The Sandman Cometh

OneI dreamt of Sandmen last night. In the darkness, I heard them as they came ever closer, the steady pounding of their feet upon the gravel, in perfect unison, an army, each step a death knell for those who dared to venture out after the last peel of the curfew bell. My garden was nothing more than a dark smudge, the paraffin lamp from the kitchen too weak to make an impression upon the deep, oppressive shadows. Gripped by cold, I stood motionless, trying to still my breathing, listening out for his approach, knowing I was late, knowing there could be only one outcome. And I heard him, his great legs eating up the distance between us. The garden door swung open and in he came, eyes huge under the peak of his cap, maniacal grin set upon his silver-grey face, and those arms swinging ever closer. He threw back his head and screeched, that awful, mechanical voice filling me with dread and I knew death had come to embrace me in its cold, steely grip. I woke, sitting up, heart banging against my chest and picked out shapes in the gloom of my room, wondering if my dream was real. Holding my breath, I dared not turn away lest the Sandman loomed over me and ended everything I ever knew. Such dreams often came to me and as I lay with my head pressed into my pillow, their fearful marching dominated every sense, every thought. The steady, relentless beat, drumming hard in my ears. Every night they came and every time I dreamed, I dreamed of them. The Sandmen I live on my own. They allow us to do that now. It hasn't always been so, but when they decided to take away our parents we had no choice but to fend for ourselves. Silly things, like buying food, doing the laundry, study. Sleeping. It was up to us how we did things. To a point. On that fateful day, I was sitting in my room daydreaming as always when the videophone buzzed. It always sounded urgent and I have never been able to stop my heart from missing a beat whenever it shrills into life. This is because of what happened, all that time ago. I remember when the telephone rang the night Dad went missing. Uncle Ernie, sounding so distraught, in such a terrible state, his voice screaming down the line. I could hear him even from where I was sitting. So, telephones and videophones, they always make me anxious. It was Yolanda and she sounded deadly dull. “Hello. I'm just calling to remind you that it's practice tonight.” Her face came up on the screen. She looked deadly dull. I told her so, despite the hugeness of her eyes and the stunning loveliness of her features. “Oh, thanks!” She tried to smile, but it ended up as more of a sneer. “I've just finished the science homework, that's why. It was so hard, so I'm really tired. Have you done yours?” “Of course,” I lied, but only I knew that. If any of the Sandmen got a whiff of my non-compliance they would whisk me off to some correctional facility; just like Damien Bridges. Fourteen, top of the virtual class, spent an evening at Wembley Stadium playing in the World Cup final and got himself injured. He should have been completing his metaphysics course work. They took him off to Cambridge and we haven't seen him since. That was almost six months ago. No one talks about Damien anymore, but we all think about him. “Are you listening to me?” Yolanda's voice cut through my thoughts like a laser and I gave a little jump, rubbing my eyes. “Sorry, I'm a bit tired as well.” “Tired? You're never tired – have you taken your quota today?” “Yes.” This wasn't a lie, and I felt good about that. Well topped up with my daily barbiturates, as I always am, my body was singing with energy. I've never really thought about skipping a dose. What would be the point? Who wants to sleep for more than four hours anyway? She smiled. “Good. I'm going off to the Albert Hall tonight.” “Nice. What is it this time? Henry Cooper and Cassius Clay?” “Who?” “Never mind. A joke.” “You're weird, Simeon.” “No, I'm just a massive receptacle of facts and figures.” She didn't respond, not a single flicker across her beautiful features. So I tried again, “Henry Cooper was a British heavyweight boxer and he—” “I'm going to see Beethoven's Choral Symphony, conducted by Karajan.” “Ah, yes. I should have guessed.” As usual, nothing came back. Sarcasm was always lost on Yolanda. “Don't you want to come?” I paused for a moment, contemplating a virtual evening of classical music with the gorgeous, but very dull Yolanda. She had great legs, but a voice as boring as anaglypta wallpaper. “Not tonight,” I said quickly, before she could think of an alternative. “I'll see you at practice though.” That brought a smile to her face. Practice was one of the few real activities left to us now. Her face moved closer, filling almost the entire screen. “I can't wait,” she cooed, her voice becoming low. I felt a little thrill course through me. She was so nice, I couldn't argue about that, I really couldn't. Loyal, honest, sensible. Gorgeous. Nevertheless, there was something…I don't know. Made for one another, you could say. She so cute, so slim. Me… Well, I was me. But conversations were always very dull, all work and no play. Even so, I liked being close to her whenever I could. At weekends, we usually managed a few moments and she cared for me, helped me with school stuff, held me when the memories got too much and I would cry…But conversations were so limited and always, always she had to bring it all back down to reality – as if I didn't know enough about that already. Anyway, I just smiled back, pursed my lips with a perfunctory kiss and was about to click the 'end call' button when she held up her palm. “Wait, Simeon. Did you hear the announcements earlier, about the outrages?” “Outrages?” “Oh no, Simeon, why don't you ever take notice of what's going on? It's important.” “Well, as long as I've got you to tell me what's what, I don't need to—” “They blew up one of the sub-terminals last night.” I shook my head, not fully understanding her words. For months – or was it years, I could never be sure – terrorists or agitators, or call them whatever you like, had carried out attacks in regular intervals. I rarely took notice. “So, why is that so important?” “Because they killed some Sweepers this time. Security is tightening up, everywhere you go. So, just be careful when you come to practice, okay?” “Yes, okay Yollie. Thanks.” “I love you, Simeon.” Her words hung in the air, tiny, glowing wisps of candy-floss clouds, drifting over me, settling inside, wrapping me up all warm. She loved me. “Me too, Yollie.” She switched off the connection. For a long time I sat gazing at the screen, the worry eating away at me – I should have done my science homework, This was really where it all began, you see – speaking to Yolanda. If she hadn't called me, to remind me about practice, I probably wouldn't have gone. And if I hadn't gone, I would have been in terrible trouble. A Sandman would have called, and everyone knows what that means. However, perhaps even that would have been preferable to what I was about to go through. So, I made my weary way through the empty streets towards the public arena positioned at the top of the city. My journey was no different to any other time – I moved through silent avenues, passing faceless, characterless and ugly tenement blocks, standing like so many forgotten tombstones. Recently washed down by the automated cleaning machines, everything bathed with an antiseptic smell, masking the filth. The sheen on the tarmac reflected the darkened sky, gloomy like my mood. I had a lot on my mind – namely the science homework. It wasn't that I couldn't do it; it was simply that I couldn't be bothered – it was so boring. I kept thinking to myself that perhaps if I asked Kevin Phelps, or that other know-it-all, Roger Kennedy, they might offer me some answers. Especially if I paid them. I had some of that American-style gum that I'd found on a corpse down by the river. They'd do anything for that. Whilst so engrossed in my thinking, I paused to look around and realised, to my horror, I'd taken a wrong turning. Cursing my own stupidity, I turned to retrace my steps but then stopped. This was a part of town I hadn't been in before. I felt the first stirrings of panic growing in my stomach. I whirled around, trying to find some distinguishing feature, anything which might point me back to the main road. But in the encroaching darkness, all of the side streets looked the same and I soon realized that I was lost. It might take me over an hour to find my way back to the route which led me to the arena. Maybe more. When I thought I heard a Sandman patrol marching close by, I quickly dipped into a doorway. Looking back, this decision was probably my most stupid. I had no reason to hide – I hadn't done anything wrong, had nothing to be guilty about, and it was hours before curfew. The patrol might stop, scan my chip, check my identification, then send me on my way with a D-merit to download into school the following day. Nevertheless, the fear of meeting them in that ghastly place was too much, so I pressed myself further into the doorway. Almost at once, the door gave way, rotten timbers groaning. Worried that it was going to burst inwards, making me look more of a guilty fool than I already was, I tried the handle and quickly stepped inside, pressing the rickety door shut behind me. I held my breath, the darkness inside complete. I stood there for a few moments, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom, listening. Outside, I heard the Sandman patrol stomping past, the sound of their pounding boots growing louder with each passing second. This was the point of no return, of course. If those Sandmen had seen or heard me going through the door, what was I supposed to say to explain away my bizarre actions? A D-merit would be like a welcome gift compared to an evening being grilled by those evil slime-balls. When I couldn't hear the steady thump anymore, I screwed up my eyes. Someone told me, or perhaps I'd read it on the net, that if you close your eyes for ten seconds, when you open them again you can pick out the details of the darkest of rooms. I did just that. And guess what, it worked. At least, I thought it had, because the light I saw had nothing to do with my squeezing my eyes shut. It had everything to do with the fact that there were three or four men standing in front of me and the closest held a torch, directing the beam straight into my face. I gasped and turned my head away, hand coming up defensively. Suddenly, other hands, not mine, grabbed me roughly by the shoulders and pulled me deeper inside the blackened room. They didn't let me go until I was in another room, situated at the far end of the building. Slamming me down into a chair, one of them must have flicked the mains switch because the room suddenly filled with a sickly yellow glow. I looked towards it, screwing up my face again. A n***d bulb hung from the ceiling, covered with a thick film of dust and dead flies. That made everything feel all the more terrifying somehow and I snapped my head this way and that, not knowing what to expect next. Somebody spoke from out of the gloom. “Who the hell are you?” I looked towards where I thought the voice was coming from. A big man, bigger than the others by a long way, loomed over me, his face wet with sweat. Along the side of his mouth ran deep lines, created by either laughter or pain – I couldn't guess which – cut into his flesh, seeming to lend his expression a menacing air. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't drag my eyes way from his. Hypnotic, that's what they were. “I'll ask you again. Who are you?” “Simeon,” I replied quickly, hoping this was enough. It obviously wasn't because one of the others stepped forward and hit me hard across the face with the back of his hand. The blow snapped my head back with such force that I almost fell over, my head ringing like a bell smacked by a massive hammer. Before I toppled over completely, the big man grabbed me by the arm and tugged me upright again. He stared at me and for a long time. I didn't have the strength to speak, let alone move, my terror total. But nothing could take away the pain. It spread across my face until a red, pulsing heat haze of agony cocooned me. Whimpering and blubbering, I held my cheek where the blow had struck and, wincing, managed to cry out, “What the hell was that for?” I wanted to sound hard, but my attempt proved unconvincing. I can hold my own against someone my own age with no trouble, but these were grown men, and there were four of them. With this lot, pretending being tough wasn't going to cut it. “For being a smart-a*s,” said the big guy. “Who sent you here?” I blinked, not understanding the question. How could I, it was blatantly stupid. “No one,” I said needlessly, because no one had. I look beyond his shoulder to the others, lurking there in the half-light. Who were these guys, and why were they hiding in a dark building, away from the prying eyes of the Sandmen? I wanted to ask them, but thought better of it when I saw them exchanging dangerous looks. The atmosphere crackled with tension. “Get rid of him, Stoker,” said the man who had hit me, “or I will.” He fumbled inside his jacket. I watched with widening eyes as he produced a black revolver and expertly fitted a stubby, evil looking silencer on the end of the barrel. “Wait,” I shouted, both my hands coming up in a defensive gesture, “for God's sake – wait!” My explanation tumbled out of me, “My name's Simeon, Simeon Allis. I live over on Beckford Estate. I was making my way to practice at the public arena when I took a wrong turning and got lost. That's the truth of it, I promise.” The hitter with the g*n paused for a moment, weighing up my story. He glanced over at the others, who shrugged. “It don't ring true. Simeon Alice?” I knew he thought it was the girl's name. I didn't feel like putting him straight. “What sort of a name is that?” “Poofter's name,” spat one of the others and they all laughed. “Shut up,” snapped the big man, the one called Stoker. He hadn't laughed. His eyes remained fixed on me, giving nothing away. Did he believe me, or not? “Where's your ID?” I fished around in my pants and brought it out. Stoker snatched it off me and took it over to the far side of the room. I followed him with my eyes and he switched on a spotlight, holding the ID under the glare of the light. I was surprised to see the mass of equipment neatly stacked up there, including an official government ID scanner. That surprised me more than anything, for those things were priceless – as well as being ultra-secret. I knew this, having tried to find out as much as I could about them by hacking into the Internal Security mainframe and failing miserably. So, how had he got hold of one, unless… No, I shook my head, dismissing the idea instantly – these weren't Government men, they couldn't be. As these thoughts swirled through my fuddled brain, Stoker fed my card into the machine, waited a few moments and read off the information. He came back, chewing his lip, deep in thought. “It's like he says.” The hitter with the g*n sighed in disappointment. He looked at me, his features hard. “So, you got lost? And just by chance, by sheer chance, you came knocking on our door?” “There were Sandmen,” I blurted out quickly. “I'd taken a wrong turning; if they'd have caught me they'd have given me a D-merit. I've already got too many of those, and another might mean I'd have to go and see the Principal.” “What, in person?” I nodded meekly, knowing this was an outrageous thing to say. No one had real teachers anymore. Everything was virtual; we all stayed at home in our rooms, linked through our imbedded chips with the virtual classroom, our lessons downloaded directly into the cerebral cortex. We hardly ever interacted on a physical level now. Exceptions being, of course, practice and the occasional authority figure. This explained why the hitter appeared so shocked to learn the Principals were real. Nothing more than glorified programmers to be absolutely accurate, probably with no educational background at all. But what did that matter. His task was to keep things running smoothly, not to impart knowledge. That was for the government to do. If there was a system failure, he was the man who fixed it. If a student strayed, or received too many D-merits, the Principal spoke to him. Laid it all out on the table – the consequences of not achieving. Deportation and re-programming in Cambridge. Moving into the far corner, the men spoke rapidly to one another. For a moment I had a wild fantasy of making a run for it, ripping open the door and catching up with those Sandmen, telling them everything I'd found out…which wasn't much, but I felt sure that they'd be interested. I craned my neck and peered towards the door, nothing more than a black smudge in the darkness, and let out a long breath. Impossible, I decided, not a hope. The bullet would smack into the back of my head before I'd got within two metres and that would be that. So I sat and waited, gingerly touching my rapidly swelling cheek every couple of seconds. How would I explain that to Piperson, the Bandmaster? If I ever got out of this mess, of course. If I ever saw Piperson, or anyone ever again. Especially Yolanda. God, I missed her right now. “All right,” said Stoker coming towards me again. I noticed that, behind him, the hitter no longer held the g*n. That was something at least, a tiny sliver of hope. “We want you to do something for us.” I frowned, puzzled. “I…what do you mean?” The hitter pushed past Stoker, jutting his chin towards me, snarling. “We mean, you little shrimp, that if you don't do as we ask, we'll drop you in it with the Sandmen…” “Right up to your pretty little neck.” Another said, the one who'd called me a 'poofter'. Of all four of them, he was the one I detested the most. An aura of latent wickedness radiated from him, unsettling me, causing me to avoid his penetrating stare. “It's simple,” said Stoker. “We want you to deliver a package to The Protector.”