Sadie Madison and the Boy in the Crimson Scarf

23 | The Bell Jar

Oliver materialised in the eaved bedroom. Slinking onto the window seat, he looked out over Iron Bridge. He wondered where, amongst all the twinkling lights, throbbing gaslamps and tendrils of chimney smoke, Sadie might be.

He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and tried to connect with her.

At first, the same result. But, as he tried again, pushing harder, searching, he saw flashes of light, the buzz of wireless static, and then his mind flashed to a white room, tiled and clean.

Oliver opened his eyes, relieved to find himself in the eaved bedroom. He clasped his hands to his head, steadying himself.

Detergent lingered in his nostrils.

His mind flashed.

He was in the white room again.

A hospital, an operating theatre, a delivery room.

A spotless sink loaded with soap, surgical gloves, gauze, bottles of iodine, and other instruments on a metal tray.

A pair of double doors crashed open.

Back home again.

He felt a sick, disorientated.

What was he seeing? He braced himself, eyes shut tight now, ready for another mind-crushing jump, but it didn't come. He ventured one eye open, peeking into the shadows of Sadie's bedroom.

Oliver jolted when Balthasar sprang onto the seat next to him. She purred agitatedly, staring at the spot where he sat.

He considered the cat for a moment, waving a hand in front of her little pink nose. Balthasar blinked several times before coiling herself into a pile of fur.

The vivid hospital light slapped him in the face again.

A deafening racket exploded in his ears.

Half a dozen different voices were yelling and shrieking as suction pumps gargled, surgical instruments rattled, rubber wheels squeaked, a woman screamed, a child balled. Streams of colour, like dancing ribbons, swirled past. The noise and chaos tried to ram its way through his ears and into his brain.

Oliver found himself stood beside the enormous Christmas tree in the Madison hallway.

From the living room, Michael Madison snored loudly in the armchair, arms and legs arranged in an acrobatic puzzle.

Oliver collapsed on the sofa, fading dots of brilliant light hung in his retinas.

"What are you doing?" Sofia asked, bored, snapping into existence beside him.

Oliver took in a sharp breath at the sight of her.

"Visions," he told her. "Of a hospital. But it is jumbled. Confusing."

Sofia sighed. "No, I mean, why aren't you looking for the basement?" Oliver scowled at her. "You're wasting time."

"What does that mean?"

Sofia sighed. "Everything is finely balanced, Oliver. Imagine your little—life—as a china saucer spinning on a pole. Round and round the saucer goes, wobbling at times, but corrected by pressures applied to it. On it spins, on and on, balanced precariously, but assuredly, atop the pole." Sofia jumped over the back of the sofa and nestled beside him, inches from his face. She smelt rotten. "Someone has to keep the saucer spinning, Oliver. Otherwise it'll dwindle and die, then fall and smash into a million tiny pieces." He could taste her putrid stench at the back of his throat. "You don't want to fall and die, do you Oliver?"

"No, but—"

"But what?" she snapped. "It only takes one saucer to fall, one little saucer, and the whole tea-set comes crashing down." She pulled away; her disgusting teeth strung out in a crooked smile. "You understand what I'm saying, don't you?"