There's too much to keep up with, at first. Martin's still not ready to accept this object as a phone, and he certainly can't get his head around the idea that he is supposed to have one of his own. He watches John 'scroll' through the list of names, biting back a million questions and exclamations, trying not to lean too far into the other boy's space. And then, there it is: John's name, and with the merest touch, the screen changes again, revealing more. A little picture.
John stares at it for quite some time, and Martin does too, though he's not altogether certain what to make of it. He can't tell one way or the other what John might look like when he gets old, and the picture is too small to really know. All Martin can tell is that the colouring seems right. But the man in the picture looks old and, well, sort of terrible, and Martin doesn't think it would be very nice to see a picture of yourself grown up and looking like that. For a long time John just keeps staring at it, and Martin waits, warily, for his response.
Finally he asks about the weird markings all over the man-in-the-picture's face, and Mr. Keane tells him quite plainly that they're scars. Scars? Martin struggles not to make a face. From what? But none of what Mr. Keane says answers that, and none of it is particularly comforting; it's terrifying, really, just creates more questions, and Martin feels all the more like he's standing over a deep, dark pit with no bottom. What sorts of scary things? he wants and doesn't want to ask. How did we help one another?
Are we friends?
Maybe that's a stupid question, compared to all the others he could ask. Mr. Keane said they live together. If that's true — if all of what he's said is true — then... then maybe that flat was their flat, that bed their bed. Their clothes. Their cat. Their door and their locks on it, too many locks.
Martin tries, briefly, like reaching toward a hot stove, to imagine it: that he and John are actually adults, John that man in the picture, and Martin... something. That they live together, and they sleep in the same bed (a detail that bothers him, but his thoughts keep darting fearfully away from it, like it's a secret he shouldn't know). And... and they help each other with scary things. And if John is all covered in those weird little scars, and they've been through the same things, then... then is he...?
Inwardly, Martin recoils sharply from all that, though he remains still and quiet on the outside. Retreating back out of himself, he instead becomes aware of John beside him, still silent, still staring at the photo. Martin watches him a moment, then decides firmly to put all that stuff from his mind. He's being selfish, and John's obviously upset, looking at this little picture and being told that's going to be him, and suddenly Martin wants very badly to insist that it can't be, the whole idea is preposterous, and there's no real reason to think any of it is true. But he's a bit scared to say it, both because he doesn't want to offend Mr. Keane and because he's afraid of being proven wrong.
But John did ask for proof. And maybe there's more that Mr. Keane can give them, something better than a strange, scary photo. Something easier to think about and question. Or, maybe Mr. Keane's story will come apart, and they'll find it all a lie. Martin isn't sure which would be more awful. But if it's true, and they do help each other, then... well, even if it isn't, John needs his help now.
Martin sits up straighter and looks at Mr. Keane, trying to look braver and more sure of himself than he feels.
"If all that's true," he says, his tone starting out a bit haughty and then softening almost immediately to something embarrassed and more tentative, "then... then there must be other people that know us. What do we do here? Do we... do we have jobs?"
no subject
John stares at it for quite some time, and Martin does too, though he's not altogether certain what to make of it. He can't tell one way or the other what John might look like when he gets old, and the picture is too small to really know. All Martin can tell is that the colouring seems right. But the man in the picture looks old and, well, sort of terrible, and Martin doesn't think it would be very nice to see a picture of yourself grown up and looking like that. For a long time John just keeps staring at it, and Martin waits, warily, for his response.
Finally he asks about the weird markings all over the man-in-the-picture's face, and Mr. Keane tells him quite plainly that they're scars. Scars? Martin struggles not to make a face. From what? But none of what Mr. Keane says answers that, and none of it is particularly comforting; it's terrifying, really, just creates more questions, and Martin feels all the more like he's standing over a deep, dark pit with no bottom. What sorts of scary things? he wants and doesn't want to ask. How did we help one another?
Are we friends?
Maybe that's a stupid question, compared to all the others he could ask. Mr. Keane said they live together. If that's true — if all of what he's said is true — then... then maybe that flat was their flat, that bed their bed. Their clothes. Their cat. Their door and their locks on it, too many locks.
Martin tries, briefly, like reaching toward a hot stove, to imagine it: that he and John are actually adults, John that man in the picture, and Martin... something. That they live together, and they sleep in the same bed (a detail that bothers him, but his thoughts keep darting fearfully away from it, like it's a secret he shouldn't know). And... and they help each other with scary things. And if John is all covered in those weird little scars, and they've been through the same things, then... then is he...?
Inwardly, Martin recoils sharply from all that, though he remains still and quiet on the outside. Retreating back out of himself, he instead becomes aware of John beside him, still silent, still staring at the photo. Martin watches him a moment, then decides firmly to put all that stuff from his mind. He's being selfish, and John's obviously upset, looking at this little picture and being told that's going to be him, and suddenly Martin wants very badly to insist that it can't be, the whole idea is preposterous, and there's no real reason to think any of it is true. But he's a bit scared to say it, both because he doesn't want to offend Mr. Keane and because he's afraid of being proven wrong.
But John did ask for proof. And maybe there's more that Mr. Keane can give them, something better than a strange, scary photo. Something easier to think about and question. Or, maybe Mr. Keane's story will come apart, and they'll find it all a lie. Martin isn't sure which would be more awful. But if it's true, and they do help each other, then... well, even if it isn't, John needs his help now.
Martin sits up straighter and looks at Mr. Keane, trying to look braver and more sure of himself than he feels.
"If all that's true," he says, his tone starting out a bit haughty and then softening almost immediately to something embarrassed and more tentative, "then... then there must be other people that know us. What do we do here? Do we... do we have jobs?"