Above the Vaulted Sky - Page 45

            I see him looking up at the ceiling, looking towards me every now and again to see if I’m watching.

            ‘Did your parents not believe in God?’ I ask.

            ‘I only have my dad,’ he says. ‘And he goes church every week. I just don’t believe in him.’

            He’s being standoffish again. Yates in childhood doesn’t seem to be a lot different to the man’s later-life self.

            I look around the station again. I must be here somewhere, or else we wouldn’t have come here at all. After a while, I lose hope, not seeing anyone I recognize in the throngs of busy travellers.

            ‘Do you want to go home?’ I say the words, and Yates’s head snaps around like an antelope sensing danger.

            ‘No.’ He raises his voice to a level that would have drawn glances if we’d existed in the station. ‘I want to stay here.’

            ‘Come on, Yates,’ I say. ‘I know you’re in there somewhere. We have to get you out of here.’

            ‘No, you’re just like him!’ he shouts and starts running, through some people staring at the boards. I’ve not seen anyone pass through anything yet. It’s quite an unsettling experience, especially here in a memory. There are no shudders, we’re not really here. It’s quite comforting in a way, to know how much influence we have in the real world. Here, we’re all ghosts.

            Yates doesn’t take too kindly to stumbling through people.

            ‘What’s going on?’ he says, his eyes going puffy again with tears. ‘I want Mummy.’

            I go after him, but he keeps backing away. ‘I’ll take you to her, I promise.’

            ‘No, you’re lying,’ he says. ‘He always says he’ll take me to Mummy but then he…’

            He starts to cry again, not backing away anymore. He starts drawing on the floor with his finger. X’s, over and over, on top of one another.

            ‘Just leave me alone.’

            I sit down beside him. ‘What did he do, Yates?’ I speak slowly, careful with my words. I’m dreading the reply.

            Yates shrugs, tugging on the cuffs over his hands. ‘He says I deserve it. I’m worthless. I deserve to be alone.’

            Which Yates was that? It’s hard to tell sometimes.

            ‘You’re not worthless, Yates, and you’re not alone are you. I’m here.’

            He looks up at me, I try to make my face as friendly as possible, to let him know I mean the words.

            ‘I think you have the best house on earth. It’s amazing what you’ve done after everything. You don’t have to tell me what your dad did, I can guess.’