Under a Starlit Sky

Under

A

Starlit

Sky

By Caitlin McColl

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Caitlin McColl

All rights reserved.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

DEDICATION

This story is dedicated to my lovely husband, without whose support I would never have been able to get through this crazy writing adventure I have committed myself to. And to my parents for raising me to believe I can do whatever I want to do if I just put my mind to it.

We are made of star stuff ~ Carl Sagan

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Dedication

Acknowledgements

Chapter 1 – We Are All In The Gutter

Chapter 2 – Reach High

Chapter 3 – To Change The World

Chapter 4 – When It Is Darkest

Chapter 5 – To Be Fearful of The Night

Chapter 6 – Makes Me Dream

Chapter 7 – But In Ourselves

Chapter 8 – Forget-Me-Nots Of The Angels

Chapter 9 – This Is The Wonder

Chapter 10 – You Must Have Chaos Within You

Chapter 11 – He Turns Not Back

Chapter 12 – We Have Only This Moment

Chapter 13 – Between Two Worlds

Bonus Addition: All About Eve – A Novella

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank my husband for all his support. I would also like to thank all my friends who were supportive of me and a special thanks to Melissa Ravelli for editing, Nikki Shah, Nicola Jacobson, Karla Backer, Elly Hughes, Jackie Edwards and others for beta reading and Marie Land for designing the beautiful front and back covers.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. The quote in the book ‘Between two worlds life hovers like a star’ is from Lord George Byron’s poem Don Juan.

1

We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars

~ Oscar Wilde

At first, there was just blinding light. The man squeezed his eyes shut as the pain seared through his head. Shielding his eyes with a hand, he slowly lifted his head and pushed himself into a sitting position. He looked out onto a harbour filled with yachts and small fishing boats tied to narrow and rickety jetties. The early light of dawn painted the sky with swathes of dusky pink and burnt orange, the pale sunlight glittering on the calm, glassy surface of the water like a thousand little jewels.

The man sat, simply looking, taking in the scene in front of him. His head throbbed and felt full and heavy, like the worst hangover possible. It was only then he realized he was on the hard ground, on a small patch of grass near a promenade surrounding the marina. He could feel the damp of the early morning soaking through his jeans, and the light jacket he wore offered little protection from the dewy ground on which he had been lying.

Where am I? He thought groggily, shifting his cold and stiff body upright, placing his hands on his knees for balance as he attempted to stand. He shook his head, trying to clear the fuzzy-headed feeling, and saw something glinting nearby. A small cluster of buildings stood on a short street facing the harbour, where something outside a store was catching the sun and reflecting like a beacon.

The man looked out over the water, his eyes darting quickly here and there, trying to pick out something, anything that looked familiar, only to find nothing. He scanned the harbour again and saw new, glass buildings a short distance across the water. He glanced around the boardwalk just below where he sat looking for something with meaning—a place he remembered walking, or sitting, or perhaps eating. Again, he found nothing. It felt like a hand was pressing down heavily on his chest and his breath had stopped in his mouth. A feeling of panic set in, his heart beating faster.

A slight sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead and he squeezed his eyes shut again, hoping when he opened them he would remember. Opening his eyes, he took a deep breath, turned, and slowly, haltingly, stumbled towards the building with the shining sign.

As he got closer, he noticed it was a cafe. ‘The Circle Café’ was etched onto a simple disc of thin metal. He glanced at his watch. Only eight in the morning. Looking through the cafe window, he saw a short line of people waiting at the counter and a handful of people sitting at clusters of small, round tables. He walked in, stretching as he did. Standing in line, he took in the tiny, crowded space. Four tables sat in front of floor-to-ceiling windows but only one was occupied, by a stocky balding man reading a newspaper, a large cup of black coffee in hand.

When he got to the counter, the woman behind smiled at him, flashing straight white teeth and a nice smile. Her apron gave her name as ‘Tilly’, embroidered in bright blue letters on the crisp white uniform.

What can I get you? she asked cheerfully.

The man hesitated and ran a hand through his hair. Um...

We have lots of fresh baked goods, said Tilly, gesturing to the pastry case beside the counter. Scones, muffins, croissants, all baked fresh daily.

I was wondering... the man asked, hesitating again.

Yes? The woman looked at him expectantly.

Do you recognize me? he gave an apologetic smile, trying to suppress the quaver in his voice and calm the sudden panic that rose within him.

Tilly’s cheerful smile disappeared and confusion took over. Why? Should I know you?

I...I don’t know, said the man, trying to find the words. I was just wondering if maybe I was a regular here?

Well, we get lots of people coming in here, said Tilly. Especially now, in the summer, with tourist season and everything. A look of concern crossed her face. Are you okay? You don’t look very good.

The man shook his head and laughed under his breath. No, I don’t feel very good, he admitted. I... He stopped again, trying to find the right words. This time he was unable to quell the rising fear he felt and his voice faltered. I don’t really remember who I am. He laughed awkwardly in a bid to mask the panic in his voice, and ran a hand through his dew damp hair again.

Oh, said Tilly. Oh, she repeated, not knowing how to respond. Well, I’m sorry, I don’t seem to recognize you. She turned around and called to one of the other staff. Hey, Sam! Do you know this guy?

A young blonde man poked his head out from behind a fridge. Sam shook his head, Nope, sorry.

Tilly glanced back towards the man with a look of concern and smiled. No, I’m sorry. But would you like anything to eat? That might make you feel better. Maybe you’ve just had a rough night.

The man stuck a hand in his pocket and came out with a set of keys and a couple of quarters. Sorry, I don’t have any money on me.

Tilly reached into the pastry case and took a slice of banana bread from a basket. Here, she said, handing it over. Take this. It’s a day old.

The man was about to protest when Tilly shook her head. It’s on the house. She gave him another bright smile. I hope you feel better.

He accepted it gratefully, nodding his thanks as he placed the two quarters from his pocket in the charity jar next to the cash register. He left the cafe, unwrapping the loaf from its plastic as he walked towards a bench down by the water.

He heard a noise, a shout, and turned. A thin, lanky man wearing a dust-covered and dirty denim jacket was heading in his direction. Hey! the stranger shouted, striding quickly towards the bench he had just sat down on. Hey, Ian, I thought it was you, said the newcomer as he reached the bench.

The man squinted up at the person covered in dust. I’m sorry, he said almost in a whisper, taken aback. Do I know you?

The man in the denim jacket laughed and playfully punched him on the shoulder. You’re hilarious.

The man continued to stare at the tall stranger standing next to the bench, with his short short-cropped hair. I’m sorry, but I can’t remember who you are, he said, taking a large bite of the banana loaf.

A smile tugged at the corner of the other man’s lips. You kidding me? He arched an eyebrow with a look that said he wasn’t sure if he was talking to a crazy man.

The man shook his head, mouth full of bread. A look of concern passed over the other man’s face as he took a seat on the bench, scrutinizing his face.

He swallowed. So my name is Ian? he asked. That’s what you just said. And who are you then?

I’m Barlow, the man, covered in a thin layer of ashy dust that made his hair appear more salt than salt and pepper, replied. Barlow Puckett.

Ian stuck out his hand awkwardly, and Barlow took it, just as awkwardly. Puckett, huh? So you go by Puck or something?

The man called Barlow looked shocked. Are you sure you don’t remember me? How did you know I go by ‘Puck’?

Puckett, Puck. You know, Midsummer Night’s Dream. A single word slipped into his mind. Shakespeare. "I just assumed, I guess. Nice to meet you." He took another enthusiastic bite of sweet banana bread.

Barlow didn’t speak at first but then, So...

So? Ian parroted.

Well, what happened? asked Puck. Why don’t you know who I am?

I…I don’t know. I just woke up here. Ian pointed to the ground near the bench. And I don’t remember anything.

Anything? You mean nothing at all? Puck shook his head briskly and his raised eyebrows caused his forehead to crease.

Ian shook his head. Except now I guess I know my name is Ian.

Puck nodded. Yep, that’s right. And we work together.

We do? A note of anxiety crept into Ian’s voice.

Uh huh. Construction. Puck pointed across the marina to a cluster of properties under development. We’re working on those at the moment.

I build houses? The man asked, surprise evident in his voice and across his face.

Puck nodded again, shading his eyes from the rising sun. Ian couldn’t tell the colour of Puck’s eyes in the direct sunlight but noticed a deep scar, trailed by a handful of smaller ones next to Puck’s mouth. They were the kind of scars that you would only really notice in a certain light and could easily be mistaken as laugh lines.

"What else can you tell me? I don’t even know where I am!" Ian’s voice grew full of panic.

Hey, said Puck, placing a hand on his shoulder. It’s okay, calm down. I’ll tell you what I know.

Ian exhaled slowly, letting his shoulders relax under the weight of Puck’s hand. You’re in Victoria. Puck paused and added, That’s in Canada.

I know I’m in Canada! Ian snapped irritably, too embarrassed by the fact that he didn’t.

Okay, okay, said Puck, raising his hands defensively. I don’t know how much you can remember. No need to bite my head off!

Sorry.

So you came down from Nanaimo a few months ago looking for work, and got a job working construction with me and some other guys, said Puck. At Starry Skies Construction. That’s the company.

Okay. So I know where I work…and that my name is Ian said the man, nodding slowly, trying to remember.

Puck nodded again. Yep, Ian Howton.

Ian Howton, he said, mulling the words over, trying to comprehend them. What else? Do you know where I live? I’d like to get changed out of these clothes. They’re all damp from me waking up on the ground here. He held out a bit of his thin sage-coloured jacket. I’d like to go home and have a shower.

Sounds like a plan. Maybe you’ll feel better after that. You sure you just haven’t had too much to drink?

Ian shrugged. You tell me. Am I the kind of guy to go on a bender?

Puck mumbled quietly under his breath.

What? asked Ian.

Puck shrugged. I don’t know man, I’ve only known you for about eight months. He looked Ian up and down. But no, I don’t think you’re the kinda guy to go on a bender.

Okay then, said Ian, giving a small, wan smile. So do you know where I live?

Um, yeah. Let me just check… Puck pulled his cell phone out of his jeans and pressed a few buttons. Blanshard Street.

Ian said nothing but blinked in the sunlight that had begun to flood the small patch of green they sat in. 1122 Blanshard. It’s across the street from St. Andrews Cathedral. You can’t miss St. Andrews, it’s a huge red brick building like something out of a horror movie, he laughed.

Okay, said Ian. So, what about you?

About me? echoed Puck, taken aback.

Ian nodded. I don’t know anything about you. He paused and added, Or I guess I should say I don’t remember anything about you.

Puck exhaled loudly and was silent a moment, looking out over the bright glare of the water. This is weird, he said. I’m basically telling a stranger my life story that you already know. Or did know, he corrected. Well, I’m forty-five. He ran his hand over his close-cropped greying hair. Can’t you tell? he laughed. Ian smiled awkwardly saying nothing. I have a girlfriend but never been married. Don’t have any kids, either.

And you’ve always lived here, in Victoria? Ian asked.

Barlow glanced sideways at Ian and pressed his lips into a tight thin line. No, not always.

Ian didn’t know what to say so opted to stay silent. After a few minutes, Barlow spoke. I moved here from the interior. Penticton. Small town, not many opportunities. Except farming, I guess. Or if you wanted to run an orchard. But after my brother died, my mother basically shut down and I didn’t exist to her anymore, and my dad just spent all his time with her, trying to distract her from reality. It was like I was a ghost. Invisible. I could go out at night, stay out as late as I wanted, and when I came home, no one said anything. No one cared. Most of the time they didn’t even realize I had gone anywhere. They were too wrapped up in themselves, in their grief. There was another protracted silence before Barlow said, And so I moved out here, as far away as I could get from it all.

Oh, said Ian quietly. I’m sorry. Even though it wasn’t an adequate response it was all he could think to say.

Puck shrugged and grunted. It happened a long time ago. I was just a teenager. My brother was younger than me. He was just playing basketball... said Puck, lowering his eyes from the water. It was getting dark. Dusk. When the stars and the fireflies were just starting to come out. I remember the fireflies too, for some reason. He was playing basketball, just by himself. Barlow paused again. He was throwing hoops in the driveway but the ball bounced out into the road… Puck looked out over the water again, and Ian looked away, not wanting to intrude.

The road is always quiet. Hardly anyone uses it. Except that night. And Adam ran out onto the road to get the ball that had rolled into the ditch on the other side. All I remember is hearing the tires. I will never, as long as I live, forget the sound of those tires; the awful, grating screeching. And the skid marks, blacker than black, stayed on the road for a long time after. But the fireflies, they seemed to surround him in a cloud, almost. I haven’t seen a single one since I moved out here.

Well, Ian cleared his throat uncomfortably. Now I know more about you. Again.

Puck managed a thin, weak smile.

Ian sat a moment in silence, the two men side by side looking out over the water.

Okay, well, I guess I should probably head off, Ian said, rising from the bench.

Wait! cried Puck, grabbing Ian’s arm. I’ll give you my address and phone number in case you need to call me or something. You’re not looking too good, y’know that?

Ian smiled weakly, So I’ve been told. He went through his pockets, looking for some paper and a pen, or even a phone. Nothing. He pulled out a set of keys attached to a keychain shaped like a book. Well, at least I have keys to my place, he laughed, jingling the keys in his hand, and looking at the little metal book that was the key chain.

Here, said Puck, taking a pen from his pocket and rolling up the sleeve of Ian’s jacket. He scribbled down his address and phone number. Now you won’t be able to lose this.

Thanks. Ian hesitated. This might be a stupid question, but do you know if I have a car?

Puck nodded. Yep, a little blue Mazda.

Okay, said Ian. Well, that’s good to know. I don’t know where it could be, so let’s hope it’s still at home.

Puck laughed in reply and stood. You can grab the bus to your place. It’s pretty central and not very far from here. You have money to call me?

Ian turned out his pockets and found nothing besides bits of fluff from the corners. Nope. And no wallet either.

Puck pressed some change into Ian’s hand. I’m sure they’re back at your place, but here, for the bus. Well, I’ve got to run. He said the words quickly so it sounded like ‘goddarun’. Give me a call if you need anything. It’s been nice… meeting you again. Puck smiled, shaking his head.

I will, answered Ian, walking in the direction of the street where he saw a bus. And thanks! he shouted, giving a little wave to Puck, who was already retreating quickly in the opposite direction.

***

Across the street from Saint Andrews cathedral, Ian thought as he stepped off the bus directly in front of the large ornate Gothic building. He turned around and looked across the street, his eye falling on a squat, ugly building with a worn-out, white sign that read ‘Auto Insurance’. Definitely not my apartment, he mumbled to himself.

He walked to the corner of an expanse of neatly trimmed green grass in front of where the cathedral stood. A small side street lay between him and a dingy, mustard yellow building, underneath which were a variety of stores. Ian crossed the road and stood in front of a jewelry store. ‘1122a Blanshard’, read the letters on the door. Beside the jewelry store stood an empty shop with giant for lease signs plastered across the darkened windows. He looked past the empty store and saw a small coffee shop with the words ‘I’ and ‘Coffee’ arranged on either side of a rough cut red wooden heart. Well, that’s something at least.

Looking above the stores, he saw the windows of small, pokey apartments and moved around the building to the back lane where he noticed the entrance to the upstairs apartments. He tried the key in his pocket and pulled open the door.

Squeezing up a narrow, dirty staircase, he came out into a short dark hallway with six doors. He glanced down at the keys in his hand and looked at the three different keys attached to the ring. Two of them had no markings, but the third had the number 206 etched shakily into it.

He looked at the doors and saw one marked ‘206’. Trying the key, he was relieved to hear the snick of the lock sliding back. Slowly, he pushed open the door, holding his breath. It opened onto a cramped living room, with a short two-seater sofa, strewn with a t-shirt, pants and a few haphazard cushions. A small TV sat on a plain wooden stand next to a tiny electric fireplace. Above the fireplace hung a poster print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night.

Ian walked further into the room noticing a long table against the back wall, in front of a narrow galley kitchen. He quickly walked past the kitchen and down the short hallway, ignoring a small washroom on his left and heading straight into the bedroom. The bed covers were neatly made and the pale yellow curtains pulled back, letting in the warm sunlight. He looked out the window. Directly across was the auto insurance company he saw from the street.

Ian undressed, throwing his grey t-shirt and green jacket onto the bed before heading to the bathroom. He flicked on the light and a stranger's face stared back at him from the mirror.

He ran a hand through his dark, wavy hair and peered closely at his face in the mirror. Large green eyes under neat dark eyebrows stared back at him. He stepped back to look at himself, with his aquiline nose, and a shadow of stubble on his face.

He turned his head left, then right, noticing a thin white scar running along part of his left jaw. He smiled, grimaced, then stuck out his tongue. Grunting he turned his body left, then right, looking his slim torso up and down. Not bad he thought. Okay, so who are you? he questioned his mirror self. His reflection simply stared back at him. He was about to step into the shower when something caught his eye. There was something dark on his right inner bicep. Lifting his arm he saw words. Between two worlds life hovers like a star, he read out loud. He touched the tattoo, rubbing it roughly as if to assess its reality. What does that mean? It feels like I’m trapped between two worlds, one a waking nightmare, the other… his thought trailed off and he shook his head briskly, like a dog. I don’t know, he said softly, under his breath. Between a nightmare and reality, if you can call this a kind of reality. He peered at himself again in the mirror before stepping into the shower.

He found a wallet on the bedside table in the bedroom and opened it hastily, hoping to find some more clues to his identity. No driver’s license. No picture ID. He pulled out a business card with the name Ian Howton typed in above Starry Skies Construction Ltd. Just behind the card was a cheque from Starry Skies for $1,092, as well as a bank card, both with his name on them. These will come in handy, he said distractedly, taking the crisp, new cheque from the wallet and slipping it in his pocket. Need to find a bank first thing tomorrow, he thought, before turning to survey the cramped living room.

Ian grabbed a shirt that was lying across the couch and threw it on, wandering slowly around the small apartment, taking it all in. He went to the fridge in the narrow kitchen and opened it. Like the rest of the apartment, it was messy, yet sparse. A few cans of Molson Canadian, a bag of grapes and a block of cheese were on a shelf. He opened drawers and cupboards and finally came across a box of whole-grain crackers. Grabbing the box he sat down on the couch and turned on the small, flatscreen TV. He sat there, flicking aimlessly through the channels with one thought running through his head, Who am I? He glanced up at the Van Gogh poster stuck on the wall in front of him. Do I really like Van Gogh?

After a few minutes, he turned off the TV and sat, eyes closed, trying to think. He looked at his arm, where Barlow had written his phone number. It was barely visible after the shower. He found a pen sticking out of one of the couch cushions and scrawled the number on a piece of paper, then picked up the phone Puck? It’s Ian Howton. I’m feeling better but still don’t remember anything. Did you know I have some quote tattooed on my arm?

Yeah, I’d seen it before, and I asked about it, but you just said it was a favourite quote or something.

Oh, said Ian, disappointed. He changed topics. You want to go for a drink?

No can do today, Ian, sorry. It’s my girlfriend’s day off and we’re going out for lunch. How about you have a nap? You might feel better when you wake up.

Ian ran his hand through his hair, twisting the ends. Yeah, okay, you’re probably right. I did wake up on the ground this morning. That’s not a recipe for a good night’s sleep. He hung up, tossing the phone on the faded armchair beside him, then thought better of it and picked it up and returned it to its cradle.

Easing himself between the neatly made bed covers, he promptly fell asleep.

***

Remy Holbrook woke up and threw off the bedsheets , not bothering to put on anything over the boxer shorts he wore to bed. He jumped on the treadmill in his living room and turned the TV on to the morning news - his usual routine.

As he stepped onto the machine, his eye fell briefly on the small bookshelf on the wall next to it. On it was a thick book with block letters that yelled out to anyone within ten feet that it was an A to Z of History for Dummies. Next to it was a small, almost invisible book penned in by its neighbour, a book on English for Non-English speakers. The small invisible book stood out only because of its appearance – it looked more like a piece of charred wood than a book – the cover on the spine was burnt and peeling, but Remy could still faintly make out the words ‘poetry’ and ‘children’. He resisted the urge to reach out and touch it, lest it finally crumble into dust after all these years. He sighed loudly. If only things had gone differently.

Through the wide floor-to-ceiling window, he looked out on a massive glowing golf-ball-shaped structure that his small corner apartment looked out on, edged by the glassy, smooth waters of the mouth of False Creek, in the Yaletown harbour. The small twinkling lights that covered the building’s round surface were slowly fading away in the growing morning light.

Without warning a memory came to him. Remy punched the buttons on the treadmill, increasing the speed and picking up his pace, trying to outrun the image, and push it from his mind. He didn’t want to see him. Sweat began to bead on his forehead and roll down his face, clumping the hair at his temples, but instead of the scene fading away with each exhale, it seemed to become more focused. He closed his eyes trying not to see his tall, slim, good looks and jade green-eyes underneath that always messy dark hair. His clothes looked always brand-new, never mussed. His mind played the scene like a movie and he watched through his closed eyelids the man bend down to kiss a slender blonde woman through the drivers-side window before moving away towards the wide stone steps in front of him and up into the large double glass doors of the classic Romanesque-style building.

Remy almost winced as he heard the woman laugh at something before she put the car into reverse and pulled out of the parking lot. How can he have a Mazda Miata? Of all people! He yelled toward the man in his memory. And one of those nice metallic silver ones, too.

A sky of layered pale lemon and orange began to filter through the thin curtains drawn across the window.

Remy opened his eyes as the man disappeared. This is ridiculous, he spat to the empty room. It’s far too early, the sun is not even up yet, and Science World is still lit! He groaned as he glanced at his watch, stepped off the machine, and threw on a rumpled button-down shirt and an even more wrinkled grey linen suit over top. He inspected himself in the full-length mirror hanging in the hallway. Better than nothing, he muttered, straightening his jacket and flashing brilliant white teeth. He ran a comb through his dark wavy hair and spritzed a small amount of hairspray in a cloud over it.

The traffic on the way to the university was heavier than usual and Remy slammed a fist on his steering wheel and muttered under his breath. Fuck, I hate first day of term. First the traffic, next the annoying know-it-all kids. He berated himself. His mother would have been appalled at his attitude. He slunk down in his seat as if trying to avoid his mother’s gaze as he turned sharply into his designated parking space and jumped out, slamming the door of his cramped rust-orange clunker of a Toyota that his cousin gave him. Out of pity, I’m sure, he muttered to himself before dashing up the wide stone steps and towards the double glass doors of the English and Creative Arts wing.

He had just enough time to throw down his bag on his chair and get his first day’s lesson plan out before students began to trickle into the lecture hall.

Keeners, Remy muttered under his breath, directed towards the trickle of eager students that gravitated towards the front rows of the auditorium. He vaguely remembered that enthusiasm, that genuine excitement for knowledge himself. Before his father squashed any desire out of him. Too many dealings with his father when he wasn’t himself, when he had turned into Mr. Hyde through drink. He thought of the barely salvaged poetry book on his mantle and shook his head sadly.

He returned his attention to his task and wrote his name on the whiteboard at the front of class. Then as an afterthought, scrawled in front ‘Professor’ and then underneath ‘Classical and Medieval Poetry.’

A slim girl with long blonde hair and chestnut brown eyes came up to Remy as he was arranging his notes. Where is Mr. Calvert? she asked. I thought he was teaching this class.

I don’t know where Mr. Calvert is, and I’m teaching this class now, Remy answered sharply. He winced as he imagined his mother’s long, slim fingers pinching his ear sharply, as punishment for his harsh tone. He saw her in her favourite pale blue dress, and large white pearl necklace wagging a finger.

Before he had a chance to go into his bag and get