FAITH IN HUMANITY
Emily, part five

20th June 2003

Harry was once more having a nightmare. He had long ago come to the conclusion that his mind was simply weak enough to let them in.

It was dark. It was slowly getting darker. There was metal beneath his fingers and dust in the air, and the sky was crashing down into his eyes. In the next moment, he was looking down at something, or possibly someone, on the ground. It might have been his father. Whoever he or it was, he had a hole in him. He’d been impaled, and blood was trickling out.

Christine? Christine come and wake me up I’ve had enough of this I’m scared!

But he didn’t wake up, and the fact that he knew it was a dream made it worse: what sort of sick freak had dreams like this? The person on the ground stared up at him, and Harry stared back. He thought he could see Spider-Man down there somewhere too, but things were going black.

Oh God, was he watching his father die? Well, this was a fucking inventive new form of torture the world had found for him.

Someone in the background was crying. He only noticed it after a few moments, but he wondered what that was about. One thing was certain; they weren’t crying for him. He could feel something in his hand, a sword, a knife, or someone else’s hand-

Christine? MJ? Peter? Dad?

Mom?

Finally, he woke up.

He looked at his hand: nothing in it. But the crying- it hadn’t stopped. That had been real. He sat up and looked at the clock: seven minutes to midday. Was Christine in already-?

It was her crying. Wasn’t it? It couldn’t be anybody else.

He got out of bed and pulled a dressing gown on. He felt- odd, like he was still dreaming, although his dreams were never this calm. He unlocked the door and stepped into the corridor. It was indeed Christine out there: she was leaning against the banister and crying.

“Hello,” Harry said stupidly.

Christine jumped. And then she turned around, slowly.

“Harry,” she said, and rubbed her face. She scowled. “I’m sorry. Shouldn’t be crying at work.”

Harry didn’t know what to say to that. He didn’t know how to comfort people, especially not people like Christine. “What’s the matter?” he finally said. He thought that sounded a bit rude, so he also said, “I mean, are you alright?”

“I don’t know,” Christine answered. She looked at the floor. “Do you know about my husband?” she said, talking to the floor rather than to him.

“No.”

“He’s sick. He’s getting worse.”

“Oh,” Harry said, wondering why he could only manage words of one syllable. “I’m sorry.”

“Why? It isn’t your fault.” She swiped at her face again. “D’ya want breakfast?”

Harry looked at her. There were dark circles under her eyes, and worry lines across her forehead. She looked like she, too, had nightmares. Furthermore- for the first time- he realised that his mother, had she lived, might have grown to look a little like Christine.

He opened his mouth to say something, but she turned away. “Breakfast,” she said firmly. “Everyone must eat.”

Harry followed her downstairs and through doors, a child trailing an adult. “Christine-” he said.

“What?”

What he wanted to say came out as, “Why…are you always nice to me?”

She turned around, a faintly cross expression on her face, which soon softened. “Why shouldn’t I be?”

“Well-“

“I’m your employee,” she said glumly. “I should be nice.”

They held each other’s gaze for a few seconds. Then Christine shook her head.

“I’ll make you your breakfast. Go and work, or whatever it is you do.”

*****

After making Harry’s breakfast and cleaning up the kitchen, Christine had left. She had barely spoken a word to him, largely for fear she would break down in tears. Proper, furious tears, not the moping about and sniffing that she’d been doing previously. And it wouldn’t be particularly fair on him, something like that.

She put Harry from her mind, and went to the library. She tried to make eye contact with the people walking past her, and she failed. So she kept her head down, and went inside the building, and finally sank down next to a computer. She covered her eyes for a moment or two: no-one around asked if she was all right. She took a deep breath, and logged on to her email account.

She clicked on the last message.

he doesn’t want to talk to you. he told me he just wants to be left alone. me and him are going to get married & leave the country, and that’s all he wants me to say. all matters are closed, from here.

“Bitch,” Christine hissed, very quietly, and she regretted it instantly. She hit reply.

No, matters are NOT closed

She deleted that one. Tried again.

Please, he’s my son and I want to talk to him, please can’t we arrange something

At the start of all the godawful fights that tore her family to pieces, she had promised herself she would never beg. Clearly, that had changed. She stared at the screen as if trying to fall through it.

Something shot past the window. The kid on the computer next to her glanced up.

“Dude! Look who it is!”

Christine looked out of the window and saw nothing. With a sigh, she went back to the email. She spent another minute staring hopelessly at it, another minute trying to write something, and another two minutes trying to distract herself with Solitaire. When she tried again to write, she was three words in-

look, I love

-when she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned around warily, and gawped at who it was.

“Harry?”

He nodded. He looked so out of place in the library it wasn’t even funny. It was as if he had suddenly put a new face on. “Hi,” he said.

“You didn’t follow me here?”

“Sort of. I went to a meeting…I sort of…left.” For one very brief second, he looked livid. “They insulted my father, so I walked out. I got driven about for a bit, and I saw you, and you looked really…sad, so I got my driver to stop and I followed you in.”

Christine nodded. She also subtly closed the email, before Harry had a chance to look at it. “Well,” she said. “That was nice of you.”

“Are you alright?” he said quietly, for the second time that day. “D’ya want time off, or something?”

“No. Work keeps me going. Always did.”

Harry nodded. He pulled a spare seat over and sat down, and then someone nearby gave a shout.

“He’s back again! Look outta the window! Spider-Man’s out there!”

Harry was up like a shot, knocking Christine’s arm as he went. He scrambled to the window, and yanked it open, and leaned right out. “Where?” he demanded.

“Right there!” an excited teenaged girl yelled out, also leaning out and pointing. “On that building!”

Christine carefully rose and went to the window: everyone else was crowding around as well.

“He’s got someone!” another young girl squeaked.

“In a web!”

“Is he gonna drop him?”

A thunderous expression on his face, Harry broke away from the small crowd around the window, and marched to the door. Christine stared after him in surprise. Only when he was a few paces from the door did he even remember she was there: he turned around and spoke to her.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, and ran away.

Christine stared.

“He’s gone!” someone at the window called.

“What d’ya s’pose happened?”

“I’m gonna call the newspapers!”

People wandered off again. Christine was the only one left at the window, and she could see Harry out there. He was staring skywards furiously, and he didn’t look back at her. Eventually he got in his car, though, and drove off.

She stayed at the window for a few more moments. Then she went back to the computer, and closed the email. As she did, she felt a cold, angry thud in her stomach- and paid it no attention.

*****

Emily David’s Diary, 21st November 1974:

Tonight we went to a massive party to celebrate something or other that Norman’s company did. I have no idea what, I’m sorry. He doesn’t tell me these things anyway. My job is to stand around in my pretty black dress and smile.

I sound very bitter. I had a bit to drink. Didn’t embarass myself, least I’m almost certain not, but I felt sick all the way back. Now I wanna take my pretty self to bed. I wish my face was torn off, no rich man wants anyone ugly for a wife. Wanna go on the balcony and look down, but I don’t trust myself to. When on that balcony it’s a long way down to the road. Good way to kill yourself, I always thought.
Just count to ten and fling yourself off. You’d get plenty time to consider what would happen when you hit the ground.

You’d just have to make sure you didn’t start to feel too happy, on the way down.