Strangers in the Night by Raymond S Flex Read Free Book Online

feel the giddiness returning.
    Perhaps it had been a mistake for him to get up out of bed.
    But he had gone and done it.
    Too late for regrets . . .
    Outside, Mitts was aware that the conversation had come to a halt.
    Neither his father or Heinmein spoke.
    Mitts could hear the sound of footsteps—of that sweep-plod —heading away from his bedroom.
    There was a pair of—almost apologetic—knocks up against his metal bedroom door.
    And then the hinges creaked.
    Mitts’s father appeared there.
    He was dressed in a clean shirt now.
    If Mitts hadn’t known it was a new day from the fluorescent strip lights powering on, he would’ve known it from his father’s lime-green, chequered shirt; the sleeves rolled up just above the elbows.
    He wore the same loafers and jeans as the day before.
    Or, at least, Mitts believed he did.
    His father held one of the metal bowls from the kitchen. That was strange in itself seeing that his father was the mouthpiece for Mitts never— ever —eating outside the kitchen.
    As his father approached, things got blurry again, but Mitts managed to keep his brain together.
    To keep reality somewhat present before his eyes.
    “Dad?” Mitts managed to get out.
    If his father smiled, Mitts didn’t see it.
    Just like before, his father perched down on the edge of his camp bed. He passed the bowl toward him, and said, “Good to see you’re awake.”
    Mitts raised a smile, then took the bowl. He saw that it was cereal with powdered milk. He didn’t like cereal at the best of times, and much less with powdered milk, but he felt strangely ravenous.
    He seized hold of the spoon and dug in.
    Only when Mitts had got about three quarters of the way through his cereal, and he looked up at his father, did he note the extreme concern in his face. How his father’s eyes seemed almost as if they were strung with hair-triggers, and that they were scoping out every one of Mitt’s movements as if any one might be his last.
    Mitts tried to smile but found himself shaking almost uncontrollably.
    It was a challenge for him to finish the cereal.
    But he did.
    He handed the bowl back to his father.
    The two of them sat on the edge of the camp bed for a long time. Mitts realised he could hear the strangest of sounds. Coming from his father’s throat. A sort of croaking sound. Like his father was trying as hard as he could to keep something inside.
    In the end, Mitts decided to break the silence.
    “Dad?” he said.
    His father remained detached, staring into the air right before his nose, still clutching the cereal bowl. His hands were shaking lightly.
    Mitts could see that—in the process of bringing the bowl of cereal here—his father had spilled a little milk on the belly of his shirt.
    Mitts continued, “I’ve been having dreams, strange dreams.”
    His father continued to stare out in front.
    Apparently distracted by something which Mitts would never be able to see.
    “It’s a dream about a man—and a woman—and it’s New Year’s Eve, and they’re standing up on a balcony, with the sounds of a string quartet in the background, and it’s all dark . . . and then . . .”
    In a single, swift, violent gesture, his father arced back his arm and tossed the metal cereal bowl hard against the wall.
     
    * * *
     
    The bowl bounced back with a metal clatter .
    It tumbled down to the laminate flooring.
    The spoon tinkled as it landed.
    And then, all of a sudden, everything was still.
    Everything was quiet.
    Mitts stared in horror at the bowl.
    Stared at the large dent in its rim.
    Mitts could feel his cereal returning up his throat with a burning sensation.
    But he swallowed it back.
    He tasted those oats one more time, and the sour flavour of the powdered milk there too.
    When he breathed in, he noticed the air stunk strongly of disinfectant.
    Of radiation.
    His father sat still for a very long time, staring in front of himself, clutching his knees as tightly as— it seemed —he could possibly