Enormity

by Nick Milligan

  “So either way I’m still going to die?” I ask.

  “Exactly. A peaceful overdose is no longer an option.”

  “Okay,” I nod, sheepishly. “That seems fair.”

  When studying the military technology on Heaven, I read an essay on the evolution of the Bandoff 240 and its mechanics and design. While it’s quite an advanced weapon by this planet’s standards, one flaw is that you can’t fire while you’re switching between ammunition. The bolt has to be locked into either setting and it takes one whole second to flip its position.

  As Michael’s hand moves to the bolt and his thumb pushes against the switch, I lob the bag of powder at him. By the time it reaches my attacker it has become a thick white cloud. The potent narcotic covers his chest and face and he instinctively drops the barrel and raises his spare hand to his eyes. When he attempts to lift the weapon again to shoot in my direction, nothing happens for the poor bastard. The air fills with the desperate sound of him clicking the useless trigger. I run at him and launch myself, planting one foot in his chest and the other in his crotch. McCarthy sprawls back on to the shoulder of the road.

  The meteor, which I know will turn to a paste when in contact with even a small amount of moisture, has clogged in his nostrils, mouth and eyes. I bring my foot down hard on his stomach and it winds him. His hands move to his body to protect himself. Now that McCarthy is blinded I bring my foot down on his neck, breaking his windpipe. The night fills with his guttural howls as the severity of his injury dawns on him. He is now going to die. While he can no longer talk, I know he can hear me as he desperately gargles for air.

  I kneel down next to him. “That is for being a motherfucker.”

  McCarthy’s only consolation is that the drug will enter his system quickly and the pain will drift away. He deserves worse.

  I locate the jeep’s ignition keys from the belt of the driver’s incapacitated body and re-enter the vehicle. The wheels spin on the loose gravel at the road’s edge as I accelerate. I’m going to pay Brannagh a visit at his apartment. But first I need to make a brief detour.

  Brannagh opens the front door. This means he is alone.

  “Jack! What a lovely surprise.”

  “Marty,” I reply, smiling as I step past him and walk over to his lounge area. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “No, you know I’m a nocturnal creature. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” he asks, closing the door and following me.

  I just chuckle, placing my large black leather case on his coffee table.

  “Jack,” says Brannagh. “You don’t seem yourself. Are you fine?”

  “I’m grand. I have my arms and legs. Nor am I covered in banal tattoos.”

  “Oh,” says Brannagh. “Well, yes. You are special, Jack.”

  “Everyone listens to you, don’t they,” I say.

  “In what sense?” he asks.

  “Your gift is the ability to sell. You’re a salesman.”

  “I suppose,” smiles Brannagh, flattered. “But I don’t trick anyone into wanting something. I’m just very good at working out what people already want but don’t realise.”

  I sit on one of his sofas. “Two of those things that you know people need are beliefs and emotional connections. People don’t want to think that they’re born and that they die and that in the spectrum of existence they don’t mean anything. But if people do accept that, then they want to leave a mark. They want to be something beyond their death.”

  Brannagh grins. “It seems you’ve not come here for a casual exchange.”

  “I suppose not.”

  “I should fix us a drink,” he replies, walking over to his kitchen.

  “I’m not staying very long.”

  “Oh,” says Brannagh, opening one of the cupboards in his open kitchen, “I hope you don’t mind me imbibing on my own.”

  “I’ve developed more of an awareness of your whole operation,” I say, pressing forward. I’m sure I don’t have long here before Natalie and her cronies arrive.

  “Operation?” he says, over his shoulder.

  “It seems the best description,” I reply.

  “Well I’ve told you all about it,” he replies. “What your ancestors will bring to our planet is very exciting. These are special times.”

  “I’m going to be very brief in my assessment,” I say. “And this is my final assessment.”

  “Assessment?”

  “You told me a fabricated story that weaves elements of fiction and some basic theological references.”

  Brannagh turns to face me. He’s pouring a spirit into his glass. He then places the bottle on the kitchen counter and sips from his glass. His expression is difficult to read.

  “But you didn’t tell me the majority of what you were up to,” I continue. “You omitted the mutilations, which seems a rather large omission. You’ve tricked people and exploited their fears and their trust. You’ve exploited their love of me and my music. But why?” I ask, rhetorically.

  “I’m intrigued to hear your theory,” says Brannagh.

  “Why wouldn’t you tell me everything you’re doing if you genuinely believed that I am the harbinger of some ancient race of winged demon creatures? The answer is simple. It’s all bullshit.”

  “Don’t say nonsense,” says Brannagh. “I believe every word of what I told you.”

  “Then it occurred to me,” I continue, “that you could only have one motivation.”

  Brannagh just listens.

  “Money,” I say. “Money pouring in through the turnstiles at your gallery. I read recently that the Marioneta de Carne exhibition has drawn twice as many people as your previous highest-selling exhibition. Ticket sales haven’t slowed. It’s rolling in. You can never underestimate the human’s capacity for morbid curiosity. So, who cares if you butcher some drug addicts to make a new exhibition? Just tattoo and cut up a few girls I’ve slept with. You could be forgiven if you were genuinely some kind of religious fanatic, but your evil presents itself in a very calm, calculated and brazen manner.”

  “That’s quite an assessment,” says Brannagh. “And it’s a compelling explanation. Shame it’s from a drug-addled rock star.”

  “If you’ve dismissed me as a zombie, then you have made a grave mistake.”

  Brannagh smiles but, unlike his trademark mask of charm and humour, it’s almost as if he’s grimacing. “So you’re judge and jury now, Jack? You’re the man that has broken nearly every law in our fair legal system.”

  “I’m not here to pass judgement on myself. I acknowledge that in some ways I’m every bit as evil as you. But it’s my motivation that will likely be my saviour. Every crime I commit I will live with.”

  Brannagh takes a long gulp of his drink. “The government has seized Godiva.”

  “I know.”

  “You were there, weren’t you.”

  “Sure was.”

  “And that whore Natalie... she’s not who she says she is…” says Brannagh, now palpable anger tightening in his throat.

  “She’s very convincing… don’t flagellate yourself too hard.”

  Brannagh finishes his drink and hurls the glass against one of the kitchen cupboards across from him. Shards scatter around the room. His only physical outburst. He continues to stand there, eyes on the ground and his gnarled fists gripping the top of the counter.

  “Are they outside right now?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I reply.

  Brannagh stares at me and for the first time I can see his expression slipping. His social prosthesis has peeled at its edges and underneath I can see what all his wealth and power has brought him. Coldness. Detachment. Indifference. Somewhere a switch flipped and innocent people became bags of money.

  As I look at him now I realise that Martin Brannagh is the unavoidable by-product of utopia. A perfect world is fertile soil for chaos. Heaven’s peaceful nature is as much a regime as a violent dictatorship. Someone will want to destroy it just because th
ey can. Brannagh is the symptom of the universe. So am I.

  “Jack, I don’t know how you can accuse me of being such a monster. What have I done that’s so wrong? I played with the lives of people who were so hateful toward their existence that they chose fantasy over reality. They have the same dreams as you and I, but they don’t have the talent and the process to squeeze anything more from this world. They’ve skipped and bounced through life until they’ve found themselves in a room. They scratch at the walls, looking for a door. An exit. But the only way forward is through a little window called Narc. I’ve allowed them to find perfection. To transcend the confines of their flesh.”

  I absorb Brannagh’s disturbing outlook from the comfort of his world-class sofa. I’m lost for words. His thoughts seem to play on my skin, unsettling me.

  “I brought you something,” I say after an extended heavy pause, and reach over to the large leather case in front of me. As my hands near the latch, an excited scratch comes from within. An anticipatory scamper. “It’s the perfect gift for someone as righteously fucked up as you are.”

  Brannagh sees the case rock slightly as I unbuckle the shiny gold latches.

  “You don’t have Mr Roeg in there, do you?” smiles Brannagh. A joke, perhaps designed to hide the creeping fingers of concern.

  “Not exactly.”

  I flip open the leather case and nothing happens. I glance over at Brannagh and he’s now watching intently. His brow furrows. The suspense has taken a hold of me too. I force a deep, calming breath and relax back into the sofa.

  His eyes shift between the case and I. But then they fix on the case as two long spindle legs rise through the opening and slowly fold over the sides. Then two more and two more. Legs rise into the air like black twigs growing from the ground in high speed. Brannagh’s eyes widen in horror. By the time the bodies of the two arachnids have appeared and are lowering themselves to the coffee table and then down to the floor, Brannagh is frozen.

  “On my planet, Marty, we call it arachnophobia.”

  The two arachnids are no longer in Brannagh’s sight. From his vantage point, their slow, careful pacing is obscured by his sofa and the kitchen’s island bench. But I can see them, their eight legs rippling from their bodies like a piece of engineering with a thousand moving parts. Brannagh pulls a knife from a block on his counter, but it won’t do him a lot of good. They’re too fast and too deadly. Arachnids are finely tuned killing machines. I walk over to the sliding glass doors that open on to Brannagh’s giant balcony and push them apart slightly. I promised the arachnids a means of escape.

  “These are younger arachnids,” I tell Brannagh. “Not only could I fit two of them in the case, but they actually have larger appetites than the fully grown.”

  It’s macabre of me to watch the spiders attack Brannagh but I am, after all, only human. Who am I to intervene in nature? He swings at one of them with the knife but his glancing blow doesn’t leave a mark on the hardened shell of the creature. Their fangs are sharp and administer their paralytic venom instantly. Once the two arachnids are latched on him, he howls and moans before sliding to the floor.

  He is very much alive as they drain him of his bodily fluids. They drink everything and it’s in their interests to keep his heart beating for as long as possible. He can’t move. His eyes look to the ceiling. If he could shift them, I’m sure he would glare. Aim his fury and betrayal at me. Willing me to die. But it is now Brannagh’s time to die and I’m glad that it is drawn out and that he has this opportunity to blame himself. I doubt he takes it. The pain is probably preventing him from any rational summation of his failings as a human being.

  One of the spiders is wrapped on his neck. The other on his inner thigh. Their legs grip him in an unbreakable vice. Once it is clear that he will die, I walk toward the door.

  “Bye Marty,” I say, and lock the apartment behind me.

  I enter the elevator and choose level three, rather than the ground floor. I want to avoid Natalie and her government cronies, who I’m sure are waiting outside the building. At level three I head up the corridor to the fire escape and enter the cold, grey stairwell, descending to the downstairs carpark. I tread softly past the expensive vehicles until I find a fire exit. It opens on to the main street. The footpath is busy and I instinctively raise a hand to hide my face, pretending to scratch my forehead. I glance up the street to my right and I can see some conspicuous plain-clothed agents standing on either side of the road. Directly across from the building’s entrance is a plain, white van. I’m confident that Natalie is sitting inside it, orchestrating Brannagh’s arrest.

  An unheard signal is given and I watch all the agents turn and head into the building, pushing between pedestrians and dodging traffic as they pour across the road. I turn and briskly head in the opposite direction, keeping my face averted from pedestrians. I glance back long enough to see an approaching taxi with its vacancy light illuminated. I step to the edge of the road and wave it down. It stops. I jump in the back and instruct the forty-something driver to take me to my apartment. He recognises me.

  “Are you…?” he asks, accelerating back into the traffic.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “I love your music,” he says. “Wow. This is a massive honour.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “I was actually just listening to one of your records.”

  “Which one?” I ask.

  “Nothing Past The Balls,” replies the driver.

  “Excellent,” I reply. “I let my guitarist name that album.”

  “Dylan? He’s amazing. A genius,” says the driver.

  “He’s very talented,” I say.

  “I know you guys are very famous, but I still think he’s incredibly underrated.”

  “Yeah… he really flies under the radar.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  The flashes of cameras blink in a white barrage as I ascend the red carpet that leads up the steps to the Walkley Gallery. Jennifer Fox is linked to my arm, wearing a low-cut, strapless black dress. Jennifer and I are not strictly an item, but we fool around and go to a lot of parties together. We both receive a lot more column inches if we hold hands on the red carpet of big openings such as this.

  Inside the grand foyer guests greet each other. Waiters tray champagne and cocktails. I take an elixir for Jennifer and myself.

  “Thank you, kind sir,” smiles Jennifer, chinking her glass against my own.

  “Is tonight going to be boring?” I ask. “What’s your vibe?”

  Jennifer smiles and looks around. “There’s a lot of ancient pieces here. Lots of fossils.”

  “You’re not talking about the exhibits,” I smile.

  “Very perceptive,” smiles Jennifer. “No, tonight I think we’ll have to make our own fun.”

  We follow the red carpet through the giant corridors of the gallery until we arrive at the room that holds the new exhibition. There are a few hundred people loitering around the room, chatting and laughing, elixirs in hand. No one pays much attention to the artworks. Schmooze central.

  Then I hear a familiar voice behind me.

  “Well if it isn’t two of my all-time favourites,” says Martin Brannagh, strolling over to Jennifer and I. My date gives him a warm smile and they kiss each other on the cheek. “My favourite rock star,” smiles Brannagh, shaking my hand warmly.

  “Marty, you look fantastic,” I smile.

  “Hey, don’t sound so surprised!” he laughs.

  Normally Brannagh is dressed like an eastern mystic, draped in white flowing silk and jewellery, but he’s looking quite dapper this evening in a tuxedo.

  “How is your evening?” I ask him.

  “Very well,” he says. “I mean, these sorts of gatherings can be a little dry, but you have to make your own fun.”

  “That’s exactly what I just said,” laughs Jennifer.

  “Miss Fox, I know I say this every time I see you, but you really are the most dangerously attractive creatu
re I have ever seen,” says Brannagh.

  “Marty, please,” says Jennifer, playfully slapping him on the shoulder. “I’ll blush.”

  At this moment a brunette woman walks over to Brannagh and taps him on the upper arm. She has caramel-coloured skin, full red lips and seductive eyes. She’s wearing a figure-hugging red lace dress with cleavage shaped by the devil.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, Mr Brannagh, but our guest of honour has arrived. You said you wanted to meet him?”

  “Oh yes!” says Brannagh. “Thank you.” Then gesturing to Jennifer and I he says, “Jennifer, Jack, this is Natalie. She is an assistant to the head curator here.”

  “Hi, it’s an honour to meet you both,” smiles Natalie, extending her hand.

  “Pleasure,” Jennifer and I say as we each shake her hand.

  “Natalie, I won’t be more than a minute behind you,” says Brannagh.

  Natalie smiles politely and disappears into the crowd.

  “Wow,” says Jennifer. “She was stunning.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” I say. “She’s a perfect specimen.”

  “Don’t get me started,” says Brannagh with a little twinkle in his eye. “She’s an aspiring curator. From what I hear she’s very talented.”

  “Marty,” I say. “I need you to do me a personal favour.”

  “Of course,” smiles Brannagh.

  “Can you invite that girl to all your parties. Every get-together. Every debauched gathering. I wish very much to cross paths with her again.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  As expected, there are government agents staking out my apartment building. When I casually step into the foyer through the main entrance, I am immediately surrounded. They are wearing plain clothes but each has a handgun in a leather holster on their belt.

  “Jack, please come with us,” says one of the men.

  I follow five agents up to my apartment. I’m allowed to loiter around while they stand and keep guard. One of them occasionally receives phone calls from someone and, from what the guard says, I determine he is being questioned about me. None of the men pay me any attention. They just stand or sit calmly around my home and ensure that I don’t disappear.