 New
Readers Start Here Table
of Contents Next
It was late afternoon, and already dark and chill.
A light blinked off. It stayed off for maybe twenty
seconds, then flickered on for less than a second, and
then off again. From the garden of the big house you
could have made out the shadow of a figure inside, just
visible, moving behind the big windows. A dog barked
and an owl hooted, for this was the country and they
have such things. Owls, that is. Dogs they have almost
everywhere. There was a faint noise, like someone kicking
a table in the dark, and then another noise, like someone
hissing a profanity.
Then there was a glow. It began as just a faint glow,
barely enough to show up the figure inside, but it grew
and grew, passing the "oh, that looks like a bit
of a glow" stage, moving swiftly through the "yes,
definitely a glow" and settling for a while on
"now there's a serious glow". Finally it reached
"hurts the eyes a bit, doesn't it?" where
it seemed content to remain. The nearest houses were
a hundred yards away, not so far that you couldn't see
them from the garden. If you'd turned and looked over
your right shoulder you would have noticed their lights
flicker a little, and then a little more, and then extinguish
completely for a spell.
The glow faded and the lights in the houses came back
on again. The glow grew and the house lights dipped.
It faded, and the house lights came back, grew again
and they dipped. This carried on for a while but after
the first few times it wasn't very interesting.
Then, without much by way of warning, there was a seriously
loud bang, the glow became very, very bright indeed,
and then rest of the neighbourhood shut down for keeps.
The owl hooted again, but by then everyone nearby was
busy looking for candles.
Sixty two miles away Michael sat in his seat, praying
for the time to pass. It wasn't so much that he disliked
the ballet; in fact it was quite good. The sets were
expensive and expansive, the dancing was fluid and graceful,
the music familiar and moving. He didn't dislike it,
he just hated being forced to watch it. That was the
point. He hated the idea that he should be forced to
spend his Sunday afternoon like this. He hated the fact
that his school friends might, just might, find out
he was there. Even if the possibility were tiny, he
felt uncomfortable that it existed at all. Every month
or two his mother arranged these trips for Michael and
his sister. Charlotte was just eight years old, too
young to protest. Michael was sixteen. He knew his own
mind and he was well able to make it up by himself,
but it did no good because when she was in a mood like
this, her Culture Mood, his mother behaved as if he
were still a small child. She wouldn't listen.
So here he was, little more than three weeks before
Christmas, watching The Nutcracker against his will.
The music was by Tchaikovsky. Michael wasn't overjoyed
that he knew, but he had to admit that he did know.
Next
|
|
