by the yellow light slicing through a gap in the curtains and without warning an insane fear filled him, as if he had awoken to find a knife being held at his throat. Horrified, he recoiled violently, ripping the bed sheets up, and threw himself backwards. Scrambling, hand over hand into the dim safety of the shadows.
A second or two passed before he became aware of his own body again. The taut rigidity of his limbs and then, more slowly, his fists wrapped with the linen bed sheets. Carefully he let out a breath, held it and felt the crazy pumping of his own heart.
::Jesus, what the fuck...!?::
Forced the muscles to slacken, breathed again, slow and regular.
::S'ok. Just a little sunlight. Nothing to be afraid of::
::Fucking idiot.::
It took a full minute before his pulse had returned to normal, and when it did he was surprised to find the small apartment now completely deserted. The absence of Rissa's purse from the kitchen counter told him that, true to her word, she and Tommy had managed to leave without waking him. An act of kindness he was grateful for, if somewhat embarrassed. Looked down at his naked body and frowned. He only hoped that he'd been properly covered when she'd let herself out.
The clock on the TV said that, impossibly, it was already 9am and reaching to scratch under one arm he grimaced as he realised that Rissa's polite suggestion he take a shower had probably been more for own sake than his. He yawned and stretched widely, popping the joints out deliciously in his shoulders. Sitting around in his own filth watching daytime soaps all day did have an oddly comforting ring to it but the fact was he had work to do. People to see. Lost sisters to find. And humming softly to himself, he looped the bed sheet loosely around his waist before going in search of a clean towel.
Rissa's bathroom smelt just like her; kiwi fruit and freesias, and breathing in the scented air he half smiled as he reached into the shower stall for the faucet, turned it full blast to 'hot'. A new toothbrush lay on top of a clean face flannel and bath towel and he squeezed some paste onto it whilst he waited for the water to heat up. She'd left her medicine cabinet open and cocking his head to one side he had a quick nose through, just to see what crap she thought was good for her health. Grinned as he noticed that the unopened packet of multi-coloured condoms was covered with a thin layer of dust - not much use for them of late. Shut the cabinet again without a trace of guilt.
The face that stared back at him from the mirror was his own of course. He knew that instantly, but still that didn't prevent him from starting backwards in surprise at the image of the man in front of him. Wide startled blue eyes reflected the emotion, shading back now from surprise to wary curiosity, and without knowing why he bared his teeth at it, snapped his jaws. Glowered, and then pulled on a lock of his hair and stared at it critically. Christ, she hadn't been kidding when she'd said he needed a dye-job. At least half an inch of mid-brown was showing at his roots, the blonde ranging from a white, sunburned platinum at the ends to a dirty honey-gold in the middle. Frowned at himself again as he wondered what on earth he'd been thinking of. Bleached fucking blonde hair. Jesus H Christ.
The steam from the shower fogged the glass and he turned back to the stall, unwrapping the sheet as he stepped inside. Let the hot water course down over his neck and head for a good long while before he even thought about actual washing. Let every remaining trace of nervous tension wash off and out of him. He had no idea how long it had been since he last bathed, but looking at the grey water sluicing down towards the drain he had a feeling it had been a while. Too long. And tipping his head back he pushed the wet hair back off his face, reached out for Rissa's shower gel.
He had no idea what he was going to do of course. No ideas full stop if truth be told. Despite all yesterdays technicolour flashes his brain was still a wasteland, still empty of any trace of self or motivation. He wanted to find Dawn; had to, but when he did? That part he wasn't too clear on. In the best possible scenario his little sister greeted him, running with open arms, tears of relief and his true name on her lips. An explanation that was both plausible and fascinating, and a sure-fire cure-all that would bring all his memories back in an instant. In this scenario there was also cocoa and freshly baked cookies, and out back - in the garage of their beautiful, well-appointed suburban home - a black, mint-condition 66 Mustang that he'd all but forgotten how to drive.
In the other scenario, and this was the one that haunted him of course, the one he couldn't help but feel was more likely; his world was over. Dawn was long dead, buried under thousands of tonnes of rubble somewhere at the bottom of that gaping grey crater that stretched twenty miles from side to side. His family were all gone. His home was dust, and his name was forgotten along with everyone else who had ever meant anything to him. He was alone. Utterly and completely. And the memory loss; that was maybe just his way of dealing with it all of it, like hysterical blindness.
The water turned cool for a moment and, reaching behind him, he twisted the faucet back up to scalding hot, waited just outside the stream until it got bearable again.
And then, alongside all that, there was the 'how' and the 'where'. Sunnydale was a disaster zone, an open grave so shockingly vast that half the people in it would probably never be identified, and from what the news reports and the papers were saying the few survivors who didn't have anywhere else to go had already been relocated. Found temporary accommodation in homes and hotels by the mighty State of California. There was a number of course, a line you could call twenty-four hours a day if you needed help, if you wanted to find out your loved ones were safe. Closing his eyes he could imagine how the conversation might go:
"Can you help me please, I'm looking for my sister. She lived in Sunnydale."
"Alright sir, can I take some details from you. What's your sister's name?"
And right about there it all got a little complicated.
Shutting off the shower he stepped out and reached for the towel to dry himself off, picked up the forgotten toothbrush from the sink and scrubbed away the acrid taste of stale beer. Rinsing his mouth out he washed the brush and dried it carefully, placed it back on top of the laundry bin. He wouldn't be using it again but maybe Rissa might have another overnight guest who would.
In the front room he stripped the bed off before folding the vicious thing back into a couch, took the sheets out back to the laundry room only to find his own clothes, clean and still warm lying inside the washer drier. No underwear of course; for some reason his previous incarnation hadn't felt the need for it, but the worn black jeans were comfortable enough on their own, albeit somewhat creased. Pulling them on he carefully buttoned up the flies and reached back in for his t-shirt, before stopping cold in horror.
Fuck it.
The amulet.
Jamming his hands into the drum he felt around desperately, but inside there was nothing but grit and sand, a few large flakes of black stuff that could have once been metal. Drawing them out he groaned and sunk to his knees, his head dropping down to rest on the floor. Cursed and pushed his fingertips hard into his scalp.
Fucking idiot!!
Stupid fucking idiot!!
His only real clue. His only proof that any of this was real, that he was real. His only link to who he had been. And he couldn't blame her for it, his own stupid fucking fault, and hissing softly he leant forward and bounced his head hard off the concrete. Dragged himself back up into a sitting position, and then let out an abrupt barking laugh as he saw Rissa's neat hand-printed note sitting on top of the dryer.
x - Pete - x
Here is some clean underwear, I noticed you didn't have any (?!)
and before you wonder - there mens shorts I just wear them in bed sometimes!!!
Hope you didn't mind me washing your things,
but I figured you probably wouldn't object to not sm.
Here's the number and address of that friend of Poppy's in Rich I told you about,
his name's Pete too so you two should get along fine!
I'm guessing you won't be here when I get back so I just wanted to say thank you.
Again I mean! It was good to see you and know your doing o.k.
I just know you'll find Dawn safe and well, so when you do, give her mine and Tommy's love.
Take care of yourself,
R
x
PS. the front door locks when you close it.
Weighting the paper down, the amulet was folded inside.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There were fifty dollars too and, despite all his misgivings, he took it.
Crammed the folded bills down hard into the back pocket as he pulled on his boots, and hated himself. There was no way she could afford it, but then he couldn't afford to refuse her. Pulling the straps tight he yanked the legs of his jeans down over them and buckled his belt. Glowered at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he stalked passed it. He'd pay her back somehow, and soon.
The door slammed shut behind him and, taking the front steps two at a time, he paced out into the street and the already blazing hot morning sun. Twisted his head to glance it as he did so. 800 and still rising. Just perfect bloody weather for a long bus journey.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
In actual fact the ride was only just over an hour and a half, and time passed quickly enough. With some of Rissa's money he bought himself copies of Time and Newsweek, both of which featured vast wide-angled shots of the crater on their front covers, and spent the duration of the journey poring through every article. Studying every shot. One, a full-page colour image of two dust-caked, weeping children being comforted by a distraught looking police officer, made his heart twist in his chest. The girl was around 15 and had long straight brown hair. Folding the page back he stared at her face, tried to see. Was it Dawn? Could it be her? Looked in the background at the blurry shapes of other survivors, a tall girl in a pink skirt; her face masked with her own blood, someone squatting on the ground rocking themselves. Any of them. Any of them could be her.
::A Town Disappeared::
Skimming through the articles, he frowned as he picked out phrases:
crime hotspot....
highest fatalities due to...
phenomenally high levels of....
54 people missing and presumed dead in one year alone....
high concentration of seismic activity....
Folded the magazine twice and then bunched it up tight in his fist. What in God's name had he been thinking of trying to look after a kid in a town like that? Why when there were so many other places? Safer places. Places less likely to crumble into a fucking enormous hellish abyss.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Air brakes signalled another stop, and looking up he was surprised to see that they'd arrived and were drawing to a halt on what must constitute Rich's main street. Forced to wait whilst several elderly women climbed off, his eyes darted around impatiently, looking for a street sign or something else that would let him know which way to head next. Noticed an old man leaning comfortably against the window of the drug store nearby, an equally fat and ancient-looking dog asleep at his feet.
"'scuse me mate. You know a jewelry store name of Padjett's round here?"
The old guy smiled benevolently without answering, shook his head.
"Nope.....ah...not...ah..."
A very, long thoughtful pause before;
"No. Not one round here anyway."
He was looking around for someone else to ask when the old guy cleared his throat again. Gestured with the end of the dog leash.
"But there's a little place sells rings, bracelets and such half way down there on your left. Down the way opposite the bakery. Little foreign fella runs it. Punjab, Panjitt..."
Staring down the road towards the store he was pointing to, he squinted at it before turning back to him with a slight frown of confusion.
"That one there?"
The old guy followed his finger, smiled.
"Yep, that's it. One with the blue sign out front."
"The one that says...'Padjetts' on it?"
"That's the one."
* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Entering the place, the temperature dropped thirty degrees almost immediately, the cool ionised air creating a sensation not unlike stepping behind a waterfall. No bell rang but within seconds a man appeared at the rear of the shop, stepping quietly through a heavy curtain, and greeted him.
"May I help you?"
His voice was soft with the faint trace of a highly educated Indian-accent, and his impeccable dress strangely at odds with the surrounding town. Reaching out a hand he indicated a glass case to his right.
"You are looking for a present perhaps? I have many beautiful things."
"I don't doubt it mate. But I'm not here to buy anything."
Drawing the amulet out of his pocket, he unfolded Rissa's note and placed it on the case.
"Mutual friend of ours thought you might be able to tell me a bit more about it."
"A mutal friend?"
"Poppy Foster. Well...his daughter actually."
"Ah, the lovely Marissa."
Producing a small magnifying lens from his pocket Padjett polished it carefully before stepping forward, a small slight smile on his face. Lifted the metal disc from the paper and brought it up to his eye. Peering through, he squinted at the front and made a irritable tutting sound.
"It is very old. Very old. But very badly damaged. Burned."
He took his eye away from the glass and gave him an angry searching look.
"How did this happen?"
The accusation in his voice was unmistakable and , shaking his head, he raised both hands in a placatory gesture.
"No idea mate, don't look at me. Just found it that way."
Scowling slightly, Padgett turned back to his glass. Reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a tiny soft-bristled brush.
"There is an inscription on the back. Did you know that?"
"Yeah, can't make head or tale of it though."
He briefly toyed with idea of mentioning the horse thing, but thought better of it.
"In Egyptian we thought."
"No, I think not."
The man's eyes narrowed as he worked deftly at it for a moment with his brush, before placing it back down on the case. Stepping over to a desk, he slid a drawer open.
"The Egyptian written language used largely pictograms, this is something else. An early root of Swahili if I'm not greatly mistaken, something scholars like to call Proto-Bantu."
The drawer clicked shut and he returned with a small humming electrical implement in his hand. Frowning, he worked it gently over the surface of the metal, freeing some of the larger flakes and brushing them away. After a moment or two he stopped, frowning more deeply now. Turned off the tiny mechanism and gave him another sharp look.
"This doesn't make sense."
"What doesn't?"
A mixture of complete confusion and disbelief crossed his face and abruptly he laughed, looked at him again with renewed curiosity.
"Where did you say you found this?"
"In the desert."
"The Negev?"
"Mojave."
Padjett's eyebrows fluttered upwards in surprise.
"Here? In America?"
"Yeah. 'Bout fifty, sixty miles away. Why?"
Something about the man's excitement was getting to him, the exact same slow, slinking feeling he'd had as Rissa had started to tell him her story. His eyes were bright with a suppressed fervour, and as he rested one on the glass case he noticed his hands were shaking ever so slightly.
"Why? Because my friend, this piece...if it is real...should not exist. The first language here..."
Tentatively he touched one of the characters with a fingertip, before taking a pen and tracing it out on the back of Rissa's note.
"This is a Bantu root, the oldest form of which is only two-thousand years old at most. But this character here is different, simplified. Which would suggest an even earlier form of Proto-Bantu..."
"So that makes it older by how much?"
"That's just it. There is no older form. If there were that would make this object a minimum of four thousand years old. Perhaps older."
"Four thousand years?"
The man's eyes glowed as he nodded an affirmation.
"Is that possible?"
"None of this is possible. The technology to make metal artifacts such as this wasn't developed for another thousand years at least in that part of the globe. And then there is this..."
His eye went back to the glass, and working intently, he carefully traced three more characters on the paper next to the first, his lip caught fast between his teeth as he checked this work against the originals. Turning to look at him again, he was almost breathless as he pointed at them.
"And that is old Aramaic."
"Aramaic?"
The slinking feeling again, and this time his felt it in his feet too; like water rising up through the floor filling him with an cold sense of foreboding.
"Should that mean something to me?"
"Old Aramaic...it's an extinct form of Aramaic, a semitic language. Proto-Sinaitic. And from a ...completely different time and place. It makes absolutely no sense at all for these two..."
A sudden nervous laugh and Padgett took a step back, touched a hand to his forehead and seemed surprised to find it beaded faintly with sweat.
"I'm sorry."
Taking a deep breath he forced a smile,
"I'm getting...it's just this sort of thing doesn't happen to me every day. Not here anyway."
The man's attempt to cover his nervousness was almost as unsettling as his excitement, and glancing around the shop he was relieved to see a bottle of fairly decent-looking brandy sitting up on one of the higher shelves. Nodded his head towards it with a friendly air.
"Maybe we should both have a drink, eh Pete? Steady our nerves a bit before you tell me anything else I won't understand."
Giving him a rather lop-sided grin Padgett bobbed his head in assent, pointing behind him to another case.
"There are some crystal glasses in that one. Beside the Incan death mask..."off his look, "Just a cheap reproduction."
Taking out a small black notebook he paged through it distractedly before reaching for the phone. Accepted the tumbler of brandy with a grateful air.
"But first of all, I'm going to make a phone call."
"Oh yeah? Who to? The British Museum?""
He frowned as he took a sip of his drink, flattening Rissa's letter out in front of him. Raising his eyebrows his companion tipped his own glass back and emptied it, before lifting the receiver and punching in the number.
"No, an old college friend of mine in the city."
The faint beep of an answering machine on the other end, and smiling to himself, Padgett waited a moment before he spoke.
"Wesley? It's Peter. I think you might want to come up here. I have a little something I'm sure you're going to find quite fascinating."