Genesis. Volume 1.

May 26, 1985. Thursday. 6 a.m. The Walkers’ house. Morning began with the smell of frying bacon and deafening bass. Arthur opened his eyes and groaned — the pillow pulled over his head was no salvation. The low frequencies punched through cotton and feathers, made his teeth vibrate. From downstairs, from the bathroom, cutting through the noise of water, came Madonna’s piercing voice — “Like a Virgin,” which Lisa had been playing on repeat for the third morning in a row. The radio was blaring so loud the floorboards trembled and the dishes in the kitchen cupboard clinked softly. On the neighbouring cot, Max stirred. He sat up, blinking sleepily, his fair curls sticking out in every direction. He shivered — Arthur’s mother always aired out the bedroom before bed, and by morning the air had chilled to around fifteen degrees. “She’s doing it on purpose,” Arthur muttered, throwing off the blanket. The room smelled of the mint spray on the pillows. He went down to the first floor. The steps creaked under his weight — the third one from the bottom was especially rebellious. The hallway already carried the scent of coffee and vanilla: his mother had turned on the coffee maker. Arthur pounded on the bathroom door. “Lisa, turn it off! Some of us are sleeping!” Instead of an answer, the volume knob clicked. Madonna screamed twice as loud, and from behind the door came a sly giggle and the rhythmic tap of heels — his sister was clearly dancing right on the tiles. Arthur clenched his fists, kicked the doorframe. His foot ached, no result. He trudged to the kitchen. Max, understanding that you don’t throw your weight around when you’re a guest, quietly followed. The kitchen was an idyll that clashed utterly with the racket from the hallway. Sophia Walker was deftly flipping fried eggs in a cast-iron skillet — the butter hissed, bubbled, spattering tiny droplets. Mark, without looking up from his crossword (“Brookfield Herald,” page seven), was sipping black coffee from his favourite mug that read “World’s Best Dad”. A crumb of yesterday’s biscuit clung to the saucer beneath the cup. “Good morning, sleepyheads,” Sophia tossed over her shoulder without turning around. “Lisa’s already up.” “We can hear,” Arthur grumbled, dropping into a chair. Ten minutes later, Lisa appeared — in full regalia. Bright pink eyeshadow on her lids, lined eyes, lashes so heavy with mascara they looked like spider legs. A new, fluffy dress — blue with white polka dots — that she’d gotten for her last birthday and had been saving “for a special occasion.” The occasion, apparently, had arrived. She plopped onto a chair, beaming as if she’d won the lottery. Sophia immediately set the biggest plate in front of her with a double portion of bacon — crispy, golden-crusted, fried to perfection. Arthur crossed his arms. “Mom, is this really okay? She woke up the whole house, cranked the radio on purpose, and you’re giving her the best piece?” Sophia froze with the spatula in her hand and looked at her son with genuine bewilderment. “Arthur Walker. Have you forgotten what day it is?” Arthur frowned, shifting his gaze from his mother to his sister. Lisa crunched her bacon demonstratively, never stopping her smile. Something crackled and sizzled in her mouth, smelling of fried food and happiness. “Crap…” Arthur rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling his ears burn. “Liz, sorry. Happy birthday.” “That’s more like it,” she said through a full mouth. The rest of breakfast passed calmly. Sophia gave Arthur more fried eggs — silently, without comment. Mark raised his head from the crossword: “Five letters, ‘a large body of water’.” — “Ocean,” Arthur answered. His father nodded, filled it in. At seven o’clock the parents left for work — Mark dropped Sophia off at her office, then headed to the construction site. At half past seven the kids left the house. The morning turned out to be chilly. A light fog hung over the wet asphalt, so thick the lampposts on the corner looked like ghosts. The smell of damp leaves mingled with the exhaust of the occasional car. By the old oak tree, Jack was already waiting. He stood hunched, gripping the straps of his backpack with whitened fingers. The backpack was unzipped — he was walking like that, not noticing. One eye green, the other blue, his gaze darted nervously over the bushes and the shadows between the houses. “Jack, why are you shaking?” Max asked, extending his hand. Jack flinched as if he’d been shocked and turned sharply. He didn’t shake the hand — just stared at it like an unfamiliar object. “Huh? No. Nothing. Everything’s fine.” He gave Max’s palm a quick shake, but Arthur noticed how damp his forehead was. The hair at his temples was matted with sweat, even though the morning was cold. No one pressed him. They walked to school in tense silence. Only once did Lisa say, “Look, the yellow leaves are already falling,” but nobody answered. Jack stared at his feet, Arthur at Jack’s back, Max bit his lip. May 26, 1985. Thursday. 8 a.m. Brookfield School. The hallway smelled of bleach and old parquet — the janitor had mopped the floors too zealously, and the scent of disinfectant stung the eyes. By the lockers, as always, the local “elite” were on duty. Three completely different girls, united only by popularity and contempt for everyone else. Jenny Brooks, red-haired, tall, poured into an expensive dress that came from someone else’s wardrobe (though nobody knew it was someone else’s). From a metre away she reeked of cloyingly sweet “Eiffel” perfume. Beside her, Emma Swan in frayed jeans and a black low-cut top. She was chewing gum, unsuccessfully trying to overpower the smell of cheap cigarettes — a pack of Marlboros lay in her pocket. The third was Amber Chase, an albino. White hair, white skin, white sneakers — she seemed a faded ghost against her friends. Watery-blue eyes looked at the world with lazy disdain. The boys tried to walk past, eyes on the floor. Lisa squeezed her backpack strap. Max shoved his hands in his pockets. Arthur straightened his back as much as teenage slouching would allow. “Oh, the circus is here,” Jenny snorted loudly, fixing her hair. “Look, the freak-eyed one is basically about to faint today,” Emma blew a gum bubble and popped it with a dry snap. “What, Jack, did clowns visit your dreams last night?” Amber just laughed quietly — short, like the sound of a broken cup. Jack shrank, pulled his head into his shoulders, and quickened his pace. Arthur twitched toward them, but Max tugged his sleeve: “Don’t get involved.” “Why?” “Because we’ll get expelled, and they’ll just get their behaviour grade fixed.” Arthur exhaled through his teeth and kept walking. Laughter flew at their backs. The lessons started off disgustingly. In algebra, Derek and Bryce lay in wait — the chief nightmares of the eighth grade. Derek sat at the back desk, feet propped on the chair in front of him. Bryce, stocky, with a square jaw, was picking his nose and watching the door in anticipation of prey. “Hey, mutant!” Derek shouted as Jack passed by. “Which eye are you gonna cheat with today? The right one or the left one?” The class exploded with laughter. Some guffawed openly, others giggled into their fists. The algebra teacher, Mrs. Fleming, didn’t even lift her head from the register — she’d long since given up on this class. Jack collapsed into his seat and dropped his head onto his arms. The desk smelled of old ink and gum stuck underneath. He closed his eyes, but through his eyelids he still saw the laughing faces and fingers pointing at him. When the bell rang, the teacher who entered — Mr. Harris, history, who also taught algebra on the side — stopped by his desk. “Harris, are you feeling unwell? Maybe you should go to the nurse’s office?” Jack jerked his head up. His eyes were red from unshed tears that hadn’t fallen — stuck somewhere in his throat in a lump. “I’m fine! Just leave me alone already!” The voice came out louder than he’d intended. The words hit the ceiling, bounced off the walls. The class fell silent. Mrs. Fleming raised her head. Mr. Harris pressed his lips together but said nothing and returned to the blackboard, where he began writing an equation with chalk that squeaked so badly it set teeth on edge. Jack dropped his head again. Someone nearby whispered, “psycho.” After classes, in the cafeteria, the day finally went off a cliff. Lisa took a tray of macaroni — plastic, with chipped edges — and walked over to the table where Arthur, Max, and Jack were already sitting. The macaroni floated in a pale-yellow sauce, smelling of cardboard and longing for home cooking. “Taken?” she asked, nodding at the empty chair. “Sit,” Arthur muttered without looking up from his plate. He was chewing a chicken leg — dry, grey, stringy. Max was poking at his mashed potatoes with a fork, winding them onto the metal like spaghetti. Jack wasn’t eating at all. He sat clutching a glass of fruit drink, staring at a single spot on the wall. Lisa had just started twirling macaroni onto her fork when Jenny Brooks swept past with a tray overloaded with salads and pastries. Arthur, returning his own tray to the counter, got distracted watching Jack and accidentally bumped Jenny with his shoulder. She staggered, the tray tipped, but she kept her balance. “Watch where you’re going, moron!” she spat, brushing an invisible speck from her sleeve. “Yeah, he only has eyes for comic books,” Emma sneered, walking by with a pack of cigarettes hidden under a biology textbook. Amber silently showed Arthur her middle finger and turned away. The gesture came out graceful, almost theatrical. Her fingers were slender, like a pianist’s. Arthur wanted to say something — sharp, insulting, grown-up — but the words stuck in his throat. Beside him, Max was breathing heavily. Jack turned away toward the wall. “They’re just idiots,” Jack said quietly after the trio had gone to the far end of the cafeteria. “Don’t listen to them.” Arthur let out a deep breath. The air in the cafeteria smelled of grease, burnt oil, and Jenny’s cheap perfume. He nodded. They sat back down at their table. Lisa pushed her macaroni away — her appetite was gone. Max wolfed down his mashed potatoes in two minutes, as he always did when he was nervous. Jack still hadn’t touched his food. He only took a sip of the fruit drink — sour, with a cloudy sediment at the bottom. “Arthur,” Lisa said, “you’ve got sauce on your T-shirt.” “Don’t care.” May 26, 1985. Thursday. 4 p.m. Max Robinson’s house. Max was walking home alone. Arthur and Lisa had gone to buy bread, and Jack had said he had to go to the post office, to his aunt. Max didn’t check. He was tired of school, of algebra, of Derek’s laughter, of Amber’s white sneakers. After lunch, the air had turned muggy, heavy. A grey shroud had covered the sky — rain was gathering but couldn’t make up its mind. As he approached his porch, out of the corner of his eye Max caught something bright on the old chestnut tree by the fence. The bark gleamed after the morning dew. He stopped. On a low branch, swaying slightly in the breeze, hung a thick red thread. It was tied in a neat, almost gift-like bow — two loops and even ends. Max frowned, stepped closer. A strange smell came off the thread — burnt sugar and old theatrical powder. Sweetish-sickly, like a cheap confectionery. He reached out to tear it off — the thread was sticky, clung to his fingers like molasses. He yanked his hand back, wiped it on his jeans. The thread stayed hanging. “Nonsense,” he said aloud. “Someone’s playing a joke.” Max went inside, brushing off the unpleasant premonition. His parents were at work — his mother at the hair salon, his father at the factory. The hallway smelled of old things and dust. He tossed his backpack straight onto the floor — no one was home, after all. He poured ice-cold water from the tap. The water smelled of rust and chlorine, but he was thirsty. A gulp. The cold burned his throat. He walked into the living room, turning on the TV for background noise on the way — a newscaster with helmet hair was talking about unemployment. Taking another sip, Max looked out the large window facing the backyard. There was the garden: old apple trees, currant bushes, the swing his father had hammered together out of planks last year. The glass slipped from his fingers and shattered against the parquet with a ringing crash. On the other side of the pane, at arm’s length, stood a man in a filthy, faded circus costume. Once red, it had peeled away to reveal grey, sweat-soaked fabric. On the sleeves — brownish stains that looked like old blood. His face was covered in a thick layer of white greasepaint, cracked like dry earth. The eyes glowed with an inhuman, bilious light — yellow, like a wolf’s in the dark. The smile — wide, red, painted far beyond the boundaries of the lips — seemed carved into his face, like on a wooden mask. Max couldn’t move. His feet had rooted to the floor. Only one thought pounded in his head: “Why is he looking at me?” The clown slowly raised his hand. The fingers in the white glove were smeared with something dark and thick — ink, resin, something that smelled of rot even through the glass. Without taking his burning eyes off Max, he pressed a finger to the window and, with a wet, sickening squeak, began to trace letters. A-M-B-E-R. From behind the painted smile, a row of small, sharp teeth emerged — not human, but like a fish’s: numerous, triangular, in several rows. A dark liquid dripped from his lips, splattering against the outer windowsill, leaving an oily stain. A wild, animal scream tore through the numbness. Max spun around, slipped on the puddle from the broken glass — his knee cracked against the corner of the nightstand, painful — but he scrambled up and bolted to the second floor. His heart hammered so hard his vision went dark. Slamming the bedroom door shut and locking it, he scrambled under the bed, yanked the discarded blanket over his head. Under the bed smelled of dust and old shoes. He was shaking, his teeth chattering — not from cold, but from the terror that had flooded his entire being like cold tar. He lay in the dusty darkness for a full hour. He listened to every rustle in the empty house: the creak of floorboards, the hum of the refrigerator downstairs, a distant dog barking. His heart gradually calmed, but his hands still trembled. When the silence became unbearable, Max slowly crawled out. The room was bright — the sun was dipping toward sunset. He went to the window, looked out. No one in the backyard. Only the chestnut branch swayed, and the red thread still hung there, gleaming dully in the sunset light. Max went downstairs. The kitchen floor still held the shards and the puddle of water. He stepped around them, walked to the window. On the glass, distorted from the inside, a bloody inscription was drying: “Amber.” The letters were uneven, smeared in places, but legible. Max stared at them, and something inside him cracked. Not fear. The last support on which his belief in a normal world had rested. May 26, 1985. Thursday. 5 p.m. Brookfield School. Locker room after gym class. Derek Martin was in no hurry to get home. Parents at work, sister with the nanny — at home there was only silence and the smell of borscht his mother had left on the stove. Here, in the locker room, it smelled of sweat, deodorant, and dampness. A pleasant, masculine smell. He peeled off his gym kit, tossed it into his bag, not caring if it wrinkled. He went to the shower. The water — warm, nearly hot, with strong pressure. Derek stood under the stream, eyes closed, thinking about tomorrow’s Saturday. Party at Jenny’s. He’d need to bring something to drink — Bryce had promised to score some beer. Good. He turned off the water, grabbed a random towel — didn’t care whose. Dried off, wrapped it around his waist, stepped out of the shower area. And then — a crash. Somewhere deep in the locker room. As if a heavy metal bin had fallen. Or someone had jumped off a top shelf. “Who’s there?” Derek asked, heading toward the sound. His voice was a bit hoarse — water had gone down his throat. He rounded the corner where the old benches stood, and froze. Out of the corner stepped a woman. About fifty, in a janitor’s blue smock, with a bucket and a mop in her hands. The bucket was new, bright red, with a faded sticker that read “Made in China.” The mop was old, with frayed ends. “Oh, good Lord, Derek, what are you doing scaring people like that?” She adjusted her headscarf. “I thought I’d clean up in peace. And here you are shouting.” “Sorry,” he blushed. “I didn’t know you were here.” “Well, who else would it be? Ghosts?” The woman chuckled, showing gap teeth. “Get dressed and go home. It’s late already.” “Uh-huh.” Derek got dressed quickly: jeans, T-shirt, Velcro sneakers. At the door, he glanced back. The woman was already fussing in the corner, pulling a rag out of the bucket. The bucket stood in the very spot she had stepped out from, and on its red side, in white chalk, was the word: “HELLO.” Derek blinked. The inscription vanished. Or maybe it had never been there. He shrugged and stepped into the hallway, where it smelled of bleach and cheap air freshener. He didn’t know that three days later his name would appear on the fogged-up glass in the library. Not yet. And in the Robinsons’ house, Max sat on the floor, his back against the bed. He stared at the red thread tied around his wrist. When it had happened — he couldn’t remember. Maybe when he’d scrambled under the bed. Maybe when he’d looked out the window. Or maybe the thread had been there all along. He tugged at it. The thread didn’t give, only pulled tighter, leaving a red mark. Max closed his eyes. Before his inner eye stood the inscription on the glass: “Amber.” “Amber Chase,” he whispered. “Albino. White hair, white sneakers.” He didn’t know why he was repeating her name. He just felt he had to remember. That tomorrow it might vanish from all the news, but not from his memory. Outside the window, it had grown dark. The house was quiet — only the refrigerator hummed, and somewhere in the distance a dog barked. Max didn’t get up. He sat and waited. For what — he didn’t know himself.