“Thanks Will,” Matt said.

They’d arrived in the usual rush of sound and sulphur on a dull green lawn, a grey and overcast sky having replaced the open blue, making it feel as if there’d been an unnatural drop in daylight. Matt shivered, the sudden onset of wind picking at his skin through his coat sleeves, and glanced to his left at the segmented stairs leading up to the old sandstone building they’d teleported in front of. The steel handrail through the middle of the stairs was new. The brown walls, stained with creepers, were not.

“This the place?” asked Will, raising an eyebrow. He glanced around at the prickly lawns and dull, single-story houses spread along the streets, seeming sceptical. Matt waved his concerns away without looking, reading the words stencilled into stone above the building’s door.

Coal Point Civic Centre.

“This is it,” he assured him.

The teleporter’s brow furrowed. “And… what exactly are you looking for again?”

“I told you,” Matt muttered, “Just info. Besides,” he paused and gazed up at the building, “I’ve got a feeling about this place.”

“Oh,” said Will, his eyes widening, “You mean like you’ve had a vision?”

“Yeah,” replied Matt. Close enough.

He’d said it more for dramatic effect than anything, but the strange thing was, as Matt glanced at their surroundings, there was something funny about this town – something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. The streets were quiet save for the wind’s rustling, despite it being nearly midday, the sidewalks empty, the roads devoid of cars. Everywhere he turned, Matt saw signs of disuse and desertion, brown grass, rusted chain-link fences, paint peeling from houses. The odd signs of life – the flashing of a TV screen reflected in a window, a clean American flag fluttering on a flagpole in a yard – said the town was still inhabited, but overall it felt like a ghost town whose townsfolk hadn’t realised they were supposed to leave. A nowhere place, not forgotten because it had never been worth remembering in the first place.

Matt turned over his shoulder, glancing at the teleporter. “You don’t need to hang around,” he assured him.

Will shrugged. “You sure?”

“Yeah, I don’t know how long this will take. I could be a while.”

“Alright well, you’ve got my number. Holler when you’re done.”

“Awesome. Thanks again.”

“Don’t mention it.”

They slapped hands and Will vanished in a puff of sulphurous smoke.

For a few moments, Matt stood watching the fumes twist in the wind. Once they’d disappeared into nothingness he turned back towards the Civic Centre, hands in his pockets, and trudged silently up the stairs.

A small bell tinkled somewhere as Matt pushed open the heavy wooden doors. The building opened into a small foyer leading to a pair of glass dividers, beyond which Matt could see many rows of brown, book-laden shelves. Matt moved through into the next room and a pair of old eyes behind large-framed spectacles glanced up at him from behind a counter.

“Can I help you dear?” asked the woman – a kind-looking, flabby lady in her early-sixties with a dull pink cardigan, a number of large rings on either hand, and a small jewelled ladybug pinned proudly above her right breast. She was sitting behind an ancient yellowed computer which looked to Matt’s eyes like it still ran on punch cards, with a ‘Famous’ magazine sprawled open to this week’s horoscopes across her keyboard.

“Yes please,” replied Matt, with the same nice-young-man smile he used for his grandparents, “Matt Callaghan, clairvoyant. I wonder if you could help me. I’m looking for the library. Or the town archives.”

“One and the same here dearie,” Gladys (her name was printed in large, faded font on a plastic‑paper name-tag pinned opposite the beetle) answered with a kind smile, “Gladys Hardy, elasticiser. Had to move them all after the mildew got into the records room a few years back.” She gestured a soft, wrinkled finger at the rows of shelves. “Do you need to find anything in particular?”

“Well, yes actually,” Matt crooned, twisting his hands bashfully behind his back, “If it’s not too much bother. I’m from-” he shot a quick glance around the deserted room, then leaned in, shielding his mouth with his hand, “-the Legion of Heroes,” he whispered, and Matt was pleased to see some excitement light up the old lady’s eyes. “On behalf of Captain Dawn.”

“Ooh, well,” she flustered, shuffling in her seat.

“And,” continued Matt, leaning in and dropping his voice even further, as if this was a great secret only the two of them could know, “I’m actually organising his a surprise party for his birthday.”

“Oh my,” fawned Gladys, her cheeks flushing beneath a layer of powder, “How exciting.”

“Yeah,” said Matt, straightening back up, “He’s going to be sixty, you know.”

“Oh!” she gasped, putting a pudgy hand to her lips, “That old?”

“Yeah,” Matt answered again, still smiling patiently, “I’ve been looking into his history, for speeches, maybe a slideshow. And so I thought what better place to start than at the beginning?”

“Oh-ho-ho,” Gladys chortled, wagging a ringed-finger, “You have been doing your homework.” She gazed up at Matt with a sly grin, which Matt returned.

“He grew up here, didn’t he?” he asked, already knowing the answer.

“That he did dear, that he did,” confirmed the librarian, “Our most famous resident, and that’s counting Mrs Gordon, whose Pekinese placed best in show three years running at state,” she added, looking over her glasses and sounding completely serious.

Matt heroically managed to overcome his monumental curiosity regarding Mrs Gordon’s showdog. “And he went to school here too?”

“Yes indeed, Coal Point Public School, just down the road, all the way through.” She paused, resting a finger on her chin. “I’m surprised we don’t get more visitors really. But I suppose this was all back before he was famous.”

Matt struggled to keep his excitement from showing. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance you’d have any old school records?” he asked – but to his dismay Gladys’s old, wrinkled face, formerly uplifted, was touched by a shadow of sadness.

“I wish I did my dear, I wish I did. But the records were kept in the old school building, and it burnt down a few years ago.” She shook her head sadly, the chain on her glasses lightly tinkling. “All the trophies, all the photographs. So many years, so many memories, burnt to ash.” Matt’s shoulders slumped, the familiar hollow feeling of disappointment spreading out over what moments ago had been optimism.

“What happened?” he asked glumly – although at this point, what did it even matter?

Gladys sighed. “Some local kids, we think, though they never caught anyone. You know how those old asbestos building are dear – by the time anybody realised what was happening, there wasn’t much that could be done.” She sniffed. “Such a shame.”

“Yeah,” Matt agreed, a glum lump in his throat. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. “So there was nothing left?”

“No,” the librarian commiserated sadly, “Everything burnt up.”

“And you wouldn’t happen to know the names of any of Captain Dawn’s old classmates, would you? Anybody he knew back in the day?” Matt asked, abandoning all pretence, already knowing the answer. Gladys shook her head again.

“I’m not sure who was with him. I moved here after he left I’m afraid,” she told him, “By then, he was all grown up. Up and off to save the world, never looked back. Bless him,” she added kindly, “Him and that lovely wife of his. Both so busy, they never even got a chance to stop by. Well, that’s the price you pay for being a superhero. You have to leave your old home behind.”

“Yeah,” sighed Matt, neither agreeing nor caring. Another dead end. He turned to leave. “Well, thanks anyway for your time.”

“Hold on a moment dear,” called Gladys, before he could reach the door. Matt glanced back over his shoulder and saw the old woman’s face suddenly light up. His heart jumped to his throat.

“Yes?” he asked, his hand mid-way to the exit, not daring to hope.

“Well,” pondered the librarian, her old face creased in thought, “There’s nothing left from the school, but if it’s names you’re after… I think… give me a moment…” She reached out her right arm, which began lengthening, snaking like wrinkled plasticine out across the room and through the dusty shelves. Matt watched with bated breath as her elastic limb disappeared between the rows – waiting for what felt like an eternity until it finally returned, un-stretching back along the same path with a worn crimson book clasped in her hand.

“Here you go love. This should be it I think.” She held the cover out away from her eyes, peering through her glasses, her arm returned to its normal length. “Ah yes, that’s the one. This is an old yearbook – nineteen fifty-nine, if I’m not mistaken.” Gladys smiled up at him and held out the red leather-bound volume. “His year, I think.”

Matt almost whooped. His hands closed around the yearbook and it took all the restraint he had not to yank it from the old lady’s grasp. His fingers thumbed, shaking, through the pages. “I thought you said the school burnt down?”

“Oh, that’s not from the school dear. That was old Janice Carlton’s – she was assistant principal at one time or another. They found it in her house after the stroke – apparently she’d held onto it, after all these years.” Gladys sighed, looking wistfully across at the shelves. “It must have had a lot of fond memories.”

Matt barely heard her. He was flicking through the pages, photograph after photograph, sepia images of sports teams, line dances, community balls… until finally he found it. There. A group of twenty or so young men and women, all suits and skirts and smiles, seated and standing around their headmaster – not much older than he was now, it struck him, though the photo seemed worlds away. But it didn’t matter, because even after all this time, even after more than forty years, there was still one face Matt recognised, broad and beaming, standing tall amongst them. Even if he hadn’t been studying him so fervently, even if he’d never seen him in person, there was no mistaking-

The young Captain Dawn.

Matt’s heart skipped a beat.

“Thank you,” he murmured. He forced himself to tear his eyes away from the picture and back to Gladys, not believing his luck. “Thank you so much.”

The old woman’s face shone. “You’re most welcome young man. I really hope it helps.”

“Me too,” Matt whispered. His eyes dropped back to the picture, and Matt had to fight the urge to take the yearbook and run. “Do you know where I can find any of these people?” he asked eagerly.

“Oh well, I should think so,” she replied happily, “We’re only a small town here. Let me take a look.” Matt placed the open yearbook down in front of her.

“Which one did you want dearie?”

“How about him?” Matt asked eagerly, pointing at the man to Captain Dawn’s left.

“Dennis Hooper,” said Gladys, peering at the grinning freckly man through her spectacles, “Lovely man. A miner born and bred Dennis – poor soul. Black lung got him almost a decade ago.”

“The girl next to him?” Matt pressed, mentally crossing Dennis off the list.

“Oh, Emilia Sparrow,” replied the librarian, “My gosh she was beautiful. But she died long ago dear, caught up in all that unpleasantness when we were adjusting to the new world.”

“The Year of Chaos,” Matt acknowledged, slightly impatient. He pointed to the next along, a fit, ruggedly handsome man with light scruffy hair.

Gladys let out a sudden laugh. “Why, that’s Willy Harkness!” she chuckled, “Dear heaven, didn’t recognise him that thin. Oh no dear, he passed away a few years back, heart attack. Butter in the veins and a vacuum for a mouth that one.”

“Those two,” she continued without any prompting, “The Nikatos brothers. The Year of Chaos took them too I’m afraid. Dear me,” she paused, looking at Matt with a kind smile, “We’re not doing well at finding party guests, are we?”

“No…” murmured Matt. His eyebrows furrowed slightly.

“Her?” he asked, pointing to the far corner of the group, away from the Captain.

“Tracey Holt. Lived three doors down from me actually. A terrible shame what happened, aneurysm at her age.”

“Him?”

“Jacob Davies. Crushed underneath his tractor, silly fool, only a few years past.” Gladys shook her head. “Farming is a young man’s game.”

“Her?”

“Oh well that’s his wife. She’s gone now too, bless her soul.” Gladys pursed her lips. “Always a bit of a drinker, that one,” she continued with some reluctance, “And oh, she took Jake’s death very hard. Poor dear. Wrapped her car around a tree.”

“Him?”

“That is…” Gladys leaned in, peering at the short man with glasses in the back row, “Oh, I believe that’s Martin Brown. Now, he’s not around these parts any longer. I believe he moved to trade shares or some such down in Austin.”

“That’s fine,” Matt said, feeling relieved. He pulled a pencil and notepad out of his back pocket. “I’m sure I can find him, do you know whereabouts-?” But he stopped mid-way through his sentence as Gladys shook her head.

“Sad story, old Martin,” she said, “He was quite the talk of the town for some time, for some spinsters. The one who got away. Made quite a lot of money, I heard. But then invested it all in those… what’s-you-ma-call-it’s, in the mid-nineties. Lost everything. Poor man.” She shook her head. “Hung himself in his bedroom. Couldn’t take the loss.”

Matt stared, dumbfounded, at the yearbook picture.

“Gladys,” he said slowly, resisting the urge to pepper his words with profanities, “Is there anyone in this picture who’s actually still alive?”

“Well now,” the old librarian replied, squinting and adjusting her glasses with stumpy fingers, “Let me see. Caitlin Alba, well she was Captain Dawn’s wife, everyone knows what happened to her. Glenn Turner, no, he barely made fifty, but that’s just the way of things, his family all went young to stroke. Patty Leech, heart attack – rumour is it doctors had her meds tuned wrong. The Wallaces, their house caught fire a few years ago, poor devils… Mr and Mrs Kneebone, they headed the Bridge Society, but that was a sad story… her going crazy like that, taking a gun to them both… hmm…”

Gladys’s old grey eyes flickered from person to person, her head bent so close to the page her nose almost touched the paper. “You know, now that you mention it, I don’t think there is. Apart from the Captain, of course. Oh dear, that is disheartening. I’m so sorry. What a shame.”

A funny feeling was beginning to creep over Matt. Scraps and seeds, a slow, primordial stew of an idea, churning around in his head, slowly convalescing into something – but no. That couldn’t be. That was insane. Slowly, he drew back the yearbook, his fingers cold amongst the pages.

“Gladys,” he said quietly, looking down at the picture in his hands, “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for one more favour.”

“Of course dearie,” smiled the librarian, oblivious to his thoughts.

“Could I see the town records? The births and deaths, the property lists… anything about the people living here. Who they were, where they lived. From about…” he did the math, “…1940 onwards.”

Gladys blinked behind her glasses. “Oh well, that’s quite a lot of paper dear, are you sure you want-”

“If it’s not too much trouble,” Matt murmured, still transfixed by the yearbook. By the faces of the entire class of people grinning out at him. None of whom could ever look back.

Save one.

“Well okay dear,” the old lady said, shoulders shrugging underneath her cardigan, both arms stretching out towards the shelves, “Why don’t you take a seat at that table there? I’ll bring them over.”

“Thank you,” replied Matt, his eyes following, hard and distant, as the librarian’s hands snaked through all that remained of Coal Point’s history.