Conversations with Myself: Chapter 2 - Siren in Disguise

Chapter 2

Siren in Disguise

Richard stands by the window, clad in thin linen pyjamas the hue of a deep ocean. His naked feet embrace the floor’s soothing touch, absorbing its coolness and transport it throughout his entire body. His right hand holds the blue curtains apart. Richard’s slight facial features press tightly against the window panes. His mouth hangs slightly open, awarding him the expression of a student in a dreamy stupor. The window remains fogless, showing no sign of Richard’s breath due to the unbearable hot climate of Malta. Thus the boy has a clear view of both massacres: the one in the night sky and the one below.

Wounded aircraft, like shooting stars, spin helplessly towards earth. They illuminate the ground with their fires but do not reflect the bombs driven savagely into earth by the enemy. The bombs engulf everything within reach, be it a mile, a tree or a house.

Civilian masses stumble and scratch their own neighbours in a frantic pell-mell for the shelters. The mob is highlighted in hellish yellow and orange by the fires of burning aircraft and buildings. Distant booms reach Richard’s house in the form of gentle thuds vibrating across the floor. Richard remains standing by the window. Rose remains asleep.

So the drama unfolds as the wailing of the sirens gets louder and louder. Wounded engines and men alike scream incomprehensibly in the din of warfare. Richard is motionless. It does not occur to him that it might be his father screaming. It does not occur to him that it might be his father’s plane that just crashed.

He is oblivious to all but one.

Death looms over the entire battlefield, revelling in the loss of so much life and blood. It resembles a sparkling white web held together by the constant fuel of slaughtered souls, dominating a world which has long forsaken hope.

Still the Richard in the dream does not make an appearance of a person controlled by fear. His mouth is slightly open and his eyes stare out the window, somewhat larger than usual. Yet they do not belie anything other than his impassivity – he looks but does not understand what he is seeing. This is, after all, a dream. Richard’s senses are as dilute as those of a medieval soldier after a drawn-out battle: deaf from the pounding of the cannons and indifferent to the carnage around him.

The dream mounts in intensity as Death solidifies into a robe the colour of ebony. No evidence of a body lies beneath its tattered clothing. Skeletal hands clack as Death turns its attention to Richard. It glides, rather than walks towards the house. The turbulent souls within Death put up a frantic fight to escape its embrace, their efforts reflected in a white sheen emanating from within its robe. An occasional soul gets lucky and is able to slither safely back to its owner, its bright whiteness allowing Richard to trace Death’s path.

A scream tears at his throat but the gift of speech has been hoarded away. It has no place in a dream like this. Numbness, like a steady shot of anaesthetic, courses through his veins.

Suddenly, without preamble, Death appears beside the boy – a cloth, thin and long with white orbs twirling underneath.

Richard’s eyes are fixed stubbornly ahead of them. His face does not even register the panic one is supposed to feel from having Death so close. Nothing has changed. The door is still closed. No gust of wind pervades the room despite Death’s swift apparition. A forked tongue juts out of its hood and tickles the place where Richard’s Adam's apple would be, had he been here in person and not in a dream.

Choose.

The word is not uttered by Death nor heard by Richard, but there it is, reverberating throughout his thoughts. But the boy cannot understand what he is supposed to choose from.

The touch of cold metal forces Richard to look at his hands. There are two keys, one in each hand. The one on the left is coal black, embossed with intertwined snakes in golden scales. They lead to one key head equipped with miniature fangs and eye slits. It feels heavy and carries the weight of lead. The key in his right hand is more of a crude imitation of the actual item than anything. It emanates a light glow and is not heavy to carry.

Both keys contain a heat that scorches his palms, replacing the initial chill of metal. He feels an urgent tug on his right sleeve. Now Richard knows what he must choose.

His fingers curl around the right key.

Death hisses in frustration as the left key vanishes from Richard’s hand. The siren screams even louder as Death’s robe dissipates into thin air, leaving the souls free. Father is amongst them, the only recognisable human face from the lot. However the freedom they fought for so desperately within Death now scares the souls. There is no goal left to accomplish. Even though they are no longer imprisoned by Death, they cannot return to their human bodies for they are trapped in Richard’s room. The boy is the only leverage left for the dead – he is the one responsible for imprisoning them anew. Or so they think.

Terrible anger distorts his father’s pale features. He points a damning finger at his son, bearing down on him with all authority of Death itself. So Death laughs at his marvellous trickery. It laughs in short, quick gasps like a snorting invisible pig. Death might not be able to harm Richard physically, but just like any other dream, sleep makes sure that the boy does not escape unscathed.

The ghosts descend on their prey and Richard stumbles backwards, tripping over the carpet. His father’s soul wrestles with many like it, to steal the life of another, even though he had given rise to that very life. It is not a sin, for the dead have no morals. The boy watches, dumbfounded, as his father is trampled beneath the horde and his body makes a powerful thud as it lands onto the floor. Now there is no ghost, only a legless body and an undecipherable face. Richard’s body slams against the floor...

A crunching sound woke Richard up, ending the nightmare abruptly. Shards littered the floor as the door knob now sported a gaping bruise instead of a face. The door stood impaled to the wall, its protruding knob having absorbed most of the impact. Propping himself up, Richard twisted his head to face the left side of the room. He only managed to catch a glimpse of his mother before she descended upon him, unkempt hair and the lot. Her hands grasped his right wrist as Rose dragged her son out of bed. The comforting caress of the bed sheets was instantly dispelled along with any lethargic feelings.

“Get up, get up, get up!” she screamed, issuing the command thrice so that Richard would surely hear it above the wailing siren. Together, mother and son fled the room, their feet practically skimming over the resentfully hard floor.

“What is it with you! How can you sleep like that?! Can't you hear them?!”

Which goes to show how much you know about your own son, Richard felt like retorting, even though the reason for her anger now dawned upon him. The dream had been so haunting; he had been unable to distinguish between the wailing siren in reality and the one in his nightmare.

Lost in his thoughts, Richard ran into his mother’s back, almost toppling her down the stairs.

“Will you watch it!” Rose screamed in utter panic, right arm flailing comically as she struggled to regain her balance. Richard yanked her back to safety – they couldn’t afford to lose precious time like this. Danger was shelling down around them, and their top priority was hiding rather than facing it. Rose released her claw like grip on her son’s hand and skipped the stairs two at a time. Her son followed, a little less desperately. Once they arrived at the bottom of the staircase, Rose instinctively clutched her son’s arm again. The house was shaking as if undergoing immense duress. The two stumbled into the dining room.

Panic bubbled inside Richard. Under normal circumstances, they would rush down to the basement. But time was not on their side and he was unnerved to see that Rose had opted for the quickest path to safety – the kitchen table. “Mum, the basement! Where in hell are you going?”

“There’s no time. Dive!” she said, shoving him under the table where they also kept their gas masks. Newton was probably down in the basement, whining in terror with his face buried in his paws.

Putting the masks on was not easy, especially during a night air raid with no light to go by. They had both agreed to place them right in the middle of the table, so finding the gas masks did not involve any blind scrabbling in the dark. Richard wiped the sweat from his brow. Even in the early hours of the morning, the air was mercilessly hot. Then, having successfully located his gas mask, Richard ran through the instructions mentally.

Grasp the side straps firmly, pressing the mask inwardly by your thumb. Richard managed without too much difficulty.

Fit your chin into the mask whilst simultaneously releasing your thumbs. Three times he had to attempt this before he got it right.

Do not release the straps. Draw them over the top of your head and adjust if necessary. To follow the final instruction, he jutted out his elbows to the side, hitting Rose on the side of her head.

She yelped in pain and rubbed her forehead. “Sorry!” hollered Richard above the noises of battle, though he was not sure his mother heard him.

For a while, both sat sullenly in the dark before the terrible thought of losing each other penetrated their pride. It started with the clasping of each other’s hands. Their lips uttered fervent prayers–their sanity, Rose and Richard felt, depended wholly on the good will of the Lord. There was nothing else they could do.

The basement was just downstairs but they dared not risk it – the prospect was too frightening. There had been times when they were forced to stay underground in their private shelter for a whole night, listening and trembling as the country’s population was snuffed out. Who knew when it might be them? Homeless or dead? The Germans were relentless.

* * *

Tweaks of sunlight appeared over the horizon, a hazy red flower blossoming over the air combat. A natural event to neutralise the evil madness the world was suffering from. The enemy aircraft retreated, and it seemed nature had won a victory, however insignificant, over the combined prowess of man and machinery.

Richard’s head lay on his mother’s bosom. Rose’s arms hugged her son’s gas mask tightly in emotional distress. Four damp cheeks bore the marks of petrified tears. Motionless and uncomfortable, they held onto each other for a few extra precious moments, even though the long sound signalling the end of the air raid carried over the island.

Faith had spared them this time round from a close scrape with Death. Richard finally extracted himself from his mother’s embrace.

“I’m going to bed,” he said.

Rose looked up at him and nodded her ascent. He made his way upstairs slowly as if each step caused him great pain. Newton followed him loyally all the way upstairs, and curled up contentedly at the edge of the bed. The dog always slept at the edge of a bed. Before the air raid started it had been sleeping downstairs in Rose’s bedroom. Now, it seemed that it found the carpet in Richard’s room more appealing.

After he removed his gas mask, Richard clambered into bed to finish off his disrupted sleep.

* * *

Warm beams of sunlight brought morning gently inside the room. Richard stirred, and his brain registered a new day, perhaps one of hope, to make up for the horrors of the night before. A ghost of a smile played upon his lips as he remembered the warmth of being so close to his mother. Taking a deep breath, he intoned encouragingly, “Perhaps today will be better.”

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