Crystal Clear - A Science Fiction Short Story

Barrymore

"Quick! He's doing it again!"

Paul Byrd followed the shrill cry coming from the living room. Entering, he followed the direction of her pointed finger. A popular TV presenter of the nineties was on screen, smiling manically and winding up the audience with overzealous movements.

His mother looked up expectantly, concern etched on her face. For a moment, she looked like a child, sitting atop a high chair. She was dressed simply. Beige trousers, on the end of which two sturdy flat shoes planted the floor. A pink, light jumper framed her thin body which, when she leaned over to focus on the TV, made it look like a scoop had been taken out of a strawberry ice-cream. Her short hair was cotton ball white. Thick rimmed glasses framed half of her face. Her eyes bulged behind them, flicking from the screen back to her son.

"Look! There again," she pointed. "Why does he keep waving at me?"

Paul reached for the remote and flicked the channel.

"Is that better?"

"Did you change it?"

"Aye. Your shows are coming on shortly."

"What?"

"I said your shows- "

"Joe? I don't know. I haven't seen him in, God knows. One of Roy's lads. When is he coming?"

"He's not coming."

"What?"

Paul set the control down on her arm rest, adjusting the volume to a level just loud enough for her to hear, but low enough to prevent the tenants above from thumping the floor. Her eyes narrowed tight, staring at the screen six feet away.

The Byrds lived in the nosebleed section of their council estate home - fifteen floors high in the air. When the elevator wasn't working, like today for example, Paul would usually find little reason to leave the comfort of his home. They had hoarded enough tinned food and powdered custard over the years to see through emergencies. It was wedged tight on dusty shelves in the small spare room alongside junk that hadn't seen the light of day for two decades. Their very own time portal fifty metres in the sky. Today, with his mother in one of her moods, he needed to get out.

"I'm going to the shops. You need anything?"

The shrivelled raisin looked up at him from her sunken seat, studied his face as if deciding whether he was friend or foe.

"We need milk. That's going tay go off tomorrow. A loaf too. There's not enough to make sandwiches tonight. Sure, you don't like the heels."

Paul smiled. He had almost forgotten about the bread. His mother had made toasted sandwiches for him and his father for as long as he could remember. Their little grill must have melted thousands of slabs of cheese over the years.

"You can be as sharp as you want to be sometimes Ma."

"What?"

"Never mind."

Paul walked the length of the room to look outside the window - which is to say, he took three strides. Pleased that it was a cloudless sky, he decided not to take his anorak, but threw on an extra layer in any case. He heard the TV stations flick behind him, before finally settling on the sound of a cheering audience. Turning around, he faced the room and let out a heavy sigh. Beyond the two chairs facing the telly, a grandfather clock stood sentinel in the corner, older than Paul's first memory. It still worked perfectly. The hanging chime faithfully delivering its bell on the hour. A little foldaway table was parked in the corner. On it was an adult colouring book - one that came free in one of the weekly glossy magazines his mother insisted he buy for her. Sunday afternoons were his favourite part of the week.

The TV would be off. She would be staring down through her magnifying glass trying to read the latest celeb tattle; taking a deeper interest in the fictitious Aussie soap characters she watched than in her own son's life. He would be busy drawing or colouring in the edges of the book. In those briefest of moments, where only the sound of the clock suggested that time was passing, he found a place of peace.

"He's looking at me again!"

Paul shook his head, patted his jean leg to make sure he had the key and headed for the door.

"Of all the people you choose to come out of the TV and talk to you it's Michael bloody Barrymore. God, if I was your age Ma, I'd be watching the Playboy channel."

"What?"

"I said, I'll see you later!"