Stand By Me. S.D. Robertson
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making each other laugh at silly things. Mind you, El was quite the success story these days. He’d set up a lucrative technology firm in Sydney and, according to the letter tucked into his card last Christmas, had recently created a popular app for smartphones and tablets. In fact, from what Lisa had read in the Sydney Morning Herald after searching online, this app was doing extremely well. It was some kind of fun educational tool for toddlers, which had already netted him a fortune, by all accounts. Maybe that meant he’d outgrown her.
Lisa was musing on this when the doorbell rang. Oh dear, it must be Mike, she thought, her heart sinking. Who else would call round so late on a Friday night? He was probably so drunk that he’d lost his key. She took a deep breath, turned off the TV and went to answer the front door. Time to face the music.
He was in a small, box-like room without a window. The plastered walls and ceiling were cream: smooth, unmarked and with no fixtures or fittings. A powder-coated white metal door was the only way in or out.
Somehow the room was brightly lit, although this puzzled him, since he could see no obvious light source.
He was sitting at a table in the middle of the room, struggling to grasp how he’d got there or, indeed, where that was. He needed time alone to review his thoughts and memories in order to try and make sense of this. But the man sitting on the other side of the table in the smart black suit and tie, the sort you’d wear to a funeral, kept staring at him and talking.
‘Are you in any discomfort?’ the man asked in a northern English accent. He’d introduced himself earlier, hadn’t he? So why couldn’t he remember his name?
‘Sorry, what was that you just asked me? I don’t seem to be able to, um—’
‘I was asking whether you’re in any pain. Sometimes, when people have been through such a major trauma, there’s a sort of residual … well, yes, discomfort. It usually passes pretty quickly.’
That word pain had thrown him; diverted his mind to unwanted memories. ‘Sorry to be weird,’ he said after taking a moment to regroup his thoughts. ‘I’m struggling to focus. Please could you repeat that once more?’
‘Wait. Bear with me.’ The man picked up a tablet-like device from the table and tapped something into it. He scrutinised the screen, which was directed so that only he could see it, rubbing his light stubble with one hand and nodding his head occasionally. When he looked up, he spoke slowly: ‘You’re disorientated, right? Finding it hard to concentrate?’
He nodded in reply.
‘That can happen, but it should also pass quickly. We need something to ground you. Cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please.’
The man promised to return soon, grabbed his tablet and left through the metal door.
Alone in the room, he found himself tapping his fingers on the table and staring at the floor, which was coated in a shiny grey material with a hard yet rubbery feel underfoot.
His eyes wandered to the metal legs of the oak-effect table and the two brown moulded-plastic seats. They reminded him of school furniture.
But this wasn’t a classroom. It was … somewhere else, the implications of which made him fidgety. His right leg bounced up and down under the table as his mind whirred, fighting to get back up to speed.
Thursday, 8 August 1991
‘I hate it here!’ Lisa shouted, slamming the door behind her as she stormed out of the house and down the steep concrete driveway.
‘Where are you going?’ her mum’s voice called from an upstairs window.
‘Out,’ she replied without turning back.
She was so angry with her parents right now, she could scream. How could they do this to her? How could they take her away from all her friends at such a crucial time in her life? How could they dump her here – in the middle of nowhere – a boring old village where she didn’t know anyone? It was so unfair.
Lisa had no idea where she was heading. She just needed to get out of that place: the house that wasn’t her home; the bedroom with the manky brown carpet and the awful bright green walls. It was this that had caused the latest row. Jamie, her annoying younger brother, had been winding her up by calling it the Bogey Room. Not once, of course, but over and over again.
‘I could come in here,’ he’d said, ‘wipe my bogeys on the wall and you wouldn’t even notice. Bogey Room, Bogey Room.’
That had been the culmination of a series of taunts by Jamie, who liked nothing better than winding up his sister. Lisa, who’d been doing her utmost to ignore him as she read the latest issue of Smash Hits magazine, had finally lost her rag. She’d hurled one of her trainers at him, delivering a perfect clip round the ear. Next thing, he was running to their mum in tears and Lisa was the one in trouble.
‘He’s fine. It hardly even touched him. He’s a big crybaby.’
‘You should never throw things at your brother,’ Mum had replied, taking his side as always, oblivious to the fact he was standing behind her, grinning and sticking his tongue out at his sister.
‘Tell him to stop winding me up, then. Look, he’s doing it right now. There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s disgusting. He was just saying that—’
‘I don’t want to hear it.’
‘He’s the one who keeps—’
‘Enough. I’m run off my feet trying to unpack and the last thing I need is you two squabbling. Stay out of each other’s way if you can’t get along.’
‘Fine.’
Only it wasn’t, of course; when Jamie had reappeared at her door a few minutes later, whispering the same taunt about the green walls, she’d had to get as far away from him and his wind-ups as possible.
Now where to go? They’d only lived in Aldham for five days and, although it was August, the rain had been almost constant, so she’d barely stepped outside. It was drizzling at present; she ought to have taken a jacket with her. But there was zero chance of her going back for one, so she carried on regardless.
Her dad had mentioned something about a lane that led away from all the houses and into the countryside. He’d pointed it out from the car yesterday, saying it was popular with dog walkers and there was a nice little stream. It seemed as good a place as any to go, so that was where Lisa headed. It was only a short walk from the house and, within a couple of minutes, she found herself on the rough, moss-laden tarmac of Victoria Street.
There were a couple of grand-looking houses at the start, with big gardens and winding drives, but after that the track narrowed to barely the width of a car, with nettles and other wild plants and bushes on either side, flanked by tall trees. These did at least provide some shelter from the rain, although they also made it rather gloomy and creepy.
She thought about turning back, but then a kind-faced, elderly woman appeared from around the corner. Dressed in wellies and a cagoule, she was walking in the opposite direction, a chocolate Labrador at her heels. ‘Morning, love,’ she said, a quiver in her voice, as the tubby dog waddled forward and sniffed at Lisa’s jeans.
‘Hello,’ Lisa replied with a smile, although she continued walking and resisted stroking the dog, not feeling in the mood for having a chat with a stranger. The woman’s presence spurred her on, nonetheless, partly by reassuring