Of Crab Tins and Diamonds

Chapter 5: Of Bombshells and Tickle Fights

Red.

It was everywhere.

On the ground, on the wall, and spreading across the ceiling like a virus. A single boy stared, thunderstruck at the fiery destruction raging like a wild animal around him. It rumbled and hissed as it unfurled across the carpet, the old patch of cloth catching alight in a flash of orange and yellow. Standing up in his crib, the red-haired toddler wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell of smoke, finding it hard to call out for his still sleeping parents.

In fact, with every second, it was getting harder and harder to catch his breath.

Everything was getting slow.

Fuzzy.

Warm.

BANG!

With a gust of hot air, the door to the bedroom swung open, the boy catching sight of the dark figure standing in the door frame.

Gasping, a woman, her face and clothes smothered in ash, rushed over to the oblivious child, coughing as she accidentally inhaled a large lungful of smoke.

Quickly, she scooped the half-conscious lad in her arms, the boy still clinging tightly to a dingy, once white, stuffed animal resting in his crib. Eyes watering too much to make out her features, the boy, now realizing the urgency of the situation, buried his face into her shoulder, a fearful sob escaping his shaking, coughing form.

With a gentle hand, she soothed his unruly hair, speaking muffled words of encouragement as the woman turned back the way she came, dodging the licking flames as best as she could.

They never made it.

Without warning, the boys terrified shrieks rendered the air as the damaged floorboards finally gave way, sending the woman and child headfirst into the gaping hole and the spiraling nothingness below.

That's when Tintin woke up with a start.

With beads of sweat lining his pale, clammy, face, the young reporter quickly realized he wasn't in the burning house.

He was riding on a local bus towards Marlinspike.

He was in one piece.

With a sigh, Tintin leaned back in his chair, slowly calming his jittering nerves as he took in his surroundings. Not much was going on. A few scattered passengers sat in the squashed space, the bus steadily bumping over the potholes littered across the dusty road. An elderly woman who sat toward the front, steadily worked a pair of knitting needles in her frail hands, her large brimmed hat obscuring her facial features as she concentrated intently on her next masterpiece. Next, a professor, (presumably a professor, Tintin had no way of telling) with his glasses sitting atop of his forehead, rested in the back of the bus, his calloused hand placed carefully over a stack of papers in his lap to keep them from fluttering away. Finally, across the aisle from Tintin, a father and son dozed in their seats, the fathers large hand resting atop of the boys head rested securely in his lap.

Silently, Tintin felt himself grow a little jealous of the sleeping pair - gifted with the experience of peaceful sleep. As long as he could remember, Tintin always had the same lurid nightmare, the dream springing up like a wound trap at random parts of his life, the young man jokingly calling it the "Jack-in-the-box" nightmare. No matter how long it had been since it last occurred, every detail, every result, was exactly the same: the monstrous fire, the featureless woman, the abyss...

After all these years, he thought he'd destroyed that wind-up nightmare...

Granted, the amount of times he had seen it when he was older paled in comparison in how frequently he'd seen the dream many years ago, leaving the young Tintin fighting with the invisible flames, the sweaty sheets. With a crash, his adoptive father would come barreling in to see the lad had fallen out of bed, paper white and shaking with fear. Haddock would waste no time to gather him up in his strong arms, rocking and reassuring the startled lad everything was alright.