《Truthsend》 Chapter I Boundary Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Chapter II Outsiders This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Chapter III Ada Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon. Chapter IV Questions Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. Chapter V The Locked Room Florence ran all the way home. The chill air scraping the back of her throat, and the pulsating of her heart against her sternum, and the searing pain in her thighs focused her. With every pound of her feet on the pavement she beat out the ideas the Outsider had planted. Dangerous ideas. ¡°Flo? What happened to you?¡± Her mother said when Florence opened the front door. Her hands twisting around themselves, her mother strode towards her, the veiled alarm on her face increasing. ¡°Why¡¯re you so wet?¡± ¡°Wet?¡± She came forwards, ¡°You¡¯re soaking. Quick, go change your clothes before you catch a cold.¡± At her words, Florence became aware of her hair slick to her skull and plastered against her forehead, and the front of her clothes, exposed by her flapping raincoat, sticking to her. She sneezed. Under her mother¡¯s urging she hurried upstairs. In her bedroom, Florence dumped her dance bag down and changed into a set of warm fuzzy pyjamas ¨C it was barely three in the afternoon, but the orange and pink striped fluff helped keep her mind off bad things. She sank onto her bed, jamming in her earphones and shuffling through her iPod library. Electronic beats filled her ears. She focused on relaxing each part of her body. Not thinking of Ada¡¯s father¡¯s earnest, pained face. Not thinking about her ¡®brother.¡¯ A knock came on the door. ¡°Flo? Can I come in?¡± She pulled her earphones out and sat up as her mum pushed the door open, ¡°What is it?¡± ¡°Can¡¯t I come and see my darling daughter for no reason?¡± Her mother sat down beside her and pulled her into a sideways cuddle. Florence leaned on her shoulder, breathing in the familiar floral perfume (no jasmine, and notes of spring). ¡°Everything went okay at dance practice today, right? Nothing happened outside?¡± Dance class was fine, but... She wanted to tell her about the Outsider and his ridiculous claim that she had a brother, but something held her back. ¡°Like what?¡± ¡°Nobody said anything strange to you?¡± ¡°I met the Outsider girl ¨C Ada ¨C on the main street.¡± Florence said tentatively, tracing the stripes on the duvet cover with her finger. ¡°She didn¡¯t say anything, did she?¡± Her mother clutched her arm. Florence shook her head, then nodded. ¡°What did she say?¡± her eyes flashed with anger ¨C not directed at her but the Outsiders. ¡°Not Ada. Her father. He said...¡± She gulped, ¡°He said I had a brother.¡± She giggled. Nervously. It was so stupid. How could her mother not know if she had a son? ¡°He told you that, too? Don¡¯t listen to him, Flo, he¡¯s crazy.¡± Her mother stared her straight in the eye, her hands on her shoulders. Too? ¡°He came here?¡± ¡°Yes. We used to be well acquainted. I don¡¯t suppose you remember ¨C it was, oh, five years ago now ¨C but he came to the village and we got to chatting one day at your dance class. He seemed like a nice person, as far as Outsiders go. ¡°But I hadn¡¯t expected that now he¡¯s also spreading these ludicrous claims that Dad and I have a son!¡± Her mum rose from the bed in agitation. ¡°He came here ranting and raving about this supposed ¡®son¡¯ we have, demanding to know where he was and what we¡¯d done to him. What we¡¯d done to him! As if we were criminals!¡± Florence remembered the potted laceleaf ¨C a gift to her parents. She snorted. Getting to her feet, she wrapped her arms around her mother, hugging her. Her mother squeezed her back. ¡°Don¡¯t listen to anything he says Flo ¨C how could your father and I not know if we had a son? What rubbish!¡± Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere. ¡°I know. Don¡¯t worry, mum.¡± The house was empty when Florence awoke the next morning. The hollow silence of undisturbed air expanded in the corridor as she padded past the locked door; it followed her down the stairs and into the kitchen lit by the chill winter light that stripped everything of colour. The kitchen was tidy in an unwelcoming, you-missed-the-crowd kind of way, a single post-it note stuck on the counter by the sink. Gone to farmers market, then going to see Imogen, back sometime about 4. So, she was looking at a whole day alone. The ticking of the clock above the door to the utility echoed against the tiled walls (she hadn¡¯t realised it sounded like it was going to break the next tock quite so much): it was five to ten. Florence put the kettle on and dropped two slices of bread (white, from the freezer ¨C Mr. Ackley had sadly won the war on convincing her parents on the superiority of whole-wheat) into the toaster, slathering them with butter and marmalade when they popped up and stewing her tea to an extend that would make her father wince. Placing them on the crumb-free dining table, she sat for a moment. It was too quiet. She turned the radio on. It dropped in and out ¨C fragments of hymns mixed with staticky news reports and segments of The Archers. Apparently, it was now changing frequencies in addition to having poor reception. The BT engineers had excelled themselves. She turned it off. To distract herself, Florence planned out her time. Today was the day Elliot went to the Abandoned Houses which would take care of the afternoon, but there were four hours until then. She dumped her empty plate and mug into the sink and headed upstairs. Given the state of the radio, the TV was out; dance practice¡­ was fun, but she wasn¡¯t in the mood. She wandered out of the bathroom after brushing her teeth and stood like a ghost in the middle of her room. The thing that she didn¡¯t want to think about pressed itself into her mind. Why it was such a big deal, she couldn¡¯t say. They¡¯d agreed, hadn¡¯t they, that the Outsider was mad? Nobody else in the village had ever mentioned a brother ¨C the fact that she was an only child was brought up several times per conversation with the old women (the birth rate was going down). Her parents didn¡¯t remember; she had no recollection whatsoever. In a situation where one person remembered something that no one else did, he was the crazy one. Not them. She sat down at her desk, looking out of the sash window they could never quite get the mould out of to the towering pine trees above the roofline. It was bothering her. So, she would simply have to get it to un-bother her. She drummed the desk with her fingers: how could you prove that somebody didn¡¯t exist? Her eyes skimmed over her the messy piles of clothes on the floor. Her mind was a mess. She turned and sat directly at her desk ¨C it was clear apart from a pencil put and a framed picture. It was from a garden party they¡¯d had last summer at Elliot¡¯s house; his mum grabbing his ear and threatening him with a rolling pin as he grimaced at the camera, her own parents wearing silly hats and grinning, and herself, laughing at Elliot¡¯s plight. No brother in sight. Evidence number one! None of their family photos featured an unidentified fourth person. She didn¡¯t even need to go and check: she walked past them every day. Secondly¡­ she forced herself to stop tapping the desk as she cast her mind around. Right! Their house had only two bedrooms: hers, and her parents. This had been her room since forever ¨C there was even a dip in the wall from when she¡¯d attempted a cartwheel in her room when she was nine and chipped the plaster. It was impossible for her parents to force their (supposed) son to sleep in the living room ¨C they¡¯d rather move house. And yet, here they were, living in a two-bedroom terrace. Florence wanted to borrow Elliot¡¯s stupid QED face: she had evidence to show she had no brother. Jumping up from her desk chair she did a congratulatory dance around the room, then went out to look at her parents¡¯ room, basking in the glory of scientific evidence. All was right with the world. The Outsider had Lied. She turned, as light as air, thinking she might try her luck with the internet and watch some dance videos when her eyes fell on the door beside hers. She paused mid-step. The grin on her face slipped a few degrees. Very slowly, as if it were some ferocious beast waiting to pounce, Florence edged down the corridor, her back flat against the wall, until she was directly in front of the locked door. It was perfectly ordinary, if a little dusty. The same cherry frame and door with four inset panels. Her heart began to bang to an executioner¡¯s beat. She tried to remember: there must have been one time someone went in ¨C even the dreaded attic was opened up once a year to get the Christmas decorations out ¨C but drew a blank slate. She couldn¡¯t remember her parents ever opening the door. It was strange, now she thought of it, that they should prefer the attic to keep things in, when they had this storage room here. Her stomach dropped slightly at the thought. She took a deep breath. Her fingers trembling, she stretched out a hand to the doorknob. The brass handle was cold to the touch, and slightly gritty. It was ridiculous. The door was locked. She wouldn¡¯t be able to get in. Her breath hitched in her chest. She twisted the handle to the left, waiting for the lock to catch, to feel some resistance. But it turned smoothly under her hand, letting out a sibilant click. She let go and the door swung inwards. The locked door¡­ wasn¡¯t locked. Musty air spilled out, reminding Florence of the time when she went through her grandmother¡¯s wardrobe after her death ¨C the piles of clothes had moulded in the damp weather and the smell had stuck to her for a week like it was chemically bonded to her skin. She wrinkled her nose. Heavy black curtains were pulled tightly shut over the window and the light trickling in from the corridor was enough to make out the looming shapes of a wardrobe and a bed, but nothing more. The ceiling lamp flicked on without delay when Florence tried it. Under the homely warmth of the yellow light, Florence stared around at the room. It was unmistakeably a teenage boy¡¯s bedroom. Chapter VI The Teenager in the Striped Shirt Florence moved into the room, the thick blue carpet swaying like the deck of a ship. Or maybe it was her who was swaying. The room was roughly the same size as her own ¨C square, the blue-skies-with-occasional-decorative-clouds wallpaper peeling from the corners. The bed was pushed up against the far wall, blue-and-white striped cover unmade as if someone had just been lying there, but covered in a layer of moulding dust. The drawers of the chest next to it hung out, the clothes inside screwed up. Florence poked through them: lots of earthy colours. On top of the chest of drawers ten or so books were placed neatly, though there were gaps as if someone had pulled out certain titles. The ones that remained were mildewed adventure books, and Florence merely gave them a once over before turning to the wardrobe. Its doors hung open, clothes and hangers littering the floor, and confirming once again that whoever lived here (Florence carefully skirted around the word ¡®brother¡¯ in her thoughts) liked dark colours. The only other big piece of furniture in the room was an upright desk, squashed in the corner at the end of the bed. Little clouds of dust puffed up from the carpet as Florence stumbled over. More books and photos ¨C some framed, some tacked on ¨C cluttered the built-in shelves above the desk; she averted her eyes, instead focusing on the mess that covered the table: a jumble of textbooks ¨C for A Level maths, physics and PE ¨C A4 binders and car magazines. Leafing through the former revealed half-done past exams and pages and pages of revision notes in a scrawling hand Florence struggled to read. Did this person want to be a doctor? The latter were easier to decode ¨C a mixture of Autocar and Car magazines with splashy headlines and glossy covers, the corners rolling up from the number of times they¡¯d been flipped through. Florence thumbed through them, the clunky shapes of the older models funny to her eyes. How old were these, exactly? She scoured the front page before finding the tiny date above the barcode: March 2013 all the way through to May. Almost five years old. She placed them down. A tingling feeling rose inside Florence. Maybe it had something to do with what happened yesterday, or finding a third bedroom, or that all the little details made it harder to ignore that a person had lived here. A real person with likes and interests and who neither she nor her parents had any recollection of. And dancing around the corner of her eye were the photographs pinned to the bookshelf. Florence scrunched her eyes shut and took a deep breath, holding it inside like she did before a performance. She breathed out. But the same magical calming effect didn¡¯t happen. She tried again. Nothing ¨C except the disturbed dust got in her nose. Her eyes snapped open and she coughed until her lungs almost came up. ¡°The room wants to kill me!¡± She thumped her chest, letting out pitiful half-coughs, hemming and hawing. But she was alone, and there was no one to appreciate her performance. Or stop her. Unwillingly, she turned back to the desk and raised her eyes to the bookshelf. The boy in the photos had the same sun-kissed, olive tone skin Florence had inherited from her mother, and he towered over his companions in a thin, stick-like way. His short hair ¨C buzzed at the sides, longer on top ¨C gelled into a quiff exposed his handsome, sunny face and infectious smile ¨C the same as her father. Her eyes darted from photo to photo. In one he was celebrating, grinning at the camera, with a group of boys, all of them holding sheets of paper aloft, the school in the background: GCSE results day. In another he was posed by a familiar black Audi A7, a pair of sunglasses perched on his nose and his arms crossed; he was slightly taller than the Outsider beside him. An awkward tween, holding up a certificate; a young boy in his first pair of tap shoes in the living room, chest puffed out; a twelve-year-old trying to be cool for his first disco; a blushing young man in a suit with a girl on his arm going to the year 11 dance¡­ Florence stared at each moment from the teenager¡¯s life, her chest constricting until her eyes landed on one photo. She forgot to breathe. The photo had been taken outside the community centre. Her mother beamed proudly on the left gazing at the teenage boy in a striped shirt carrying a young girl in a leotard and white tights on his back. The girl waved a medal at the camera, her face alight with joy. Florence knew that medal. She still had it, hanging in her room. The walls began to spin. She slumped to the ground, pulling her knees up to her chest and burying her face. Her mind was in free-fall. She had plunged through a hole in reality and now there was nothing to hold on to, and nothing to pull her back. She had a brother. A brother she didn¡¯t remember. That no one remembered. And yet, he had existed. Here, in this room, and at school, and in tap class: a real, living human who had vanished, not just from her memory, but from her parents¡¯ and the village¡¯s. For a moment the implications were too much for Florence to take in. ¡°No, this is a joke.¡± Her head snapped up and she stared around the room. This was a hoax ¨C not her parents ¨C her parents wouldn''t do this ¨C someone else must have been into their house and arranged this. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. Even if ¨C if ¨C she had a brother, there would still be other stuff... like the family photographs! She got to her feet, trembling so much she almost fell. The ground seemed to be a giant sponge ¨C her steps were as light as air but the ground sucked away her energy. It took an aeon to get to the stairs. She clutched the banister, shuffling down until she reached the first of the family photos. Nothing had changed. Florence let out a sigh of relief. Feeling began to spread through her numb legs and the ache from her hand tightly clenching the banister pulsed. Their family of three, not four, smiled out of the photos ¨C picnicking, dancing, celebrating Christmas. Each memory was crystal-clear. And brotherless. But as she looked at each one, they began to change. Colours and lines distorted and melded together; like a heat-haze that suddenly disappeared, a fourth figure took shape on the glossy snapshots. Florence¡¯s foot slipped on the stair. She fell backwards, banging into the banister and rebounding off before falling sideways. Her elbow and knees connected painfully with the edge of the stairs and she thumped to the floor. She lay there, letting the pain sink in. An embarrassing urge to cry arose within her. This wasn¡¯t the worst that had happened to her ¨C she¡¯d sprained her ankle and torn her calf dancing, and broken her arm after one of Elliot¡¯s ill-advised adventures ¨C but lying there, she wanted her mum or dad to pick her up and give her a cuddle and tell her everything was okay. The corners of her eyes stung; she blinked. After a long time, she pulled herself together. Hauling herself to her feet, she shook out her legs, making sure nothing was hurting ¨C it wasn¡¯t - then slowly descended the stairs. With each step she paused and looked at the photographs hanging on the wall, and in each of them she saw her brother, sometimes younger, sometimes older. She went around the whole house. The traces of her brother were light; a spare mug that nobody ever used; an extra placemat in the dining room drawer; a commemorative magnet on the fridge from the graduating class of 2011; the slowly deflating football and spikes in the corner of the utility. In every room she found something that her eyes had seen but not registered, glanced over like light reflecting off water. Each one was a stake driven into her heart. She returned to his room and sat in the middle of the floor, staring around, her mind numb. Time ebbed by. Without the natural light from the window Florence had no idea exactly how much time had passed. How many hours she had known about her brother. Like the waters from a raging flood that slowly subsided, the idea leached into her mind, working its way down until it hit the bedrock of her world and merged, painfully, wearily, into it. Benjamin Slater. It was sometime in the afternoon, Florence was pretty sure. She¡¯d been picking through her brother¡¯s room when she found his name written in the upper left hand-corner inside the binders. And again on the past exam papers, written in a lazy, crabbed manner that spoke to the writer¡¯s impatience. He was called Benjamin Slater. Florence pulled out the desk chair and dropped down. What had happened to the boy who¡¯d written those words? ¡°Flooooorence!¡± Elliot¡¯s call was accompanied by a thumping on the door as if the doorbell was an invention he disdained to use. She jumped up out of the chair, her heart beating ten to the dozen. Stumbling down the stairs, she cracked the front door open. A gust of cold, damp air tunnelled in. ¡°What is it?¡± Elliot observed her, his hands in his pockets and a big woollen scarf covering the lower half of his face. He frowned, ¡°Are you okay?¡± ¡°Yeah,¡± She rubbed her tired eyes, ¡°What¡¯s up?¡± His frown deepened, and there was a hint of reproach in his voice, ¡°Haven¡¯t you been keeping track of the time? It¡¯s two o¡¯clock.¡± ¡°...Right! Yes, okay. Give me a minute.¡± She stood back. ¡°Come in. I¡¯ll be right back down.¡± She went back upstairs, first to the bathroom where she washed her face. The water was so cold it made her gasp, but it drove the unreal feeling from her body. In her bedroom she threw on a jumper and coat then thundered down the stairs, pulling up just short of knocking into Elliot. Throwing her trainers out from the basket of jumbled shoes and forcing her feet into them, she turned to him, ¡°Right. I¡¯m ready.¡± ¡°...Okay.¡± He opened the door and strode out down the front path without looking back. They walked out of the estate in silence, turning left at the main road and retracing their footsteps from last Sunday, and the Sunday before that, and the one before that as they crossed Mayker¡¯s field. The rain had worsened the already existing muddy patches into ankle-deep sludge they had to skirt around and created new puddles that flooded the path. Water speckled their clothes from the grass-covered tussocks, and in the holly bushes lining the field to their left, a robin kept them company, flying from branch to branch and chirruping. Still, they proceeded in silence. Words, speech, failed Florence. Before and Now were two separate times, divided by the unassailable knowledge that she had a brother. Whatever they¡¯d talked about before was utterly beyond her grasp. She stared at the back of Elliot¡¯s head framed against the backdrop of pine trees and the Wall. What would happen if she told him she had a brother? Maybe he would laugh and say she was crazy ¨C like the Outsiders. That was what her parents would say. Maybe he would listen carefully then report her to the school¡¯s counsellor on Monday. She pursed her lips. None of those seemed very Elliot-like. ¡°Hey, Elliot.¡± He turned. Not just a twist of the head but a full body turn, facing her directly. The heavy water vapour in the air obscured the distance, trapping them in a moveable prison. She licked her lips. ¡°What would you do... if I told you I had a brother?¡± His reaction was beyond her prediction. He neither accused her of being crazy nor shrugged her off. Instead, he looked at her with a steady, probing gaze, as if trying to find the joke or prank. She bit the inside of her mouth. Sometimes Elliot intimidated her more than even Mr. Ackley on a lifestyle spiel. ¡°If you told me you had a brother,¡± Elliot said, still watching her intently, ¡°I¡¯d believe you, Flower.¡± Elliot¡¯s words entered her ears as English but something seemed to interrupt their transmission to her brain. ¡°What?¡± ¡°I¡¯d believe you.¡± ¡°Really? But, why?¡± Her hand twitched, brushing against a hard rush which sent a deluge of water down onto her trainers. ¡°So you have a brother?¡± The robin in the branches of the holly let out a keening trill, its red breast fluttering. Florence hesitated, then nodded, ¡°Well, yes, I think so. I mean, I do. Or did.¡± ¡°I see. And you don¡¯t remember him, right?¡± ¡°No! Neither... neither do my parents.¡± A crazy thought occurred to her. ¡°Do you remember him?¡± The small hope that ignited within her ¨C of getting proof, not just in the realm of things, but of memories ¨C died when Elliot shook his head. ¡°Then why...?¡± ¡°Because I had an uncle. And nobody remembers him, either.¡± Chapter VII The Abandoned House Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.