Albert Peterson - The Hibernia Strain

He’s the only one of them who doesn’t have his back to me and spots me crossing the landing in the distance. He stops mid sentence, watching me in silence, trying to look calm as I pass by.

The other two turn to look at what’s caught his attention, quickly turning back once they’ve seen it’s me. I don’t like what’s happening. Are we perceived as a threat of some kind? Do they think they’ll be thrown out now the house’s rightful owner is back in the picture? It’s probably best not to read too deeply into it right now, my head’s not on straight and I may simply be misreading the situation.

By the time I reach the fifth door I’m out of sight of the trio. I turn and face the door before pausing for a moment outside. How’s this gonna go down? The poor kid lost his family no more than four hours ago, and in such a horrific way, not that he saw much of what actually happened.

I wonder if he’s even old enough to know they’re gone. He understood enough to keep his head down when it was all happening, or was that what the man with the gun was shouting to him?

The fact he hasn’t asked so much as a single question about the situation seems to suggest mental trauma more than understanding. Either way he needs someone to talk to him. It looks like he stuck with me, poor little bastard. All I see when I look at him are his family’s spiteful eyes looking accusingly back at me. Does he have a grasp of everything that went on at the hotel? Does he see me as the man who betrayed his family? I’ve stalled enough; it’s time to face the music.

I open the door and step into the room expecting to see Tom curled up in a ball, asleep in the bed. Instead I’m faced with the strange sight of an unfamiliar girl on a foot stool, leaning over as if she’s looking for a contact lens that’s fallen under the tossed, empty bed. I definitely counted five doors.

She hasn’t noticed me come in yet. I knock on the wall inside the door to announce my presence. It echoes across the large minimally furnished bedroom.

She quickly looks my way to investigate and without pause she effortlessly swings around to a standing position, facing me with her arms out by her side and with a smile on her face she greets me in a theatrical manor with, “Ah! Look who it is, it’s the hero.”

I’m taken aback, how do you respond to something so bizarrely random like that from someone you’ve never met before? I feel like I’m missing something, she seems a bit off but if nothing else, she strikes me as very interesting.

Before I have to think of a response she continues with, “I’ve being hearing all about you.”

With that a small head appears from beneath the bed, it’s Tom. This partly explains the exaggerated manner of her greeting; the playful tone was for Tom’s benefit. She must have been talking to him when I came in.

Nothing about her is what you’d call normal . She looks to be about my age and at first glance you’d be forgiven for writing her off as an emo, with her head full of pitch black hair except for one streak of red that runs across her forehead and down over her right ear. She’s wearing impossibly tight jeans and black lipstick, but it’s all juxtaposed by her incredibly cheerful, friendly demeanour and her t-shirt with some motivational kitten themed message that I can’t really make out.

I realise I’m staring so I break the silence with, “Hey Tom I’ve been looking for you. How’ve you been wee man?”

I wasn’t really expecting much of a response and I don’t get one, he looks almost amazed to see me, it could be the bandages.

I walk across the room and sit on the bed with my hands on my knees. He crawls out from under the bed and sits beside me, mimicking my posture by putting both his hands on his knees. I pull the cap he was wearing from my pocket. I’ve had it since I picked it up in the car as we arrived at the house.

“Here, you lost something buddy,” I say as I pull it down over his head, “How’ve they been treating you here? Did you get something good to eat?”

Without looking away from one of the less girly teddies that he was hiding under the bed with, probably from Emma’s room, he replies in a muted voice, “Fish fingers.”

Ugh, what are the rules for talking to young children again? Everything I say sounds so patronising, so instead in an effort to engage with the new girl I ask, “Hey, did this nice lady bring you some fish fingers? Those sound good. I’ll have to get some of them myself.”

I get another nod from him after which the girl chimes in with a smile, saying, “It’s Jo. The nice lady’s name is Jo. Your girlfriend asked me to stay with him after they moved him in here. When I came in he was under the bed, there was no coaxing him out until just now when you came in. I finally got some chat out of him about half an hour ago. I heard all about how you saved him from the baddies who followed him and his neighbours to that old haunted house by the lake. Like I said, you’re quite the hero.”

Hah, hero? If only she knew. I force a smile in response before she adds, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to the others.”

I turn my attention to Tom again as I stand up to leave and say goodbye, but before I even start, the alarm on his face is evident. He obviously doesn’t want me to go for whatever reason.

“Listen Tom, I’ve got to go and talk to the people downstairs and then I’ll be back up to talk to you again. You can show me where you got those fish fingers from and we’ll see if we can find a few chips to go with them.”

There was nothing patronising about that, I’m bloody starving and I want fish fingers.

As we’re leaving the room the last thing I see before I close the door behind me is a scared little boy crawling back under the bed. But if I judged what I saw outside on the landing a few minutes ago correctly, then this meeting isn’t something I want the wee fella tagging along to.

We start off down the hallway towards the stairs. Only Meg and Paul can be seen downstairs now, quietly looking out the massive gable window.

I’ve got some questions to ask Jo before we reach them but she beats me to it by asking, “So, Shawn isn’t it? How’s the head? You were a mess when they carried you in.”

With a smile, I say in my most charming voice, “Nothing a little morphine couldn’t fix.”

She isn’t someone you’d miss in a crowd with her distinctively eclectic, quirky look. I’m interested enough to ask with genuine interest, “Who are you?”

She replies, “Well like you already know my name is Jo, I’m Fred’s fiancée.”

Ah, Fred you wanker.

“He’s downstairs; I’ll introduce you in a minute. Fred is Paul and Meg’s nephew. We were on our way to visit them from back home in Connemara and we gave them a call when we heard some weird stuff was happening. They told us their car was attacked on the way to this house to take care of the plants for the owners and they were afraid to go back out on the open road. It was late when we got here last night to help them home but they won’t even let us leave now.”

The initial confident quirkiness that dominated her personality back in the bedroom has given way somewhat to a hint of anxiety. Her fingers flitter through her hair as she continues, “I’ve known them for years now as level headed people but their behaviour today is making me nervous. It can’t be all that bad can it?”

It’s obvious by her talk that the two of them have had no firsthand experience of what’s been happening.

After a few seconds pause I reply with, “It’s bad enough, but we’re in about as a good a situation as we can be all the way out here in this mansion in the middle of nowhere.”