NOTE: The title for this chapter comes from a very powerful line from the game "Silent Hill 2". Like "Oceanographer's Choice" for the first chapter, the main song from SH2 - 'Theme of Laura' - was a major musical influence when this part was written.
As always, thoughts are appreciated. :) And with no further ado, here's the 2nd chapter.
Jamie had successfully kicked the same pebble from his schoolyard all the way down a long and winding street, over a cobblestone bridge, and even down a span of pavement dominated by metal grating. When he turned onto the street where he lived, he gave the pebble one last, great kick in the direction of his flat. He kept an eye out for the pebble, hoping to see that it had had a successful launch. However, as he got closer to his destination, his attention diverted to something much more interesting than improvised pebble golf.
There was a package leaning against the door of his flat. It was long and rectangular, wrapped in off-white paper with a bright red ribbon tied around it, complete with an ornate bow. He picked it up; it was surprisingly light for its size, and he easily tucked it under one arm. He noticed a small tag, slightly yellowed, hanging from the bow. The tag felt slightly brittle in his hand, so he carefully folded it open.
There, in unfamiliar handwriting, was a name. Jamie.
Jamie fumbled in his trouser pocket for the key to the flat as his mind raced with possibilities. His birthday and The Other Holiday were later in the month, but he'd never received a present so early. Then there was the question of who left such a premature present. The handwriting was clearly an adult's, so it couldn't be any of his classmates. His grandmother had died three months prior, and before that, a massive stroke had left her largely incapacitated for the past seven years. His grandfather had died when he was still a tiny baby, and to his knowledge he had no aunts, uncles, or other extended family. That left only one person.
"It's not Da's handwriting, though," Jamie murmured to himself as he scrutinized the tag. He set the gift on the kitchen table. He knew he shouldn't open it without confirming the situation with his Da; if it was from a stranger, who knew what could be inside? But it was right there, and so inviting.
He threw caution to the wind.
Once the wrapping was off, he opened the cardboard box beneath and slid out a large roll of thick fabric. He unfurled it, revealing that the fabric was adorned with a felt Christmas tree with 25 'nubs' sticking out of it. Each nub had a small gold number beneath it, from 1 at the bottom left corner of the tree to 25 at the top. Above the tree were the words 'YOUR ADVENT CALENDAR' in red stitching.
Jamie sighed. So it was about The Other Holiday.
He moved to set aside the box, but stopped when he felt something rattle about inside. Curious, he tipped it upside-down and out slid a smaller box. There were two things inside: a folded sheet of paper and a small plastic ornament hanging from a black ribbon. It was a tree with an apple leaning against its trunk. The paper had the copies of two birth certificates. At the top was an old birth certificate from the late 1970's with the surnames blacked out. At the bottom was a much more familiar, significantly more recent, and much less complete birth certificate. Both certificates officially named their respective owners James.
'1. WE HAVE MUCH IN COMMON.' was written in black marker beneath the certificates. The handwriting matched the tag.
Jamie lost track of how long he had been staring at the paper and the ornament when he heard the door open. "Da?" he called out, keeping his eyes on the objects of his scrutiny.
"Yeah?"
"There's something in the kitchen you need to see. I think it's important."
A moment later, his Da entered the kitchen. He set his guitar case by the table. When he came home with the case, the first thing he normally did was lock it away in the wardrobe in his bedroom. Jamie let his eye linger on the smooth black plastic, but turned his attention back to his unusual gift when his Da came to look at them over his shoulder. He was quiet for a moment.
"You have a look in your eye," Moran said, a strange fondness in his tone. "Want to hear your theory."
"The apple doesn't fall far from the tree," Jamie said, twirling the ornament by its ribbon. "That's what this means. So I think… if more stuff like this turns up, I won't have to hear about spoilers anymore."
Moran affectionately ruffled Jamie's dark coppery brown hair before depositing a kiss on the top of his son's head. Jamie couldn't even find it in himself to protest that, at nearly 12 years old and teetering on the confusing precipice before the full plunge into Alpha puberty, he was too old for stuff like that. After all, it was all the confirmation his theory needed.
"Da, you always say I'll find out when I'm older. How old?"
"Can't say. Not my call. You know the spoiler policy."
"Yeah, you've said that every single time I've asked, but I don't think letting me know my other parent's name counts as a spoiler! I don't even know if they were a man or woman. Or if they're alive. It's enough to make me suspect that you have no idea who they are. Maybe there are multiple candidates!"
The silence was thick. Shame burned across Jamie's cheek, over his ears, and down his neck.
He glared at the ground. "I… I'm sorry. That was out of line," he mumbled.
Jamie felt his Da's strong, steady hands land on his shoulders. He looked up, frustrated brown eyes meeting steady, rarely-blinking blue. He was beginning to learn basic genetics in school, and his Da's blue eyes gave away the sole fact Jamie knew about his other parent: that they had to have had his brown eyes. Or, rather, that he had to have inherited their eyes.
"You'll know when you're old enough to understand," Moran said. "But I can tell you this: only two people have ever earned my full loyalty. You're one. And the other gave me you."
Jamie opened his eyes. He was sure that the memory of that conversation, now six months old, was not part of his dream. Rather, it had wriggled to the forefront of his half-conscious mind following something that he was not sure how to classify. A dream? A nightmare? He couldn't even remember its contents; all he knew was that a lingering sense of unease still hung over him like a dense cloud.
At breakfast, he mostly picked at his oatmeal. He was too busy being engaged by the tag which had come with his present the day before. He'd brought a sheet of paper and a pen with him to the table and had copied the handwriting on the tag over and over until the copy seemed identical to the original.
"You could be a forger."
Jamie jumped, looking up from his scribbling. "You nearly gave me a heart attack, Da! You're way too good at sneaking up on me."
"It's important to use your talents. That's one of mine," Moran said. He continued to admire his son's handiwork. "They're virtually identical."
"Oh," Jamie said, looking back at his paper. "Yeah. Some of the kids in school ask me to write papers for them in their handwriting. They even say that they'd pay me."
Something gleamed in Moran's eye. Jamie interpreted it as parental concern. "And have you?"
Jamie laughed, waving his hands in a hopefully placating gesture. "No way. That's cheating."
Moran's only response was a vague hum. He reached into one of the pockets of his cargo pants and pulled out a box which was identical to the one that had held the tree ornament and the birth certificate message the day before. He held it out to Jamie. "This was on the step first thing this morning."
The box held an old Polaroid picture and another ornament tied with a black ribbon, this time of the twin dramatic masks of tragedy and comedy. The Polaroid showed what looked like a primary school play, with two children dressed as pigs being menaced by a boy in a wolf costume with an appropriately predatory grin. Even under the wolf whisker makeup, Jamie was struck by how familiar many of the boy's features were. The eyes, the shape of the face, the nose… he saw them daily in the mirror.
He turned the Polaroid over. There were two different sentences. At the top, a loopy, feminine hand had long ago written "Jim steals the show! ~1984". Underneath that, the black marker was back. '2. ACTING WAS A DISTRACTION… FOR A TIME.'"
"He went by Jim," Jamie said reverently, flipping the photo back over to stare at it some more. "And he was an actor?"
"He was bored with it by the time I met him," Moran said. Jamie looked at him in surprise. "Can't spoil it if it's already known, can I?"
"So you can tell me more?"
Moran shrugged. "What I know of the subject. He once said acting lets you metaphorically wear the skin of someone else." He grinned. "And right after that, he said metaphors only go so far."
Jamie shifted in his seat, unsure what to make of the comment. Still, he took the new ornament and slid from his chair, heading to the space on the wall where the calendar had been hung. He slid the ornament of the masks on the nub above the number 2, just to the right of the tree.
The boy looked at the ornaments and the 23 other blank spaces, searching for something else to say. In the end, all he could say was, "I should get ready for school."
Days flew by, and each one brought a new box and a new message.
An ornament of the symbol for pi accompanied by a sheet of calculus work. Subtracting the date on the sheet with the date on the birth certificate, his father would have been ten years old at the time of the work's completion. '5. MATHEMATICS WAS ALWAYS MY FAVOURITE SUBJECT.'
An ornament of a pair of trainers accompanied by a newspaper clipping about the unfortunate drowning death of a young boy in a pool. The boy's name was blacked out. '12. WAS THE AGE WHEN I KNEW MY CALLING. (AND IT SHALL BE YOUR AGE SOON)'
An ornament of a globe accompanied by a book of names, hundreds if not thousands of them, each with an address. '20. FRIENDS IN EVERY COUNTRY. IT'S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL.'
The awe of finally discovering the truth about his heritage had begun to dwindle as the month wore on and the tree filled with ornaments. As his excitement sank, Jamie's strange sense of dread seemed to escalate to the point that the hair on his arms and at the back of his neck would rise a bit every time he found a new package. There was something off, something vaguely sinister, about many of them. When there were only two blank nubs left, he received the most jarring spoiler yet.
He was out of school for the winter holidays, and his Da had left him alone in the flat. Before the start of the month, Jamie would have assumed that such an excursion was for some last-minute birthday or Other Holiday errand, but he didn't know what to think anymore. It didn't help that the shops closed early and his Da had left twenty minutes ago, at half past nine in the evening.
Then there was the fact that most of the day had gone by, but the 24th box had yet to appear. The tension was getting to him.
So, in an attempt to keep from thinking at all, he immersed himself in his current occupation: picking his bicycle lock with a hair grip. He frequently rode his bike in the warmer months, when Belfast only plunged its occupants into frigid mist and rain half the time as opposed to the nigh-constant onslaught that was fall and winter. The odd thing was that, over the past year, he had lost the key to his lock seven times. He was normally very careful with his things, the key included, so he had no idea how it kept disappearing. After the sixth replacement key vanished, his Da told him that if he wanted to use the lock, he'd have to learn to open it himself.
And so he did, thanks in no small part to internet searches on the subject of lock picking. With a lot of patience, practice, and a little natural ability, it was almost second nature to him at this point. He could feel the subtle vibrations through the hair grip as he worked the lock loose internally. Classmates who had seen him unlock his bike in this way had told him that he could steal any other bike, much nicer ones than his own, or possibly even break into the school at night. He had laughed them off.
When someone knocked at the door, his eyes slid shut. Sighing, he tucked the hair grip behind his right ear and stood, leaving the open lock on the table. Nobody was outside when he gazed through the peephole, but he expected as much. He opened the door and sure enough, there was the 24th package.
Like many of the prior packages, the box contained pictures – four of them, to be precise. But the first thing Jamie had seen was the associated ornament, and he was still trying to work through the ball of dread that had settled in his stomach upon seeing it. A gun. Still reeling, he hung it on the second-to-last nub on the tree. He steeled himself and turned his attention to the pictures and the note which accompanied them.
'24. I SHARED TOYS WITH ALL OF THEM. THERE WAS ONE PERSON EVERY MEETING WHO WAS PRETTIEST OF ALL. I WATCHED FOR 13 YEARS BEFORE I PROPERLY INTRODUCED MYSELF. '
Jamie recognized the style of the photos instantly, as they were a part of an ever-popular subject in his history and society classes in school. All four photos featured small groups of teenagers and young adults in paramilitary gear, complete with assault rifles. Two of the photos had banners and signs affiliating the youths with different gangs under the Provisional Irish Republican Army, while the other two photos allied their respective subjects with the Ulster Defense Association.
A red marker had circled one boy in each of the photos. Jamie squinted in an attempt to get a better look. The closer he examined them, the more obvious it became that, despite having all of his head but his eyes and part of his nose obscured by a balaclava, it was the same boy in every photo. Whoever he was, he had been on both sides of the Troubles. He was a man whose principles, if he possessed any, did not mesh at all with the proclaimed national and religious loyalties such groups espoused. Maybe if Jamie peered close enough into those blue eyes, he could make any sense of it.
The photos fell from Jamie's fingers, his gaze widening and fixing on nothing. He had peered into those eyes. He had done so since the very moment he was born.
He needed confirmation. He scrambled to scoop up the pictures and the note.
Putting one trembling foot in front of the other, Jamie made his way to his Da's room. He approached the wardrobe and kneeled by it. With a shaking hand, he removed the hair grip from behind his ear and, following a stuttering exhalation of breath, willed his fingers into perfect stillness. He went to work on the wardrobe's lock.
Two minutes later, he was almost disappointed with how easy it was to pick. "Easy-peasy," he muttered. He shook his head, surprised at himself. Who thought like that in a situation like this?
He eased the wardrobe door open and set his hands on his target: the guitar case. He carefully laid it on the floor and leaned back from it, running his fingers through his hair. It didn't have a lock. The only things keeping him from his suspicions were two metal snaps.
"Perhaps burgling is more up your alley."
Jamie lurched back from the case, slamming his back against the wardrobe. Gasping, he looked to the doorway where his Da stood holding a purple gift bag with green tissue paper sticking out the top. Parent and child stared at each other while Jamie caught his breath.
"I always thought it was strange, that I never heard you play," Jamie said. He swallowed. "You're not just a pro poker player."
"I supplement it with other things," Moran confirmed.
Jamie undid the clasps on the case and raised the lid. He winced as if someone had punched him in the stomach and snapped it shut again. A sharp intake of breath hissed through his teeth as it rushed through his lungs. "You've killed people," he whispered.
"You already knew that. You've heard my Army stories."
"That's different!" Jamie bellowed. "That's… that's a reason!"
"There are always reasons. War is one. So is self-defense," Moran said. "But so is jealousy. So is fun. So is profit. So is boredom. What makes some reasons better than others?" He set the gift aside and strode over to pick up the note and pictures. As he examined them, a strange, fond expression settled over his intense features. "He knew. Had it all figured out. How it's all opinions. And when he approached me, it was like finally finding someone who talked sense. And he could have done it thirteen years earlier. So cheeky, Jim."
"'Cheeky'? " Jamie exclaimed, desperation in his tone. "It sounds like he was stalking you! And… it sounds like he brainwashed you."
"Jamie, don't say things you don't believe to be true," Moran chided. "It makes people sound stupid and cornered, and you will never be either of those things. Remember, I caught his eye because I was on both sides of a war."
"Why?"
Moran walked over to his son and sat by him, his back against the wardrobe. When Jamie leaned away from him, Moran found himself missing cigarettes for the first time since the rough feat of going cold turkey while dealing with morning sickness. "It was exciting."
Jamie's voice was flat. "Exciting."
"Very."
They sat in silence for a while with Moran's shoulders tense and Jamie's brows furrowed as he attempted to wrap his mind around what he had just learned. Over ten minutes passed before Moran spoke again. "Do you think that this affects my ability to love you?"
Memories flooded through Jamie. How they had moved all around the isles every three months or so for the first five years of his life, but never feeling intimidated by the constant changes because of his Da. How much pride his Da took in all of his accomplishments, from the very small to the significant. How he had recently begun to notice that other parents – especially ones that were also Omegas – seemed to shoot his Da pitying glances or wrinkle their noses in distaste or whisper to each other and shake their heads when it became clear that there hadn't been an Alpha in the equation for most if not all of Jamie's life.
And he'd been a murderer the whole time. Had been through all of Jamie's life, before he was born, before he was even a collection of cells. Did a new piece of information change how his Da had treated him for every second of his existence?
Don't say things you don't believe to be true.
"No," Jamie whispered. "You love me more than anything, even if you're pulling a trigger."
The tension flowed from Moran in slow waves; an eye unfamiliar to the ways of Sebastian Moran wouldn't have been able to detect a change in his demeanor at all, but to Jamie, it spoke volumes. "Once, I nearly pulled a trigger because I love you more than anything. Maybe I will tell you about it one day. But not tonight."
Another moment of silence settled between them. Though it wasn't as choked with conflicted and painful emotions, it was different from how things had been between them before and, likely, would never be again. Only a minute or two later, an alarm sounded from Moran's pocket. He pulled out his phone and shut off the alarm. "It's midnight."
Moran stood and walked to the west wall and stopped in front of a blank span of plaster that was no more conspicuous than any other part of the wall. He tapped along it with his right knuckle until he seemed to hit the spot he was going for. Using both hands, he pried a disguised square panel out of the wall, revealing a large compartment which was empty save for a single box. It was identical to the ones Jamie had been receiving over the course of the month.
He handed Jamie the box. "It's three after midnight. You were born exactly twelve years ago this second. I've been waiting to give you these things since you were nearly six months old."
Jamie accepted the box without a word. Instead of the usual note and ornament combo, there was a note and a yet smaller box which was sealed with a loop of paper with the words "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL I SAY" on it. The note had a website address and a password: happy birthday.
Time to start up the laptop.
The video started the moment Jamie entered the password, and his stomach lurched immediately. The grinning face was all too familiar. He'd seen it countless times in adverts for sensationalist television or news articles that profiled some of the worst murderers and criminal masterminds in history; this man was always near or at the top of the lists. Some American filmmaker had even been nominated for an Oscar the year before for his documentary on the man. But no matter how thorough the presentation of information, no matter how much research was poured in, the people behind such exposés always added disclaimers to their work about how not everything was known about the man and how likely it was that not everything could ever be known.
Like the fact that Jim Moriarty had a son, for example.
"Hello, Jamie," Moriarty said, apparently cheerful. "There are two options here. One: you won't ever have to see this. Maybe you'll have grown up seeing me every single day. Maybe you'll think your name is James Brook. Maybe we'll all live in a disgustingly cozy little cottage with a white picket fence and a green, green lawn and perhaps even own a Jack Russell terrier called Mr. Scraps. Because no one suspects anything from that sort of family. No one, Jamie, suspects Mr. Scraps. And all of that means I won."
His expression darkened. "But option two: I'm dead. I still won – that's not even a matter open for debate – but it was at a personal cost. In which case, happy Christmas, birthday boy. You've lived your whole life as the child of an unbonded Omega with absolutely no information about who I am. Take note that this wasn't for your protection or innocence or anything dull like that."
He laughed briefly. "No, oh no. You see, there's no fun in simply training a child into a life of crime. That's what you do if you want a pet. A wind-up doll. Bohhh-riiiiing! To really excel in a field, you have to feel it. It has to be a part of you, bone and blood and muscle deep. By the time I was twelve, I knew." Moriarty nodded solemnly. "I knew me. And when I killed Carl Powers, everything clicked in place."
And something clicked in place for Jamie. The 12th box, with its shoe ornament and the newspaper clipping.
Moriarty continued. "So, you are old enough to know who you are. You've discovered talents. You've discovered interests. And you can put them to use knowing without a doubt that they are your own, not a product of circumstance. No 'But I was just following orders!' or 'But it's how I was raised!' here, boy-o. Pause this video. Open the box."
Jamie did. The final ornament was a tiny mirror. Small as it was, when Jamie first looked at it, all it reflected back was one eye. Unsettled, he glanced at the time left in the video, debating whether or not he wanted to finish out what little remained of the video.
What Jamie wanted hadn't really been part of the equation for some time. He clicked play.
"You were born with brown eyes," Moriarty drawled. "Most babies have blue at first, even ones who will have brown eyes later. But you had mine from the start, from when you were seconds old and squalling in my arms. Just thought you should know."
A chirping sound came from off screen. Moriarty reached out and brought his phone into the frame. His lips twisted into a wide, bestial grin, and he held the phone up to the camera. The text was just barely legible.
Come and play. Bart's Hospital rooftop.
SH
PS. Got something of yours you might want back.
"Showtime," Moriarty crooned gleefully. He moved toward the camera, kissing the lens before leaning back. "Bye-bye, Jamiebean. Hugs and kisses. Daddy loves you very much."
The screen went black and the video ended not long after. Jamie stared at the completed video for a moment, as if expecting it to suddenly start back up with a loud burst. It didn't.
Finally, he closed his eyes and leaned back against his desk chair, looking boneless and exhausted. "Even with all the… stuff out there about him, I don't know how he died," he stated flatly.
Moran slid out of the shadows of the doorway and into the low lamplight of Jamie's bedroom. "He shot himself in the head," he answered, his arms crossed over his chest. "To give someone no choice but to commit suicide."
"SH."
"Sherlock Holmes."
Jamie's eyes opened. "I've heard that name. Sherlock Holmes is alive."
"Yes," Moran replied. "He is."
The old wooden chair scraped against the floor as Jamie stood. With the ornament box in hand, he walked past his Da and downstairs. His footsteps were heavy and purposeful, as if a great weight pressed him down. He stopped his march in front of the calendar on the wall. The mirror ornament rested in the palm of his hand, and he gave it one last, long gaze before he reached up and placed it at the top of the felt tree.
His jaw set. His lips thinned. His eyes narrowed.
"Brown is just a colour," he said, staring into the tiny mirror. His own eye stared back. "About 95% of all people in the world have eyes like me, if not more. It doesn't get more ordinary than that."
For the first time in his life, James Moran was completely certain about who he was and what he wanted to do.
