The Good Mother 1988

Mark walked down the old arcade, his footsteps echoing off the brick walls. The arcade was dark and abandoned, with dust and old newspapers strewn about in the corners, and the windows in the ceiling barely letting in any light. This section of the city had lost its former luster, almost forgotten by time. The walls, lined with old brick, were cracked and faded from long exposure to damp and invisible mold. But to Mark, it was an ordinary place - familiar, even if not entirely safe.

He moved forward, looking intently at the doors and shop windows, heading for the exit, which seemed to him to be very close. It was not his habit to stop - his thoughts were occupied with much more important matters than what was happening around him. However, after a few minutes, his intuition told him something strange: something was wrong. He barely had time to realize it when he felt someone's gaze on him.

Without looking back, he felt two strangers approaching him. He could hear their footsteps, but they sounded too soft, as if someone was jumping, avoiding unnecessary noise. The two were, in fact, a shadow that moved with him - indistinguishable from the columns that supported the ceiling of the passage. Hearing a rustle and a moment of respite, Mark decided that it was worthwhile to speed up a little.

Only then did he notice that these strange figures had begun to jump from one column to another. Their movements were too fast, too fluid, like acrobats, each time coming closer to him. Their black coats fluttered in the air, and their mustachioed faces, hidden in the shadows, showed neither emotion nor purpose. They acted in unison, as if this was all part of some plan. And Mark, although he intuitively felt that something was wrong, was in no hurry to act.

He continued to walk forward, but now with caution. Noticing a couple more jumps, he quickened his pace, as if not paying attention to the strange pursuers. However, something in their manner was unimaginably strange. Who were these people? Why were their movements so coordinated?

And so, when Mark approached the exit of the passage, he felt himself surrounded - slowly, but surely. It was time to act.

Mark did not lose his composure despite the strange behavior of these two men. He stopped, calmly turning to them, holding the suitcase in his hands. His face was calm, but his eyes, as always, remained attentive.

"Are you interested, gentlemen?" he asked, without changing his intonation, as if everything that was happening was completely normal.

One of them, the one who had been jumping from pillar to pillar, now stood right in front of him, addressing him with a barely suppressed grin. His voice sounded like thick oil, barely perceptible, but nasty.

"Yes," he said, glancing at the bag, "we are very interested, mister Parvis. Especially in the contents of your bag."

Mark knew instantly who he was dealing with. These two were police spies, and their manners were too revealing of their true intentions. But he was not about to lose control. Without a shadow of a doubt, he demanded:

"Where is the search warrant?"

The second guy, standing a little further away, didn't even move. He seemed to merge with the shadows of the walls, his gaze was predatory, and his smile was alarming. From inside his coat he took out a small package and straightened it out, showing Mark the warrant. It was slightly crumpled, but there was a seal on it. The policeman didn't say a word, he just followed Mark's every movement with his darting eyes, his smile never leaving his face.

The first spy, encouraged by this, continued in his nasty, unctuous tone:

"Please, mister Parvis, don't waste time. We would like to see the contents of your bag."

Mark didn't answer right away. He let the silence hang in the air, catching the gaze of the second policeman, who was still looking at him like a predator at his prey. Everything was starting to ignite a strange feeling in him. No matter how much he studied them, their behavior was not quite normal for officers of the law. He realized that this search was just a pretext, something much more sophisticated was hiding behind their interest.

Without losing his composure, Mark smiled, and a sparkle flashed in his eyes. He knew that now was not the time to argue, but to simply act. This was the moment when silence could be more dangerous than words.

"Very well," he said with a barely perceptible nod, carefully setting his bag down on the ground. "Let's see what's troubling you. But," he added, raising an eyebrow, "please note that railway engineers don't carry contraband. Unless you mistake it for... a little living creature."

The policemen, not knowing what to expect, leaned over to look into the suitcase. And at that moment Mark suddenly opened it, and right before their eyes a large white butterfly burst out of the depths of the suitcase. Without losing a moment, it soared into the air, spreading its wings, and rushed upward, as if tearing the gray walls of the corridor with its flight.

One of the policemen instinctively followed the movement and looked up, trying to follow the flight path of the little fugitive. The other repeated his gesture, and soon both were completely absorbed in the unexpected spectacle. Mark slowly watched their reactions, as if this moment were part of his game.

"Allow me to introduce you to a remarkable specimen of the cabbage white butterfly," he said calmly, as if he were giving a lecture. "This girl is especially beloved by farmers, as if they did not know that the larvae of this lady can cause significant damage to crops. True, this is only a small part of her amazing behavior," he said, as if he were talking about a person and not an insect. "Did you know, gentlemen," Mark continued, "that the cabbage white butterfly can fly more than ten kilometers in a single day? This little one has an amazing ability to adapt, its species live on various continents, including Europe, Asia, and our own home," he said, meaning North America. "It is amazing how such a small creature can cover such distances. Not to mention the fact that her wings can be amazingly varied, including various shades of white and yellow, depending on the climate in which this little girl grew up ...

His voice, even and calm, flowed like milk, confusing them. The policemen, still watching the butterfly, did not immediately understand what was happening. They exchanged glances, but did not dare interrupt, deciding to first figure out what was happening in front of them. Mark, still talking, confused them more with each word.

"...and, of course," Mark continued after a pause, "unlike its rarer relative, the turnip white butterfly, it has a significantly larger wingspan. This makes it more resilient and adapted to survival in harsh climates."

He paused again, as if for a moment lost in his own thoughts.

"Have you seen how her wings open in the light?" Mark began again. "They seem to catch every ray, they do it with grace," he said, raising his voice a little, as if trying to convey his delight. "And this white butterfly is much more resilient, it easily copes with changes, with any difficulties! Don't you think so, gentlemen?"

The spies, who were trying to focus on more tangible things than some butterflies, looked down and finally exhaled, as if returning to reality.

"We find," said one of them, his voice no longer so confident. "Indeed, we find that there is nothing in your bag."

The second policeman handed the bag back to Mark with some kind of formal gesture, as if they were doing some routine work and not trying to catch the man doing something important.

"Yes, we find that nothing illegal was found on you," he added dryly, and both of them, with the same look, completed the search, which apparently did not give them what they expected.

Mark, smiling, carefully picked up his bag. He nodded to them in gratitude for their "efforts," then turned with ease and headed for the exit of the arcade. It was all over, as expected.

As soon as he stepped outside, he noticed a familiar figure in the distance. Paul Buher, a retired mid-level officer and member of the Union of Gabriel the Archangel, was leaning against a pole, watching Mark. His face was tense, and Mark knew immediately that Buher was the one who had set the spies on him. Everything about him suggested that he knew more than he was letting on.

When Mark passed Paul Buher, he couldn't help himself. All the calm he'd hidden in his face vanished, and at that moment he brought his cane down on the pavement with a sharp, furious thud. The sound was loud and metallic, like anger smashing into the quiet of the street. Buher chuckled, his lips twisting into an expression of irritated frustration.

Mark didn't even deign to look at him. His stride remained confident and relaxed, he didn't slow down and continued on his way as if nothing had happened. Inside, he was calm, all these games of Buher and the spies were familiar to him, and he knew that it was not worth wasting energy on reacting to their every move. That was their role in this performance - to follow him, to try to catch him in the act, to search for him, but always to remain one step behind.

Buher, looking at Mark with a vicious gaze, stood like a stone statue for a while longer, his face distorted with hatred, but he could do nothing. His patience was at its limit, but he knew that the moment had not yet come. It was time to move on, and he struck the ground with his cane again, seemingly to regain control of the situation.

After a moment's delay, he turned around and, stepping towards his destination, went about his business. There was no point in lingering without achieving anything. Mark did not turn around, and Buher, with each step, dissolved further and further into the bustle of the city. At that moment, both figures - one walking away, the other retreating with fury on his face - continued their way along equally noisy and indifferent streets.

At this moment, Harey Dunlop walked through the dark and narrow corridors of the Cambridge prison for political prisoners, accompanied by two heavy-set guards. The long passages, cut by barred doors, seemed endless, and her every movement echoed along the stone walls. The ceilings were low, and the dim light that barely penetrated through the high narrow windows barely illuminated these gloomy corridors, adding to the gloomy atmosphere.

Despite her posture, which was inappropriate for this environment, Mark Tempe's ex-wife stood up straight, and only her gaze was clouded, like someone who had been in this place for too long. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit walls, trying not to look at the bars that hid the prisoners' faces. It was not her fault that she was here, but her name was linked to Mark Tempe, and his mistake - a forgotten manuscript with anti-democratic statements - had brought her to this place. She felt herself being drawn into something she could not control, and her heart was growing helpless.

Harey's arms were crossed over her chest, and despite her obvious distaste for her position, she remained calm. Two guards, reserved and silent, walked on either side. One was tall and thin, with sun-beaten skin, the other stocky and round-faced, with heavy steps that echoed in the stone corridor.

Harey did not look back, did not try to leave, even if it was possible. Mark's famous fight with the system seemed far away to her, she did not know what would happen next and was not sure of her own strength. She walked through this long corridor, where the sounds of her footsteps and the clatter of keys in the hands of the guards seemed stifled and alien, like her life here. Imprisonment for her husband's actions, for his ideas, for his words - all this weighed heavily on her, although she herself had never taken part in such matters. One thought sounded in her head: "How did this happen?"

The guards silently led Harey down the narrow corridor. The sounds of their footsteps echoed in the empty, stone walls, and only the weak light coming through the narrow windows illuminated the way. Harey walked without further words, realizing that she had ended up here because of Mark, whose frivolity had put her in a difficult situation. Her soul was mixed with resentment, bitterness, and inexpressible fatigue from everything that had happened. She did not hope for a miracle, but deep down she still harbored the hope that someone in this prison would treat her differently than the others.

The guards didn't say a word, but Harey felt their attention. They moved toward the cell doors, and one of them creaked open. At that moment, the bright light pouring through the window blinded her, and she closed her eyes. In an instant, she was standing in a new cell, feeling as if she were in some other, alien world. The space here was slightly more spacious than in the other rooms, but her gaze did not stop at the surroundings. She was focused on what awaited her here. The cell contained only an office desk and a hard stool opposite it.

There was a man sitting at the table. He was grey-haired, but still quite attractive, with a neatly trimmed moustache. His face retained features that betrayed not only age, but also confidence. His gaze was calm, but somehow unusual for a prison guard - he looked at Harey not as a criminal, but as a person with whom he would have to talk.

"Come in, missis Dunlop," said the man, not standing up, but only bowing his head slightly.

His voice was even, without judgment, which immediately surprised Harey. In this place, where everyone was set exclusively on punishment and submission, his words sounded strange, almost incomprehensible.

Harey took a step forward and, looking around the room, sat down on a stool. The back of her back felt cold from the hard surface of the seat. But despite this, it was much stranger to be here, in this room, where there was not a single chair, not a soft corner, but only a stool and a stern man at the table, who seemed ready to talk to her. This was unusual.

She looked at the man, trying to figure out who he was and what he wanted from her. He didn't say a word, just waited silently for her to sit down.

The guards closed the door behind her with a dull metallic sound that echoed in her ears like another barrier between her and the outside world. The woman did not immediately look up, giving herself a few seconds before asking, "Who are you?" She was not here by choice, but there was one small "but": she still hoped that this man would be someone who would at least not look at her as a criminal devoid of any humanity.

The man finally looked up from the paper he was studying and raised his eyebrows slightly. He then took off his glasses and slowly looked at Harey. His face remained serious, but a softness flashed in his eyes, as if by mistake.

"Allow me to introduce myself, I am Thorn," he said, pronouncing his name with a nuance that seemed to impress in itself. "Appointed to act as your attorney."

Harey couldn't help but let out a bitter smile that immediately crossed her face. An icy thought formed inside her, but she couldn't help but say it out loud:

"Are you a lawyer? For whom? For a life-sentenced prisoner?" she said with a hint of sarcasm, clasping her hands on her knees.

Thorn didn't react to her irony, as if he hadn't noticed her bitterness, but only winced. Then he carefully put on his glasses, which he had taken off before speaking, and continued in a calmer tone:

"Missis Dunlop, do you have a preliminary message?"

Her heart skipped a beat. Harey considered. Should she answer? She felt herself growing heavy under his gaze. She lowered her eyes, as if trying to find answers in her thoughts. In response to Thorn's question, she only said quietly:

"No," she said almost in a whisper, without looking at him.

Thorn looked around again. Harey couldn't tell what he was looking for, but her eyes followed his movements. Suddenly, as if he had decided something, he leaned forward. He placed both hands on the table and lowered his voice, as if he had decided to confide something important to her.

"I have a message of a private nature," he said, holding his gaze on her face so that she could feel the weight of his words.

At these words, Harey raised her head, and her gaze immediately met his. His words passed over her like something important and heavy. Curiosity flared up in her, but also wariness. Who was this man? What was the message?

Thorn, noticing that she was eager to hear more, did not hurry to continue, and suddenly rose from his chair. He took off his glasses and, looking around, added, lowering his voice:

"This is from one persistent middle-aged subject."

The words hung strangely in the air. Harey pressed her lips together slightly, trying to understand what he meant. It took her a moment to realize that this particular message had any bearing on her case, but questions were already flashing through her mind, desperately demanding answers. Who was this man? Why was his message so important to her? And what exactly did he want from her?

Attorney Thorn, glasses in hand, walked slowly toward Harey, unhurriedly and with some unusual circumspection. His steps echoed in the silence of the cell like echoes of something more important. He stood before her, his gaze directed in her direction, but Harey could not understand what was hidden behind this sedate manner. He continued to speak, but his voice sounded in this space as if it were a separate entity, separated from the surroundings.

"This man," he began, without taking his eyes off her, "has shown great diligence in having me convey this verbal statement to you.

Harey was silent. She did not take her eyes off his, but her thoughts were elsewhere. She felt how his words, as if bouncing off her, did not touch her inner essence. There was only one thought in her head - that this man, a lawyer, had nothing to do with me. He saw a life-long prisoner in front of him, and not a person who really needed something.

Attorney Thorn continued to slowly turn his glasses over in his hands, as if they were something important to him, and his gaze never left Harey. The entire moment was consumed by silence, and even the heavy, dull air that filled the space between them seemed part of the inescapable prison. Everything seemed frozen, there was no hope or life in this place, only waiting. But at some point the tension was broken.

"If you can handle it, you will see the Quintans," Thorn suddenly said with a surprisingly strange intonation, as if it wasn't entirely natural for him to say it.

There was more to the lawyer's voice than just a message - it seemed to convey a certain weight of someone else's words, words that could not be his own. And that added a hidden meaning to the words, as if these words belonged to someone who stood behind him, and not only behind him.

And when that sentence was spoken, Harey felt her heart stop for a moment, her gaze frozen. She shuddered, and her face, which had always been tense and tired, showed an inner shift, as if an unexpected spark had burst forth from her heart. It was not just an empty expression, these were not random words spoken at random. Harey realized that these words had weight, and they meant much more than any other phrases she had heard here, in this cell surrounded by bars and walls. For a moment, a spark revived in her soul - a hope that had long been lost.

The word "Quintans" brought her mind back to distant memories, to the days when her life had been filled not only with heavy thoughts and unrealistic hopes, but also with the joy of simple things. She remembered how long ago it had been. Back when her husband, Mark Tempe, was her legal husband, when they lived in their own house with their little daughter Molly, and when Molly had not yet known what separation meant.

Then, when their daughter was three, Mark would sit with her before bed, reading her a story. In the story, there was a musician who had magical creatures called "Quintans" to help him. Harey remembered Mark sitting on her daughter's bed, reading the lines to her, and then, as Molly closed her eyes, saying, "If you can handle it, honey, you will see the Quintans in real life."

Harey had smiled then, thinking it was just a fairy tale, that it was just a moment of tenderness and magic that she and Mark were giving their daughter. But now, sitting in the cell, she suddenly realized that those words were not just a joke or a childish fantasy. They were a message. And then she realized that this strange, anonymous subject through whom Attorney Thorn had conveyed the words about the Quintans to her was Mark himself.

Mark, who had tried so hard to free her, despite his inevitable role in this tragic spectacle. Harey felt the cold and despair that had surrounded her since her arrest momentarily disappear, giving way to warmth. The one who loved her so much, who had been her husband, was now perhaps trying to change something in her life after all. And this lawyer, with his strange words, had become the link.

She looked at Thorn and smiled slightly to herself, as if trying to hide what filled her heart. She spoke quietly, with a barely noticeable note of sadness:

"She will see them."

Thorn, standing next to her stool, continued to twirl his glasses in his hands, not taking his eyes off her. Curiosity flashed in his eyes, and he asked with obvious interest, slightly tilting his head:

"Who is "she"?"

Harey did not answer immediately, but her voice was quiet and calm, with some inner strength that betrayed her confidence:

"Molly."

Thorn frowned, clearly not understanding, and repeated the question, now with a slight puzzlement, as if trying to grasp the meaning of her words:

"Molly? Is this someone you know?"

Harey, smiling, answered without hesitation with a hint of irony, as if emphasizing her fortitude in the face of this strange and cold question:

"This is my daughter."

Her voice was even, but there was a firmness to it, as if she were defending not only her privacy but also what she held dear. For a moment, the room was silent. Thorn stood as if considering her words. And then, hearing her answer, he suddenly laughed-a short, hollow laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, breaking the heavy silence.

Then, leaving her on the stool, he slowly walked back to his desk. Sitting down at the table, he carefully placed his glasses on his nose and, resting his chin on his hand, looked at Harey. Her answer apparently evoked some kind of internal response in him, but instead of sympathy or compassion, his voice was accusatory, almost cynical:

"You are a good mother, missis Dunlop," he said, as if surprised, "if, being sentenced to hard labor on the Charles River, you continue to think of your daughter who is still at large."

Harey watched the lawyer with restraint as he twirled his glasses in his hands and peered at her with an expression as if he were trying to unravel some hidden part of her personality. Everything that was happening around her seemed tense and emotionless, and she couldn't help but feel his cold, professional gaze sliding over her face again and again.

"So you still think about your daughter, despite all this," Thorn said, pausing the rotation of his glasses for a moment.

His words sounded as if he wanted to emphasize that he understood her feelings, but was not entirely attached to them. Harey could not help but smile weakly and say:

"Yes, I think about Molly. But obviously you're saying it's pointless," she said bitterly. "I don't think anyone in this prison would be able to think about anything other than how to survive. And you, the lawyer, seem to care more about yourself than about my case."

Thorn didn't answer right away, as if considering how to respond to her harsh words. He pushed up his glasses again and paused.

"I'm here to help you, missis Dunlop," he said, showing no emotion. "And if you want, I'll try to make your situation change. Don't look at me like a wolf.

Harey, laughing a little in her soul at the cynicism of his words, leaned back on the stool and looked at him with obvious distrust.

"You want to help me? Don't you think your approach is a bit like playing advocatus diaboli?" she blurted out, sarcasm evident. "You're here to manipulate me, to make me believe that I can get out of these stinking walls. But in reality, it's all empty promises."

Thorn paused for a moment, as if surprised by her directness. Then, without changing his expression, he answered somewhat calmly:

"Is it so bad to be the devil's advocate? In our work, we often have to defend people who cannot defend themselves. And I may not do what you think is right. I only give you the opportunity to choose."

Harey felt her irritation growing. This man, this lawyer with his cold tone and elegant words, seemed to her the embodiment of the whole merciless system that kept her in a cage.

"You are not a lawyer. You find excuses to continue playing by rules that are designed to be lost. And you want me to believe that something will change in my destiny?" she said, her voice growing more and more firm.

Thorn smiled slightly, noticing her wariness, and, slowly placing his glasses on the table, said:

"Maybe," his voice was calm, but with a hint of sarcasm. "But you should remember that even in this place, in this prison, there is power. Because if you are still here and have not lost faith, then there is a chance for change."

Harey was silent for a long time, trying to suppress her inner unrest. But at some point, her determination broke through again.

"Perhaps," she replied, clenching her fists, "but I'm not going to trust you, mister Thorn. I don't want to build up false hope."

Thorn visibly sighed, as if he realized that he couldn't avoid discussing serious issues. He reluctantly returned to the topic he had just briefly broached. He took off his glasses and placed them on the table, looking at Harey as if she were a riddle he still had to solve.

"As for these 'Quintans,'" he began, pretending that he was genuinely interested in the question, "I don't know who they are, of course. But that persistent individual I told you about asked me to convey these words to you verbatim. So, no matter how you look at it, I had no choice."

His voice sounded different now, softer, with a hint of sincerity, almost good-natured. It was as if he was trying to change the atmosphere in the room, perhaps hoping that the enigmatic words would somehow freshen things up.

"I'll be honest," Thorn continued, trying to smooth over his previous reserve, "I don't even understand what these 'Quintans' could mean. Perhaps it's some kind of secret password or... well, maybe a some kind of sign, The Omen," he shrugged his shoulders slightly, "but the point is that these words are absolutely meaningless, and I can't claim that they mean anything to me."

Harey grinned and looked at him, feeling a slight sense of irony rise in her chest. She couldn't help but notice how the lawyer was trying to get out of the situation, albeit by feigning some kind of mystery. His intonation and demeanor were clearly trying to hide his obvious uneasiness. Harey responded with a smile, not giving the words more meaning than they deserved.

"I see," she said, turning away her gaze, "for you this phrase is really completely absurd, isn't it?"

Thorn looked up again and shook his head, realizing that this conversation had not set the right tone to keep her attention on the serious issues. He stood up, walked slowly to the window, and, putting his glasses back on, continued in a more philosophical tone:

"If this is indeed a password, it is certainly a very strange one. And the person who asked me to give it to you apparently did not take the time to think it through. It is simply... absurd."

Harey remained silent, watching his movements as he stood by the window. She did not hide a slight smile, as if her return to this absurd conversation gave her some pleasure. And then, after a few seconds of silence, she finally said:

"What if it's just a fairy tale?" she suggested, as if that were actually the simplest explanation.

After Harey's question, Thorn's face became strange, as if he couldn't believe what he had just heard. His eyebrows rose and for a moment his gaze became invisible, he was focused in his thoughts, trying to comprehend the unexpected remark.

"Holy Moly, missis Dunlop," he said, as if amazed at her ease of thought. "Who writes such tales?" His voice sounded genuinely puzzled, almost with a note of comic horror.

He paused, as if his thoughts were still dragging on, searching for an answer. Without hurrying, he continued, after a while of silence and with an obvious desire to bring at least some clarity:

"One of two things," he said with a tone of conviction, "either a tale with words like 'Quintans' could have been written by a madman, or..."

Thorn didn't finish speaking because Harey, unable to bear the pause, interrupted him, as if holding back her smile.

"A musician," she said with a slight ironic smile, as if it was all just a play on words.

Thorn paused, his eyes widening slightly, and he held his breath for a moment, taken aback by the quick response. His gaze darted from Harey to her calm face, and for a moment he thought he didn't understand what the woman meant. He tried to find the words to respond, but they came to nothing.

"Yes," he said, hesitantly, but with obvious relief, as if he suddenly realized that arguing with her in this case would be useless. He raised his hands in a small gesture of surrender. "Yes."

Harey smiled silently, feeling that her guess was correct. She leaned back lightly on the stool, continuing:

"I hope you know," she said with a slight smile, "what a 'Quinta' is. It is a musical interval between two notes, the fifth step on the scale. It is between the first and fifth notes in the diatonic scale. It sounds harmonious, clear and stable.

Thorn nodded silently, slightly surprised by her thoughts. A slight puzzlement flashed in his eyes, but he did not object.

"The individual who asked me to convey these words to you," he said in a restrained and calm tone, "did not strike me as a strange or eccentric person. On the contrary, he seemed quite reasonable, if you don't count his persistence."

Harey, listening to him, looked at the lawyer with an expression that, if it could be put into words, would say: "Do you really believe what you are saying?" Her eyes became a little harder, but then a slight smile appeared on her face. She did not rush to answer, and remained silent for a while, giving Thorn time to think.

"Yes, we obviously underestimate this man," she finally said in a quiet but confident voice.

Attorney Thorn looked at Harey with obvious surprise, as if trying to decipher the hidden meaning of her words. The woman's answer was a complete surprise to him, and a slight puzzlement flickered across his face.

But Harey ignored it, continuing to stare at the cell window. Bright rays of sunlight filtered through the bars, and she felt them symbolize freedom, like an unrealizable promise of escape. But deep down, she knew that this light was as unattainable as her daughter Molly, who was far away, on the other side of the Charles River.