In a Realm of Memories

IN A REALM OF MEMORIES

Copyright © 2015 Juliet Boyd

All rights reserved.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This book is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and situations portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Any reference to an actual event, product or location is used in an entirely fictitious manner.

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Cover Image

© Algol | Dreamstime.com - Young Elven Hunter In The Forest

Chapter 1

Tobin took hold of his mother’s hand and squeezed. She didn’t respond. Her fingers stayed limp and lifeless as if there were no muscles able to control her actions, when in truth, it was the brain cells that weren’t capable of controlling her muscles at that particular moment. It gave the impression that the contact meant little to her, which was probably true given her illness. She didn’t understand. She didn’t feel in the same way anymore. He thought her skin felt colder than it should, so he tucked her arm under the covers and straightened the sheet that reached to just beneath her neck. She looked at peace. That was something you usually said about the dead, when their face had relaxed and the strains of life had disappeared.

But Tobin’s mother was not dead. She had remained in that consciously-unknowing state the whole time he spoke, while he was telling her about his day — that being the trials and tribulations of the last few hours of his life as a full-time student, the day he got his exam results. They were okay, but not great. He wasn’t going on to university, but not because his marks weren’t high enough. He had no desire to further his mind in that way. It had experienced about as much as it could take of worthless facts he would never use. Anyway, he needed to go out and earn money. He was an adult now, with responsibilities. In a way, it was better that his mother didn’t respond. She would’ve had something to say about that. Something very vocal and opinionated. Back when she remembered who he was.

There were times when she was lucid, but they were becoming few and far between. Occasionally, rather than staring blankly at something in the air before her, she would go off into a dream world of conversation. At least, Tobin assumed that was what it was, because it couldn’t be real. She spoke of fantastical adventures, of ancient lore and dragons. She had never been a fan of fantasy novels, which made it even odder that she would fly off at such a tangent. But he liked the way her voice sounded when she spoke of these things. She was animated and awed. It almost sounded as if she were a young girl, experiencing life for the first time. A second childhood, perhaps.

There were times when he tried to make sense of the tales, as if they were representations of actual life, similes or metaphors, he’d never taken much notice in English. A bit like when dreams were supposed to be working out your life problems. But he’d been unable to come up with anything even close. Her life had been hard, having to bring him up for the last ten years on her own. There had been nothing frivolous about the way they lived. She’d never had time to think about herself, and now, when he could start to look after her, to give back what he had been given, she was incapable of comprehending who he was.

The nurse walked in and nodded at him. It was her silent signal that his mother was tired and he should make himself scarce. He thought it was just an excuse. A way to get rid of him when she had work to do. He didn’t complain. He’d finished what he wanted to say. He kissed his mother on the forehead and walked to the door. When he opened it, he came face-to-face with a man he didn’t recognise, his arms crossed over his chest, blocking his path.

Excuse me, said Tobin, taking a politer tone than he felt the situation warranted. Who did something like that? Rude. He wasn’t in the mood to have to deal with jokers.

Another man walked up behind the first. They moved, each to alternate sides of the doorway, but only enough to channel Tobin into the corridor between them. His anger began to rise.

You’re coming with us, said the first man.

Seriously? These people were going to play silly beggars? He didn’t have the time.

I’m not, said Tobin. The second man latched his grip around Tobin’s left bicep and squeezed. Ow! His right arm was similarly secured by the first man. He wished he’d been to the gym more often. Then, they wouldn’t have been able to do that. Instead, underdeveloped as he was, they frogmarched him toward the exit. In a nursing home. In broad daylight. With people behind every door he passed. Hey. Help!

Tobin’s feet barely touched the ground as they moved. He scrabbled for purchase, but even the rubber soles on his trainers couldn’t slow his movement. His heart began to thump in his chest. This was not normal, not in a nursing home, not anywhere, and no one was coming to see what the commotion was. Where was everyone? They weren’t all like his mother. There were nurses.

Help me. I’m being kidnapped.

His voice sounded strangled, a pathetic squeak, rather than forceful and commanding, something another person might actually take notice of.

And still no one came to see what was happening. Not even the nurse who had gone in to see to his mother. Panic began to cloud his senses. Horrific scenes of his body lying mutilated on a quiet country lane passed through his mind.

You’re not being kidnapped, said the first man, You’re being escorted forcefully. I’m James. This is Ciaron.

Well, that was the first time he’d heard of murderers introducing themselves. James gave Tobin a quick grin. He didn’t return it. Let go of me.

No.

Why not?

Because if we tell you where we’re taking you, and why, you won’t believe us, and you have to go.

Too right, he wouldn’t go. He managed to swing his right foot at an angle and kicked James heartily in the shin. The man didn’t even flinch. Okay, he’d never been into sports all that much, and certainly not bodybuilding, ergo the lack of meaty biceps, but surely the strength of his kick was worth a grunt.

Outside, he was bundled into the back seat of a 4x4, so new, or well-cared for, that it smelled of leather and plastic. The newness caught in Tobin’s throat and he coughed. James slammed the door after flipping the child lock on him. That was a low punch to his self-esteem.

Tobin yanked on his seatbelt, because he wasn’t going to let them kill him with their driving, and crossed his arms. He refused to make eye contact with James through the rear-view mirror, although the man tried more than once as the journey continued.

They drove all the way through town and out the other side, along a rural road that led to nowhere but farms and country houses for the rich. The sun was still high, throwing a freshness of light across the autumn landscape. It didn’t lighten his mood. It made it a good level more sour. He’d been going to meet up with Mia. She was going to be pissed, waiting at the War Memorial with expectations of a deep pan pizza and him not turning up.

But, he still had his phone.

He slid the mobile out of his pocket and held it low in his lap. He started to scroll through his contact list when a deft hand reached behind, grabbed the device and spirited it away.

Hey.

No phones, said Ciaron

My girlfriend needs to know I’m not turning up to meet her tonight. And that I’m being kidnapped.

What’s her name?

What are you going to do?

Tell her you’re not coming.

What are you going to say?

Something that a teenage boy might say to his girlfriend. Do you like sport?

He raised his eyebrows. No.

Films?

Some.

What kind?

Science fiction.

Okay, so you’re going round to a mate’s to see his vintage Betamax version of the original Star Wars film. That okay?

He thought about saying no, but he knew full well that Mia would never want to go to that type of evening, and it was the kind of thing he did from time-to-time. Blew her off for something nerdy that involved aliens. He nodded. Mia. It was better than her standing there, waiting. Even if she could’ve saved him. He didn’t get his phone back.

Some minutes later they drew up to a large, well, it looked like a mansion to him. Six windows across the front, seven on the first floor. Rich kidnappers. Why did these people need the money? Not that he, or his family, had any.

Where is this?

This is where your life changes, said James.

Seriously, what kind of answer was that?

***

The interior of the house was an uncomfortable mixture of preserved heritage and modern convenience. It was the kind of makeover that would be considered not in keeping with the spirit of the place. If that said something about his kidnappers, he didn’t think it could be anything good.

The entrance hall was tiled with flagstones that gave the building a quality of echo that wouldn’t be out of place in a cave. It was massive. A long staircase stood proud in the centre, branching to each side halfway up, as if having to walk from one side of the upstairs to another would be too much for anyone. All around were pine cupboards, the type you might get flat-packed and put together yourself. They didn’t go upstairs. They headed for one of the five doors to the left of the staircase, right at the back of the house. Tobin imagined it leading to a dank cellar with chains affixed to the walls. It wasn’t a cellar.

It was a torture room.

The walls were painted a plain white. There were cupboards and chairs, all utilitarian, around the edges. In the centre was a bed. Or, maybe, a trolley. It was easily movable, like the ones they had in hospitals, but that was where the similarity ended. A plain white strip of absorbent paper covered the surface. About half way down were two clasps, similar to handcuffs. Two more were placed at one end, in a convenient place to be locked around the ankles.

Tobin’s bladder suddenly felt slack. He tried not to think about why the paper was there.

James tapped the surface of the bed. Sit. Tobin stared blankly. He didn’t move. He couldn’t. Come on, now. The quicker we start, the quicker we finish.

His throat went abnormally dry.

What are you going to do to me? he asked. It was probably stupid to ask. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer.

Oh, these, said James, picking up one of the cuffs. I forgot what they look like to others. They’re not bad. They’re restraints. To keep you safe.

Safe? As a joke, it didn’t have titter appeal.

Look, trust me. We don’t want to hurt you.

Trust needs to be earned. You need to work on your technique. Well, if they were going to kill him, a few digs here and there weren’t going to make much difference.

Thin beads of sweat were beginning to trickle down his forehead. He didn’t want to imagine what the armpits of his t-shirt looked like.

James tapped the bed again.

Tobin walked toward it and sat down.

Now, just swivel around and lie down.

He swallowed hard. He glanced between James and Ciaron. There was no chance of making a dash for it, and even if he did, where would he go? He was out in the middle of the countryside. He blinked back the tears that were so close to falling it was pretty much a lost cause and he lay down.

The cuffs were fastened. They felt cold against his skin. He thought about his life. He thought about his mum. He heard a door slam in the distance and loud steps echoing on the tiles through the entrance hall. Panic got the better of him.

Without really knowing what he was doing, his arms and legs began to flail, jarring against the restraints. He didn’t feel the pain, though he knew it was there. He screamed unintelligible words of fear and despair. The moments lasted forever in his own little world of imagination. Until the door was flung open and an elderly man, white hair flowing in waves, entered the room.

The man flicked his wrist, he recited some words, and everything went blank.

***

Tobin’s head thumped as if he’d repeatedly bashed it against a wall. Not that he’d ever done that. It was how he imagined it would be. A migraine on steroids, or just a migraine. He’d never had one of those, either.

His eyes were closed and he had no intention of opening them. He didn’t want to see the three faces that had been there before he … what? Passed out? Was knocked out? He wanted to pretend that everything was okay.

He couldn’t hear them talking, which was fair enough, but he couldn’t hear them breathing either, or the slight movement that everyone makes even when they’re trying their hardest to be quiet, which was odd. He could hear birds tweeting, though. And, if he wasn’t mistaken, the sound of children. Not in the room where he was, but outside. Beyond a window? It was no good. Keeping his eyes closed was getting him nowhere. He had to know.

Not that opening them was easy. His eyelids stuck around the edges, the same as when you woke up in the morning and had sleepers in your eyes. Instinctively, he moved his arm to rub and just when he was about to wince in anticipation of the jolt from the cuff, he realised he was no longer tethered. His eyelids shot open then, no problem, and he sat up so fast he could’ve won a sitting-up race. He swivelled on the spot, taking in his surroundings.

He was sitting on the floor, with a rectangular box marked out around him, alongside lots of other rectangular boxes, all numbered, in a room with a desk at the end and a chalk board behind. There was only one explanation. Heaven was a school. Ancient, last-century school.

Dammit! He hated school. He couldn’t, surely, have to attend it forever? What did they teach in Heaven School, anyway? How to play a harp? How to balance on clouds without falling through? How to be really, really good? Or, maybe, it was Hell. His own, personal Hell.

He didn’t have time to contemplate the meaning of life and death any further. A wave of nausea washed over him and he began to rock back and forth. His eyes closed and he had the sensation of falling without end.

He’s back.

His body jolted up and this time the cuffs bit into his wrists. Ow!

Release him. It was the old man who’d entered the room before Tobin found himself in the school and knocked him out, who spoke.

Too damned right, release me, said Tobin.

Weird dreams about school? What was this place?

***

Before the shackles were completely removed, the door to the room opened again. Tobin’s words of anger caught in his throat when he saw who it was.

Elicia?

He couldn’t force out any more words. It was hard enough to voice her name. His stomach churned as he tried to compute the facts, but nothing meshed together into a coherent whole. Why would his aunt be involved in his kidnapping? It wasn’t as if his mother had a fortune to pass on. She could hardly pay a ransom. Or was she the one demanding the ransom? And, surely, she could’ve waited until he got home to give him any news. After all, when you were staying in someone’s house, you hardly expected them to put you through something like this. His fists clenched. He felt a rant coming on.

"Before you fly off on a rant, Tobin, this wasn’t my