Chapter Twenty-Eight: The Moment of Consequence
The defining moment of Jermaine Mitchell’s life comes late. It is not when his father comes home – swearing and frantic that the duke has found them – throws some belongings into a bag and drives them away from the seaside town that had been home for the first three years of his life.
It is not half an hour later, when daddy loses control of the car. It is not the weightlessness he feels after smashing through the windshield, nor the pain of landing. It is not limping back to the car, or the hour he spends with daddy before he understands that daddy can’t hear him anymore. Daddy is gone.
It isn’t the two hours he spends stumbling along the road before another car finds him.
It isn’t meeting his new parents for the first time, being told his surname is now “Mitchell” and does he know what a surname is? It means he is part of their family. Dinner is a seven, and discipline is the key to growing up right.
It isn’t the years of feeling different from other kids. Being smarter, athletic, handsome enough in his way, but still feeling – knowing – that he should be more.
It isn’t the solace he takes in his Calm Place: the pitch-black void where only he can go. Where no one can follow. Where there is just him and the endless embracing nothingness.
These are contributing factors. Nothing more.
The defining moment of Jermaine Mitchell’s life comes at the age of twenty-eight as he stands before his superiors after returning from Archi.
“Captain Mitchell,” says a man with receding hair and thick glasses. “You wanted to speak to your report?”
“My report was made under duress,” Mitchell says. This produces a wave of sideways looks along the three men on the panel. “I was forced to lie in order to get what remains of my Team off Archi alive.”
A triple-chinned man in need of a triple-bypass guffaws. “This would be the secret island that doesn’t exist?”
“It has been hidden from all surveillance by the duke,” Mitchell says evenly, “who is—”
“Did you have authorisation to enter a no-fly zone?” asks the third man. He is the eldest, easily eighty, Scottish, and the others look when he speaks. He is in charge.
“No, sir, circu—”
“I see.” The elderly man nods to his thickset companion to continue.
“So if your report is a fallacy,” Thickset says, “what did happen to your men?”
“Thompson and Peterson were eaten by a werewolf,” Mitchell says. “Clarkson was bitten by a vampire,” he adds quickly, because glances are being exchanged, “and Johnson was eaten by a zombie. The rest of my Team stopped the zombie horde coming here. I request permission to return to Archi with a science team and eliminate these monsters.”
“What makes you think you should do that?” Receding Hair asks.
“Because it’s my job!” Mitchell says. “These zombies pose a significant risk to global security.”
“No they don’t,” says the old man. “They are perfectly contained: they’re on an island no one can find without breaching international law.”
Hold on. The elderly man isn’t contesting the zombies’ existence! The others look incredulous, but he has accepted it without argument.
“And what about my men?” Mitchell asks.
“They shall be awarded posthumous medals for actions earlier in their careers.”
It couldn’t be like this. They couldn’t accept he was telling the truth and do nothing! They couldn’t!
“You will order your squad to say nothing of this – to anyone. No pillow talk, no psychiatrists, no words muttered in sleep. Is that understood?”
Bugger this old fool. “They won’t accept it.”
“They’ll accept whatever you tell them.” He removes a pair of glasses and rubs an ear. “You fought monsters and lived; let that be enough, Captain Mitchell.”
“No, sir.”
The old man looks at him sharply. “Excuse me?”
“You think I’ll be silent now that I know monsters are out there?”
“If you want to live.”
Is someone threatening his life for the second time today? Mitchell’s fingernails cut into the palms of his hands but he doesn’t dare unball his fists.
“Steady on, Godfrey,” Receding Hair says.
Godfrey ignores this interruption like it did not happen. It might as well not have; Mitchell is only aware of it because he is always aware of his surroundings. His focus is held by the pale blue eyes which stare so deep into him. Beside this man, he feels weak and small, a child. It sends cold shivers along his spine.
Mitchell sees it in his eyes: this is a man who would sign an order to end’s Mitchell’s life and forget his face and name by dinner. Someone will slip a needle into him as he sleeps, or put a bullet in him as he comes home with the groceries, or he’ll just disappear. And his parents will accept whatever lie the military tells them; he’s been a stranger to them all his life. He doesn’t have any friends. Even if the Team know the truth, they will know to shut up about it.
And in his heart, Mitchell knows he has no move to play. He has finally found the Truth and can tell no one. He can do nothing.
And it is Paddington’s fault. James Paddington has brought him here; has taken advantage of his men’s deaths and discarded Mitchell when he is no longer useful. And in reward? Paddington receives the pretty girl, the praise, the honours. Mitchell gets threats.
His hands ball tighter, fingernails press deeper, and blood wells in his palms.
“Tell your Team to forget Archi,” Godfrey says, “then consider yourself relieved of command, Private Mitchell. Dismissed.”
Dismissed. Like that. Like the last ten years of his life didn’t happen. Like, in following orders of men like Godfrey, he hasn’t taken so many lives that he’s lost count of them all. Like he hasn’t chipped away at his soul, over and again, for the sake of their Greater Goods.
Yet he is nothing to them. He can do nothing to them. He cannot win. He cannot even fight. The best he can hope is that they allow him to survive for another vacant, meaningless day alone and unwanted.
Mitchell snaps off a salute and walks briskly out the door. He leaves before the tears come, before he wipes them off with blood-smeared hands, before he screams into a wind that, like everything else, doesn’t care about him at all.