The Electric Dwarf

by Tim Vine

  Anger and distress seemed to have been thrust upon his shoulders for a reason: his former eccentric characteristics now morphed towards a driven dedication and perspective that concentrated into an intense Higher Purpose that Peter intended to fulfil. He developed an addiction to watching video clips of clerics online and resolved to cultivate a beard. His recent self-appointed place deep within terrorist websites and the internet chatrooms of cyberspace had provided him with an long-overdue and warm sense of belonging, particularly after having been marginalised in the town and beyond. A craving for acceptance was satisfied at long last. What love he had once held in his heart for his Christian God! All the guilt that had welled up inside him joined with his pent-up frustration and fuelled his fascination with the aura surrounding Jihad. His new-found adoration of Islamist Fundamentalism – even Islamofachism – was nearing completion, with the switch in his brain most certainly in the ON position. It satisfied his craving for a purpose in life, and he became certain of having found his own meaning of existence, however unaware of the nefarious thought processes that were involuntarily unfolding. When he pictured the future, he felt only clarity and joy in his mind, heart and soul. The Christians were the Infidels, evil warriors sent by the Devil. Decadent Britain – this filthy toilet – must, and will, be held to account. These people have to be punished, they shall be made to pay, they must be punished . . .

  Ron and Joyce Pilgrim had been gentle folk. Life was a simple yet rewarding adventure for them, and the birth of their one and only child was nothing other than a miracle in their eyes. It had been said repeatedly by the doctors that it would never happen, and after more than ten years of otherwise happy marriage both of them had reluctantly resigned themselves to the fact that they would be a childless couple. Baby Peter arrived unexpectedly just short of two months early, and although he was a delicate little boy, mother and baby were doing well and enjoyed being comfortably back home at RonJoyce within the week. An unremarkably conventional upbringing followed, peppered liberally with religion. This would be administered both at school and in the home, and Sundays meant a trip to church, without fail. It was here that an early talent was discovered and subsequently nurtured, as Peter’s strong and distinctive singing voice during congregational hymn-singing had not gone unnoticed by Mr. Hicks the choirmaster. The elderly Mr. Hicks ran an eager and welcoming modest choir, with Peter being the sole child. Some might unkindly point out that in the case of many of the singers their enthusiasm perhaps outweighed their talent, nevertheless for Peter it felt marvellous to be a part of it, and the choir did undoubtedly have sporadic special moments. He also found it blissfully enchanting being among this group of worshippers, who were obsessed by such funny robes, nose-curling incense and perplexingly bizarre rituals. Why do these grown men wander about so deliberately with candles, kneeling and bowing at times with such devout reverence? What is the reason for these meandering, monotone sermons and never-ending prayers? These muttered monologues and strange murmurings, what’s it all about? It was simply how it was in church, he surmised. Despite these ongoing perplexities, he considered the singing part to be great fun and learnt to appreciate both the delicate grace and purity of Plainsong, as well as enjoying the complex and intricate harmonies and soaring melodies that occurred in much of Mr. Hicks’ other chosen repertoire. The constant encouragement that Mr. Hicks selflessly provided proved invaluable, and it was the advice of the choirmaster to Ron and Joyce that was to determine the next important stage of young Peter’s life. Over cups of hot, sweet, instant coffee in the 1960s-built church hall after one especially drawn-out service, Mr. Hicks strongly recommended to the proud parents that they should make contact with some of the top London choir schools with the view to presenting Peter at the upcoming auditions for their cathedral choirs. ‘You see,’ he explained deliberately, ‘the boy has a certain talent which it would be a great shame to waste or let go by the wayside. There are opportunities for boys like him, doors to open at such an early age, a start in life that others could only dream of, and experiences the value of which money can never buy. These age-old establishments offer a wealth of experience and tradition that Pilgrim Junior could embrace, including a top-notch education that would all be part of the package when he passes the necessary audition, of course. It’s an entire world that Peter would soak up, and it would affect the rest of his life.’ Mr. Hicks wouldn’t live long enough to discover quite how true his words were, but for now Ron and Joyce were rapt, hanging on every word that the choirmaster carefully chose. He had unwittingly assumed almost a salesman’s role, the simple and proud parents – his clients – on the cusp of purchasing a timeshare in a war zone, or an over-priced off-plan apartment in a collapsing economy that would never be built. Mr. Hicks offered to write a glowing letter of reference for the lad, intending to pack it full of superlatives, for he only had praise to offer. Ron and Joyce took all that Mr. Hicks had to say on board, before politely making their excuses to leave. All that singing, standing, kneeling, thinking, listening and praying in a cold church would make anyone work up an appetite, and they had only nibbled on one miserable biscuit since the service. The biscuit box lid hadn’t been closed properly by one of the church hall spinsters the previous Sunday, and disastrously the party selection had gone horribly stale. Peter had tried a second biscuit, but on finding it just as hideously unpalatable as the first he scanned the area to ensure he wasn’t being watched before secreting it surreptitiously down the back of one of the hall radiators into the waiting pillow of dust and hair.

  A while later, back at RonJoyce, Ron and Joyce discussed the choirmaster’s suggestion excitedly with their son over their late Sunday lunch, roast lamb this week, which couldn’t have arrived soon enough for Peter. Meat. The carefree, innocent boy was happily going along with their plan, although he would have no idea of what it would entail in reality, as of course he knew little of the world at his age. In any case, his immediate attention was being held by the dilemma concerning him: what combination of meat and vegetables he could load onto his fork, which right now was far more important.

  Six months later, young Peter’s cold nose was pressed up against the window at the front of the top deck of a London Routemaster bus. His breath left a natural canvas on the grubby glass so he quickly scribbled pictures with his finger before they would magically disappear. The tinkling stopping bell of the bus every couple of minutes made him laugh, and the sheer number of passengers rushing onto or jumping off the big red tin was amazing. The way that such intense energy could be somehow packed into and contained in such a densely-filled place made a great and lasting impression on him. That, along with the sheer business of life, as people scurried about clutching important-looking bags and fresh newspapers, or vanished down dark stairwells and through fast-revolving doors. People looked so different here, and the apparent randomness of their actions confused him: how could everyone here have a specific purpose and play their own part in oiling this machine that was such a manic metropolis? This new frenzied world that was the crazy city delighted and entranced him immediately, having never seen so much activity, or such majesty and beauty in the surrounding buildings. Why was his home town not be more like this . . . couldn’t the powers that be make Aldershot carry out some more construction work and become a thriving new power to rival London? His decision was made in a flash: this was where he wanted to be from now on.

  A slightly sterile audition early that afternoon felt to Peter as if it was over before it had even started, but what had escaped him completely was the fact that he had breezed through it effortlessly and was soon to be on his way to becoming a chorister in one of the elite top cathedral choirs in the world.

  Norman took acid. He started to feel weird after 15 miNutes or so. He was fully weird after 30 minutes. DrippINg taps, they seemed to be everywhere, even coming oUt of his scratched wristwatch. The existence of so mANY diffERent varietieS of pasta is suddenly fascinating: shells, tUBEs, tiny oNes o
r endless sheets of lasagna pasta,CURly, long and short, strAIght and curly pieces in all shades of colours, dryy oR fresssshh.

  1011100100100110100100001110100101100101000011010010100111110000. What’s that UNKnown laNguage that he keeps heARing, and who’S the strange girl with the electRIc blue hair in pigtails, and is she attraCtive? I want 2 Go MIdgEt-kiCking iN PRaGue, or pErhaps wE should aLL gO to The muSeum of MoUld. The corners of the room MELt and curve, all abrupt lines soften and bend. The room turns into an Italian chapel, with freScos painted on the ceiling. Suddenly, Is that GAs ? Perhaps Yatter has left the oven on. norman fiNDs an unopened pIZZa looking lonely sitting in a cold oven, so he takes it out carefully, puts it on the forMICa kitchen table, and splurts ketchUp all over the plastic packaging. My God, tell me I’m nOt in a Yorkshire forced-rhubaRb farm, please. Can U GeT freeze-DrieD water? ( jUst add wHat?!!) hoW aBout chiLLi watEr? 100 0110 0101010001000011111110. ThE nEw aulD Queen album pLAys in the living room, and Norman cAn quite clearly hear galloping horses throughout the track ‘Radio GAGA.’ How do they record THAt? Maybe Freddie was sending a signal with those initials GA – Groove Armada? Was Freddie actUAlly the UK inventor of LonDOn dance musIC, or some kind of Godfather figUre? Has ScoTt been to SCOtlaNd? His watch Gets louder, so he checks it and he disappears through the face, rushes through tHe mechanism dodging spokes and wheels wIth dangerous-looking spikes, suddenly ending up in a bright children’s TV progrAmme, where the gIrl with the German-style pigtails is smiling at him. She looks liKe his sister Polly. Should he go to Munich, maybe to open a school or a Nazi woOd-choPping centre? Customers could pay handsomely to dress up as superMan to cut logs with an axe, then to be served with bratWurst and lashing of fine bEer, and given a ‘free’ copy of Mein Kampf upon their departure. Wow, the business ventures Norman can conjure from nowhere! BuT being a page turner for CoNcert piaNists has Got 2 B a gReaaaT jOb . . . buT tHen thEre’s a DOUbt whether oR noT they Use sHeet Music on StAge? 10000100101111111. I NeeD my BaY SicK hu Mann wriTES, lyke be ING abeL 2 maykE a KuP ov T. Dust everywhere – in his eyes, lungs, nose, ears, he is being engulfed and feels as if he is under attack. This is not going so well. SuD en LEE, iS tHAt a PLaIcE? Music off. Must do something to occupy the brain matter. 10001011011111111100. go back into the kitchen and make some sandwiches for Yatter for the morning: white sliced bread with rAw bacon. This takes nearly an hour. Norman has a waking dream about being part of a multi-coloured strangely pixilated soap opera.

  Peter sits on the couch at Ronjoyce and writes back to his new friends, the militant cyberspace contacts in SE Asia, tapping away noisily on his computer keyboard, sentences seeming to fly onto the screen from the tips of his fingers, a hideous vein bulging on the side of his damp forehead, nerves and senses on full alert and his brain buzzing with excitement:

  They will not be permitted to crush this movement by repression, and we will ensure that the grotesque inequalities will be ironed out. The Great Revolution has already commenced, the Establishment already acknowledges us as a serious threat, and so they should! An internal Jihad of the heart and soul is not adequate, so we must impress upon our fellow people the necessity of Jihad by the sword. They can hunt us like mad dogs, but I can blend in seamlessly with my people, and I know that we must meet their violence with our own violence, which must be three hundred times more destructive than their feeble attempts to destroy us. Does their humanity matter? I say ‘NO’ and I am certain that the corpses of our enemies will smell sweet. Their disgusting ways and sins must not be tolerated, the drinking, drug-taking, devil-like music, blatant baring of flesh offensively . . . such Munkar will be punished. I am desperate to help, and I will make this my life’s goal until I achieve it or die trying. Allah has written out everything, it is all prepared and in His hands. The acts of the assassin will most certainly be rewarded copiously in heaven, and you must pray for me that I will be martyred in a state of pure faith. My mission will be the ultimate one-way ticket, and I will be proud to fulfil my Destiny in such a manner. I have found enlightenment and my radicalisation is complete. I fully submit to the One who has created us . . . I am yours.

  He stops suddenly and stares ahead, tiny beads of sweat glistening on his forehead, left knee bouncing slightly as his heel taps unremittingly on the carpet. Elvis stirs on the couch, turns and studies him inquisitively. Even the dog senses something serious, as his master anticipates his forthcoming title: The White Islamist Bomber, and looks forward impatiently to finding a role for his mission. He was determined to finally count for something and to carve out his own specialist position in Britain’s increasingly disturbing milieu of celebrity worship . . .

  So what was it about this French farmer that magnetised Sue towards him so strongly? It certainly couldn’t have been his dress sense – or lack of it – which appeared to be stuck in some medieval century, mixed up with a few hypermarket pieces tossed in randomly for good measure, along with the denim shirts. Nor must it be his looks, as he could never be described as a classically handsome man by any stretch of the imagination. Although he had about him a certain ruggedness and self-confidence that appealed to the ladies, it was perhaps the cheeky glint in his eye that Sue found more and more irresistible. His mellow temperament and her desire to venture into unknown territory also played a strong part in her decision to further the affair, but it was like a bolt out of the blue that Claude ignited yet another passion for Sue, that surprised even herself. Was it her reward to herself for hitting forty? Maybe so. He had prepared crêpes with citron et sucre for them in the middle of the afternoon one rainy day, and cheekily served them with a crisp and fruity dry white Saumur, perfectly chilled. The seduction was complete, and the charming Frenchman had her like putty in his hands. He also introduced her to a world of French chansons that she had previously dismissed out of hand. Tom’s musical tastes didn’t stretch further than Dire Straits, Eric Clapton or Coldplay – anything else he would pretty much scoff at, and Sue had lived with this for far too long. Claude opened up a whole new life for Sue in general, also unwittingly stirring in her this new-found passion for French pop music from the 1960s and 70s that made her feel unusually youthful and revitalised. As far as Claude was concerned, Sue was an angel sent from heaven. He recalled the first time he had laid his eyes on her: her ­paper-white complexion and delicate flat nose appearing almost glued onto her tiny face, proportional to her doll-like features. His English Rose. Whilst she could perhaps not traditionally be considered a beauty, there was something special in the way that she held herself and wore her clothes: appealing curves of her body created gentle ripples across her hippy-ish cream-lined linen blouse. Claude was mildly excited to glimpse a soft blond down just viewable on her upper breast. Crossing her legs high, in a vaguely supermodel-like pose, her manicured left hand casually slumped on her lap. He was convinced that she was the type of woman that other females secretly despised as they would be jealous of her looks and personality, and he concluded that men would fall at her feet. This was not actually the case, but it’s certainly what Claude envisioned through the fog of his light-headed predestination. He would gaze at the soft nape of her neck, and wonder in awe at such delicious delicacy in the make-up of her chin and its perfect line up to her petal lips, her hair tucked behind an ear on one side, falling across her forehead enticingly on the other.

  ‘Soft hands, firm breasts,’ he sighed into her ear often when out in public, even in front of their respective spouses, causing her to titter – his comical accent for some reason heightening her excitement and arousal. His faithful but frumpy wife had absolutely no idea of his liaison with Sue until one otherwise perfectly normal day after lunch, Claude calmly let her know that he would be leaving her for the English lady. Taking into consideration the fact that they had been married for just short of thirty years, she stoically retained her composure, almost as if she could expect nothing less and it was just a matter of time until he would drop such a bombshell. She had, in reality, not suspecte
d a thing regarding Claude’s infidelity, his words now flowing almost straight past her, only to drift out of the open window and across the wide fields, blown away into the haze by friendly breezes. The words became fluffy and distant, muffled in their thick cloud of deceit yet somehow still sinking in all the same, lodging themselves somewhere in the deep recesses of her brain. ‘I’ll always love you, you do know that, don’t you.’ She remained blank. His rambling meant less and less, never hesitating or pausing, as if the more he uttered the less substantial the disappointment and heartache would be for her, diluted by explanation.

  ‘I can smell sausages, oh that’s gooood. This cloud is amazing because it feels so light but I’m not falling through, and is that . . . ? Is that . . . ? No, it can’t be . . . yes, it bloody well is!

  It’s Rick Astley, and he’s frying up sausages on MY cloud, doing the odd little boogie as he browns the sausages to perfection. His lips are moving and he may be singing, a brilliant sheen on his hair. I am aware that he’s cooking for me’.

  This strange yet comforting scene lasts for some time, although the perception of time doesn’t exist. It could have been hours, and it felt right. As if mildly distracted and put off his stride, Rick stops singing for a second and fixes me squarely in the eye.