12 Days of Interred, David's short story
David Gainsborough: a Short Story
about an Interred Survivor
“Where is he?”
The booming voice echoes
through the house, and I don’t have to look back to know Mary’s dad, Tobias, is
in hot pursuit of me. I rush out the bathroom window as Mary closes the door
behind me and swears.
The fall will probably
break a few of my bones, but I’m not worried about that. I’m more worried about
my mother’s heart being broken. The Gainsboroughs haven’t had an Interred in
their family in two centuries, as my father reminds me quite often. The Bakers,
my mother’s family, haven’t ever had an Interred in their long history, as my
aunt Sophie tells me over and over again.
Half a second later, I
decide that climbing to the floor would be best. Mary’s dad can’t openly use
his abilities on me. As the thought leaves me, I reach for the bricks and then
slowly make my way up, almost falling in the process as Mary’s mother Estelle screams.
“I’ll get you, you
little barmpot!” Tobias shouts as I reach the roof and carefully move from
their house to the next door neighbor and then the next, nearly missing my
footing as I try to get there. “You daft Apath! I’ll get you before tonight.
You’ll only bring shame to your family. If I catch you once more with my
daughter…”
Tobias’ voice vanishes
from the air as I reach the last house and climb down.
“Where are you going,
David?” Miss Heaton asks the moment she notices I’ve come down from her roof.
“Evening, Miss Heaton,”
I reply with a slight smirk as I lean against the side of the wall.
“Getting into trouble…”
She smiles before opening the back door of the kitchen. “Come on, I’ve got the
kettle boiling.”
I follow without
another word. As she’s the second in command of the English Council, it’s hard
to deny her anything.
“Sit,” she orders.
I pull out the chair
that she pointed to and then sit down obediently, though I itch to explore her
library again.
“I take it you’re going
to be in one piece tonight?” she asks as I look from the hallway to her.
Nodding slowly, I
notice her lips purse as she pours the boiled water in the teapot. “I will be,
Madam,” I tell her, hoping that she’ll tell me what worries her.
“Nothing worries me, my
dear.” She smiles taking me aback as I clear my throat and thoughts. Once she
settles the cups and the biscuits on the table, she turns to get the milk and
the sugar, which she never takes, but knows I like. “Here we go,” she announces
before pouring the tea into my cup once she settles the other things on the
table.
“Are you worried about
tonight?” I ask.
She shakes her head.
“Of course not. I’m sure that my lads will do as fine as those Southerners.”
She grins with a mischievous look. “Just don’t go fighting with them. We don’t
want them to cry during their Interment.” She laughs softly and I nod, wishing
my parents were this relaxed. “Your parents are fine. It’s just so exciting.”
“Well, it’s my life.
I’m the one who ‘as to go there and be buried,” I point out.
Her smile fades. She pulls
her rimmed glasses further down her nose so she can look at me over them. “Are
you worried?”
“What if nothing
‘appens?”
“David, your powers
will come through and you’ll find a way. I told you…”
“Yes, I know you
foresee me working with the leaders, the future leaders of the Council…all
those Southerners. I’ll ‘ave to speak like a pooftah,” I laugh.
“But you’ll be able to
meet the next Time Bender,” she says quietly as she stares at the dark tea in
her cup.
All humor escapes me. “What?”
She raises her eyes
from the cup and they’re no longer clear blue. Her eyes are dark like midnight
in the middle of nowhere. Stars shine bright in her gaze. I sit up straight and
brace myself.
“The Time Bender, a
young girl named Morgan. You must do everything in your power to help her when
she arrives, protect her during her Interment. Otherwise, she’ll die a most
horrible death.”
“How can I even…” I begin,
but her eyes are back to normal and she’s blinking away, confused, as it always
happens.
“Did I say something new?”
I nod, prompting her to stand up and get a small notebook and a pen. “Please
write it down. I need to remember these things. Maybe your mother has a spell
so I can remember,” she hints.
I smile as I write down
the name Morgan. “Maybe. You’ll have to ask her.” I finish the much too hot
tea, burning my tongue and palate before I stand up. “Anyway, I should go now.
I’m sure Mr. Henderson ‘as calmed down and gone ‘ome.” I smile as a loud knock
comes through the front door. We both look at the door and then she sighs.
“Just go. I’ll deal
with it,” she says, resigned.
I blow her a kiss and
rush out the back door.
That night, my mother
and father barely speak as we arrive at King’s Cross. Once out of the trains, I
have to pull my mother away from the people around us more than once. The
lights twinkle outside the station as people walk around, some chatting, others
ignoring each other. My mother’s dress and hat look slightly out of time among
the crowd who are all wearing more colorful clothes.
“We should get a cab,” my
father states, moving to do so and then sighing as I follow closely with my
mother. “We should ‘ave brought our car.”
I smile as my eyes move
away from him to look at the girls walking by. “It’ll be fine, Papa.”
“You’re in enough trouble
as it is, David,” my mother says sternly. I turn my smile to her. Her hard
exterior melts in a second, but just as it does, the severity returns to her
eyes. “Just remember to do your best tonight,” she says, fixing my baby blue
tie as my father calls us once he’s hailed down a cab.
This is our third time
in London. Most of it is as I remember, but the people have certainly changed.
The girls’ skirts have gotten shorter and their shirts show a lot more skin
than before. My mother shakes her head, disapproving of the fashion. My father
tells her it’s the Americans’ fault.
“They export their
radical culture,” he says.
The cab finally stops
outside the mansion that the Council has been using as its base in London. The dwelling,
an old Victorian brick house, extends majestically over the manicured lawns and
boasts a massive fountain in the front garden with a tiny girl holding her hand
high. From her finger, water rushes into the air and falls to the basin.
My father and mother
walk toward the garden, admiring the flowers and the plants as I look toward
the tent to the far right in an area which is flat and barren of any trees. It
seems that there are only trees in the back of the house.
“Son” my father calls.
I blink in response, unaware that I’d stopped walking. “Are you all right?” he
asks with a frown
I nod. Once they’re out
of sight, I take a deep breath and reach for the pocket inside my jacket, grabbing
the flask I swiped from my dad’s study. After taking a sip of the warm whiskey,
I hear a laugh behind me.
“Are you feeling
better?” Mae, who is a fellow Interred, asks, sashaying my way. My eyes can’t stop following her, she looks
like a Kitsune. She’s feline like, and deadly with knives. At the thought I
touch my shoulder, where she almost cut through one of the tendons, whilst we
practiced attack techniques during last summer’s Council Engaged Week. The
lamest name of a camp, ever.
I put the flask inside
of my jacket and smirk. “Never better.”
“Good, because I hear
last month they lost three of the Interred.” Mae’s dark eyes settle on mine
with a sort of despondency and glee, which baffles me.
“I’m sure that they
wouldn’t be able to lose us,” I say, leaning against the tree.
She clicks her tongue.
“You never know, David.” She pushes her hair back and grins.
“Well, what if I
promise to dance with you before we go in the nice coffins?” I ask.
Her eyes sparkle and
she leans closer to me. “That would be great,” she says as she looks at me
under her eyelashes. “However, I know you made a date with little Mary
tonight.” She pulls away as I frown. “I’m not a second course, David. I’ve told
you.” She turns around and walks to the tent as I clear my throat.
“I told you, mate. Out
of your league,” Sam, my best friend says, standing beside me as we hear the
fanfare playing. “Come on, the oldies are waiting for us.” He turns to look at
me, running a hand through his ginger hair.
I roll my eyes. “Aren’t
you going to put that out?” I ask as I point to the cigarette between his
fingers.
He smirks. “What are
they going to do? Send me away?”
“No, but they can
actually seal your coffin and leave you there,” I tell him as we both walk to
the tent.
“They wouldn’t dare.
I’m the son of the Leader of the Council,” Sam says in that haughty tone that
makes most people hate him. I still wonder why we’re friends.
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