A Kingdom of Our Own

Chapter Twenty Nine - Anniversary

Dalton and Harry both arrived home slightly later than they usually did, at around seven o’clock, when the light of day was beginning to fade. Sunday was the one day of the week where they didn’t have to work and so after the morning service they always tried to make the most of whatever free time they had, normally staying out and exploring the surrounding area for many hours. As they walked, they talked between themselves – partly about starting at the Amish school the following day, but also about the police stopping by when Dalton mentioned how he’d been summoned by Jacob earlier on in the afternoon.

“Well it’s lucky that Jacob managed to get rid of them because the last thing we need right now is the cops snooping around,” Harry said rather edgily, with tiny beads of sweat dripping from his red forehead.

They had just finished strolling up the dusty driveway to the house and were immediately surprised when they stepped onto the decking and saw nothing but darkness from within. Dalton, a little taken aback, pressed his face against one of the two rectangular windows on the front door and peered down the hallway towards the kitchen. Still he saw nothing. No signs of life. No light creeping through from the crack underneath the door. Just gloom. It was now that they realised something was wrong and their sense of sudden surprise was replaced by mild worry.

“This is really strange,” Dalton mumbled. “Skandar always cooks tea at seven. Even when he used to visit us in Portland, when he eats has always been something he’s been very specific about. For a while I assumed he was a diabetic or something.”

“I’m sure there’s a rational explanation for all of this.” Harry assured him as he pushed the front door open, although he too was a little concerned, with the knowledge dwelling on him that a whole range of bad things could have happened – the police coming back with more questions for starters.

It was as soon as they stepped into the semidarkness of the cold, damp hallway that they heard the noise from within – a series of sharp clattering and smashing sounds coming from the lounge. Dalton and Harry were both all too familiar with these noises and for a split second they almost instinctively fled. Whoever was in there was drunk and apparently angry too. But it couldn’t possibly be Skandar! Could it? Dalton had known him for years and like his father didn’t have the stomach for alcohol and liked to keep a level head unless he was tied up in an intense political debate with someone. Nothing was adding up in his head right now.

Dalton looked hesitantly towards the door on the left, with all the memories of Blake from over the past year flooding back into his mind. During his time in Waterville he’d managed to create a new identity for himself and suppress some of the memories of what had happened, but an instant was all it took for that progress to plummet back down to square one. Harry was suffering from even worse repercussions given what he’d been through, but took a deep breath, laid a hand on his friends shoulder and entered the room. It was curiosity more than courage that spurred him onwards.

It looked like the living room of any normal American’s home, just without the luxuries of electric lighting or a television set. It was a moderately sized space with two sofas along the back wall and Skandar’s personal armchair in the corner, whilst looking ahead walking into the room, there was a traditional brick fireplace that would probably be alight in a month or so when the winter grew near. The centre of the floor was covered with a burgundy rug and on top of it was a coffee table with various copies of the National Geographic and the Seattle Times piled up on its glossy surface. A long oak bookcase lined the entirety of the right wall, filled with a collection of books written by Skandar as well as some works by his favourite authors and to the left was a window overlooking the decking, although at this time a pair of heavy curtains were drawn to.

“Skandar!” Dalton cried out in horror.

Skandar was stumbling around the cluttered room, kicking and lashing out at anything within reach. His Hawaiian shirt was unbuttoned, exposing his chest, while his hair was wet with sweat and his face was pallid. In his hand he clutched a half-empty bottle of vodka, with liquid spilling over the top whenever he took a drunken pace and tipped it at an angle.