FOR DAISY, AFTER SHE SAVED ME

There used to be a theme park just outside of town, between the railway line and the old canal. The park is long abandoned but the eager billboards still line the roads nearby, with thick outlined letters promising affordable family outings and death-defying corkscrew rides.

Only at Caído Del Cielo!

The huge signs would still be convincing if they weren’t so faded, but the slogans didn’t work so well without the fluorescent colours.

I was an engineer for the trackless rides at the park. You know the ones - where your feet dangle just inches above the fake sharks and canyons. It was my team’s job to make sure the ride didn’t collapse on you and your hotdog-filled family, but I also played a part in making it scary. Sure, the artists painted ocean backdrops and the lighting crew could turn an old rusting warehouse from jagged rivets and girders into a western saloon, but we were the only ones who knew how to make you really feel like something could go wrong. We could make you feel out of control, and our rides were always creaky enough to make you regret strapping yourself in.

This was before the days of regulations and monthly inspections, before the park was managed by boards and investors. We held that place together and put on a hell of a show. The false danger was the reason the punters came back. The overdramatic peril helped them forget about their daily lives and had them excited for a change.

•••

The night I met her, that was the last night I worked at the park. Back then my shifts ended with safety checks and maintenance. Only surface stuff, restraint systems, nobody takes the detail seriously anymore. The chances of you being badly hurt in a theme park are one in 25 million, yet people still pass out during the climax of OMG Bees! A ride for kids under ten.

The last check of the day was always The Leafy Lake, and that’s where I met her. A shoeless bundle, crumpled into the corner of the bench by the boathouse. All I had to do was make sure the boats were all properly attached to the long wooden jetty, it’s a ten minute job and I would have been out of there by sundown if I hadn’t have heard what I heard.

Have you ever noticed how you always hear your name even if it’s from the other side of the room? It ought to get tangled up in the other conversations but somehow it breaks through and gets your attention. It’s the same thing with despair. Through the xylophone sounds of the boats knocking against the jetty and the radio chatter from my walkie-talkie, I heard the tiniest sound.

Truth be told I hadn’t even seen her, and yet I’d walked right past to get to the gate. I remember looking around for somebody else to take responsibility. One more job and then I was home for the weekend. I had leftover shepherd’s pie. Half a bottle of Eerie Kansas. Ice fishing on Saturday, Mass on Sunday. Surely somebody else could deal with it.

They say that even fatal injuries in a theme park are mostly caused by previously undiagnosed brain conditions. That means, it’s not our fault, it’s yours. We give you the warnings, after that it’s up to you. I remember when a four year old boy once managed to sneak into Abattoir 3D. Hs parents complained for months afterwards saying that we were the cause of his nightmares and sleepless nights. And where were they while he was sneaking into the adult movie? In the gift shop.

•••

I walked over to the girl and asked her if she knew where her parents were, but all she could do was look at me and cry. Her tears rolled around her blushed cheeks like huge planets and they ran through her fingers. She’d had her hands over her face and the sleeves of her white cardigan were soaking wet. I asked her what her name was and she still didn’t answer.

Under the cardigan she was wearing a yellow dress. It looked like a uniform. I wondered if she’d become lost on a school trip and they just hadn’t noticed. As she moved slightly on the bench I saw that there was a dark grey scarf tied around her leg. All I remember thinking was Good God she’s hurt herself too. If it wasn’t one thing having living breathing lost property to deal with, now I had to play doctor?

And I had shepherd’s pie at home.

There was a small white label at the end of the scarf, and the name Daisy was written in blue marker pen. Somebody must be missing her, surely somebody is looking for her? I called into my radio. Had anybody called reception? Nobody answered.

I looked over at the jetty. Suddenly ice fishing seemed so far away.

It was now too dark to check the boats so I asked Daisy again, “Who were you with at the park today? Where do you live?”

She looked up at me for the first time. She looked exhausted and she wiped her eyes with her sleeve.

“Nobody and nowhere.”

That’s all she said. Nobody and nowhere. Her voice was shaking and the words seemed to catch in her throat as they battled their way through the sobs. I asked if she was hurt and she screwed her face up and hid behind her hands. The scarf around her leg slipped and I saw a blood smeared cut which ran right up to her knee.

Daisy reached down and tied the scarf tightly back around her leg.

She whispered, “I don’t think I landed very well.”

She was staring into her hands, as though seeing something in the distance. I watched one of her tears as it collected in a pool on her eyelashes. She blinked, and as it rolled down her face it followed the rivers down her cheek and landed on the peeled varnish.

It had been a long day. I was definitely tired and the only light was now coming from the old neon signs above the jetty. In the flickering light I could have sworn I saw her tear shatter as it landed on the bench. It seemed to crack and then break like a bead of glass.

As the next tear fell, I reached over to catch it without thinking. I held out my palm under her chin and waited until it rolled into my hand. It was perfectly smooth and light as a soapy bubble, but it was solid and I wrapped my hand around it. Tears were now cascading from Daisy’s cheeks and they crashed against each other as they smashed into tiny fragments and fell through the gaps in the bench. Some rolled around my feet and others bounced into the long grass. They became brighter with every passing second and surrounded us in spinning shadows.

As I watched, paralysed to the spot, I noticed my own tears. Normal, watery tears that seemed so dull and useless. It’d been years since I’d even come close to crying, but there I was, standing there in the freezing evening with stinging eyes and uncontrollable sobs.

I frantically began to pick up the glowing tears from around the bench and underneath the fence. I could only hold a small handful before I feared breaking them against each other so I filled my pockets. The shallow pockets inside my jacket were soon bulging so I emptied my jeans of loose keys and coins and filled those pockets too. I took off my shoes to gather more of her glowing teardrops inside them and I held any that remained in my shaking hands.

Complete story available to agents and publishers. Contact Russell James at russelljamesauthor@gmail.com