The Electric Dwarf

by Tim Vine

  He eventually agreed on a ticket which cost him dear and was decided upon more through exhaustion than choice, paid by credit card then put the kettle on. Not for the first time, as the water came to a rolling boil, the Electric Dwarf rolled a fat spliff in celebration. The funny little man was brimming with a sense of anticipation as he propped the neatly bulging white stick in the ashtray’s groove and stood up to make a strong mug of sweet tea, the tried and tested ideal companion to a relaxing afternoon joint. He zapped the TV on and sat down to watch Sly Stallone in his epic 1987 arm-wrestling movie Over the Top.

  Laughingstock!

  If I adopted a goat in Belize, I have just one question,

  If I missed her so, would I get visitation rights?

  If he suffered from Tennis Elbow and Swimmer’s Ear,

  Would he be worried about Athlete’s Foot?

  If I was funny and had the time, no question . . .

  I would set up a comedy festival called Laughingstock!

  By Yatter

  Ahmed’s belly rumbled. ‘That’d be 22 hours, Elvis, we’re doing well. No, you have to fast with me, only another two to go. Hey, stop whimpering, you’ve got plenty of water. Yeah, I know, I’m hungry too.’ The pair of them were seriously famished, but Ahmed was determined, and his first ever fast was going well. But a hungry dog is not a happy dog, and a confused Elvis was whining constantly.

  Ahmed had some shopping to do. He was scouring the small ads in the previous day’s Aldershot Herald:

  Wrapping paper, 10 sheets of brown parcel wrapping paper, unused, 70cm × 114 cm. Bargain at just £1. Telephone 375499

  Wicker coffee table, shelf underneath, reasonable condition hence price only £15 ono, collection only. Also Dulux paintpod with extra reach handle, £35. Call 938933

  Flip flops, navy, ladies, size 40/41, still with tags on, £3. Tel: 375029

  Prism mobility scooter, one careful owner, £425 ono, call me on 626639

  Pipe bender, professional A-frame, Hilmor CM35, superb condition, cost £600, asking £200. Bob 07700 900787

  Loft ladder 2-section sliding aluminium, no bracket available, hence just £25. Tel 424390

  Steve’s Dog Walking and house sitting, registered, reliable and insured. 07715 674299

  Arthur Sarnoff framed prints × 2, dogs playing pool, ideal gift Plus Rick Astley record 33rpm, £2.50. telephone 07742 482382

  Foot spa and facial steamer, unwanted Xmas presents, mint, £15 each or £25 for both. 622753 evenings only

  Sylvanian Families, large manor house, lodge and pieces of furniture. Great value £40. 637821, Beverly

  Rucksack, medium size, durable, practical and comfortable, cost £45, will accept £12. Call Phillip 585923

  This last ad caught Ahmed’s eye, and he lent over Elvis to pick up the phone. 585923. ‘Ugh . . . yes, hullo. My name is Ahm . . .’ he corrected himself just in time, surely he should give himself a fake name, just in case? Come on Ahmed, you’re not thinking!

  ‘. . . Dimitri.’ It was the first name that came to him – strange as he’d never met anyone with that name and couldn’t think of one on TV or elsewhere. ‘I’m ringing about the rucksack, I don’t suppose it’s still for sale, is it by any chance?’

  A frail female emerged through the plastic grill by his ear after what seemed an eternity, betraying faint Yorkshire inflections, and speaking slowly. ‘Well, Dimitri, I’m afraid you’ve called at a rather bad time. I’m sorry to say that my husband Phillip passed away in his sleep last night. I thought you might have been our son calling from Dubai. But still, you know, he would have wanted you to take the rucksack, I’m sure, you sound like a kind young man. I don’t think he’ll miss it now, will he?’ The line went silent for a few seconds, but surely she didn’t honestly want him to answer? ‘Can you come and pick it up this afternoon? I’m on the Farnborough Road, just near Sunny Hill, we’re not going anywhere today.’

  Later that afternoon Ahmed and Elvis were strolling back home and had just passed the new Hair & Scalp Centre. Ahmed whistled as he adjusted the straps of his new purchase. Poor old Phillip had been right: the rucksack was indeed extremely comfortable. Ahmed knew that it was empty, but he could tell these things, and had been pleased to find all clasps, clips and fabric in a generally decent state of repair. The item had been a reasonable and successful purchase, so both parties involved in the deal had parted on good terms, completely satisfied. The bereaved lady had even gone as far as to mention the fact that Phillip would have been pleased with the trade, so the entire transaction had evidently been a resounding success. It also looked very durable and practical, as the late Phillip had again promised in the Classifieds. The deceased had clearly been a decent and honest man, thought Ahmed, wishing that they had had the opportunity to meet. He pondered briefly that their paths may have indeed crossed more than once . . . perhaps when silently waiting next to each other in a supermarket queue with goods in hand, or maybe Phillip had gestured in thanks as Ahmed let his rusting Nissan Micra out at the Sallow Down crossroads on the edge of town a few years previously . . . it’s even possible that they’d shared fleeting eye contact while one of the men kindly held open the library door one afternoon to let the other pass. After all, modestly-sized Aldershot was not the metropolis to end all metropolises.

  Ahmed/Peter/Dimitri had dwelled briefly on offering the grieving widow £10 instead of £12 (especially after noting on careful inspection that there was a disappointing coin-sized stain located on the greasy underside of the right-hand side pocket), but, given the circumstances, he begrudgingly paid her the full asking price without entering into any negotiation. It seemed to be just the right size for the home-made explosive device that he was going to construct; at least, it was roughly the dimensions, judging from the instructions he’d received in the morning’s email from his mentor. He had also been instructed that the following day he was to meet an unnamed operative who would come to RonJoyce at midday. This mystery person would bring all the necessary materials and chemicals to make the bomb, and give further instructions.

  Midday came and went with Ahmed apprehensively pacing about the living room, mumbling incoherently to Elvis. Having never experienced such hunger ever in his life, he surprised himself by feeling unusually alert and mentally aware, sharp as a tack. That pesky left eye flickered randomly, but became still just as suddenly as it had jerkily convulsed. The familiar RonJoyce doorbell rang, which prompted Elvis to bark once and jump off the sofa, dribbling saliva. Ahmed noticed from the time on Sky News that it was 12:42 p.m. ‘Well, he may be late, but at least he’s here’, he said out loud as he went to get the door. He was in fact a she. ‘Hi, I think you know why I’m here . . .’ the girl offered, forcing a wry smile.

  ‘Um, yes. Please come in, oh let me take that.’ The girl, who couldn’t have been much more than 20 years old, had a bulky suitcase with wheels that Ahmed dragged into the house and through to the living room, where the girl now stood. She seemed to be making a concerted effort not to look around or be nosy, but just to stand neutrally and explain her mission.

  ‘I’ve brought everything that you’ll need. Please, no names, we don’t need to know anything about each other. All I know is that you have been chosen, and I am here to help. I am a foot soldier, ready to do His Will. Primer, detonator, containers, chemicals, wiring, all the instructions in detail . . . it’s all in the suitcase, which you could burn in your garden at some point soon, couldn’t you? Enjoy the wedding. So I’ll be off then, no questions, no?’ It was delivered more as a statement than a question, it was clear that she didn’t want to hang around. Ahmed was a bit taken aback. Wedding? This must be some sort of code, he figured. He was at first surprised to find a girl at the door, especially one so pretty and young, and it had put him a little on the back foot. He thought that she was probably Asian, although he really couldn’t be sure, and she chose not to wear a headscarf, instead allowin
g glorious shiny black hair to tumble over her shoulders. With an unwavering voice that displayed little emotion she was efficient and well-spoken, giving off the confident air of somebody who had been well brought up and well educated. Her youthful face and apparent innocence belied a darker belief inside, complicit in Ahmed’s evil intentions. The brevity of the visit also confused him somewhat, but he just about managed an awkward ‘No, uh, no questions, I suppose’ in reply as she left in a flash, as suddenly as she had appeared.

  Ahmed felt deflated once again, a familiar emotion to him. It was his first encounter with a like-minded crusader, and it wasn’t meant to have been like this. Some morale-boosting camaraderie with a couple of lads, talking about the struggle, different clerics, the evil in the West, potential targets . . . that is what he would have liked, not this perfunctory and unsatisfying exchange. Nevertheless, his spirits lifted a little as he slowly unzipped the suitcase on the highly polished dark wood dining table, an heirloom from his parents (along with the vast majority of the furniture in the house). The first thing that hit him was the strong mustiness coming from inside: it was the bag itself that stank, nothing to do with its contents. A waft of old man blended with an undercurrent of dank cave and even perhaps a tinge of moss, subtle hints of peat bog overshadowing a solid bedrock pong of well-used running shoes, while a faint shade of petrol added distinct piquancy, all combined with a slight yet discernible nose of blackcurrant. He wondered where Girl A had acquired it. From her Grandfather’s wardrobe, perhaps, or did she pick it up in Oxfam last week for £1.50? Maybe she’d been handed it with everything already inside, and it’s very possible she may not even have looked in it. He was never to know, so consciously stopped wondering and pulled the top back. ‘Ahhh, Elvis, Elvis . . . this is really a green-light situation we have here, dog. A green-light situation.’

  A little while later, Elvis gobbled up his delicious Quality Beef and Country Vegetable Moist and Meaty Chunks. Packed with vitamins, minerals, protein and carbohydrates to help maintain good body condition, healthy teeth and strong bones, the meal was guaranteed by the manufacturer to provide a balanced source of nutrition and energy. Item Reference Number 597243 at Aldershot’s leading purveyor of all your animal’s needs – Purefoy’s Dog Essentials, Est. 1989 – smelt foul. The substance contained in fact less than 4% meat or animal derivatives, the nastiest and roughest cuts that even the most carnivorous human would discard. Masquerading as food it consisted primarily of cereals which bulked it out cheaply, with an assortment of unpronounceable colourants, antioxidants, preservatives and other additives accounting for no less than twelve E Numbers. Despite all this, the frantic dog didn’t even come up for air until the bowl had been licked clean. Ahmed hauled the 25kg sack of canine biscuit chunks back to its storage place under the sink. He noticed that the bag clearly stated on the back: this bag is not a toy. To avoid risk of suffocation keep out of reach of children and pets. Ahmed therefore made sure that the door to the cupboard was firmly closed, having had his responsibilities to the animal in terms of safety made very clear. Elvis slobbered water around, some actually reaching the interior of his mouth cavity, before shaking his body violently as if performing some sort of ritualistic dance of satisfaction. Ahmed’s belly, on the other hand, felt like a void. His imagined his stomach imploding, twisting and gurgling before digesting itself in its own acid. Could this destructive liquid then burn down inside him through glutinous tissue, destroying everything in its path (perhaps missing vital organs, at least?) before juice angrily froths out of a hole in his groin or the upper leg area? He decided to eat. Elvis’s ravenous master attacked the defensive packaging of the dates as he sat on the sofa in front of Sky News with the heavily made-up Julia Downing. Elvis jumped up clumsily to settle in. Julia was his favourite, and he liked the colour of her lipstick, an unsubtle but effective hooker red. He would sometimes stare at her, even with the sound muted, and let his mind drift.

  ‘. . . it was the Israeli submarine, the Tannin, a third of whose 466 million pound cost was incidentally paid for by the German government as part of war reparations from decades ago, which reports coming in suggest was the aggressor on this occasion . . .’ the TV informed him.

  Ahmed stuffed the first three dates into his mouth in quick succession, paused, then hurriedly dispatched the rest of the box. Sticky morsels clung to his now bushy beard just under his bottom lip as the pile of stones grew in the date-box lid. On returning to the kitchen as the weather forecast came on, he clicked on the electric kettle for a coffee, and leant up to reach an oblong tin of sardines from the top of the neat pile in the cupboard above the toaster. Gingerly prising back the razor-sharp metal, he carefully curled the potential weapon upwards as the fishy niff invaded his nostrils. ‘Not this time, oh vicious tin,’ Ahmed spoke out loud, checking on the scar tissue that crossed the palm of his hand, which sometimes made him feel like some kind of Action Hero from the world of Hollywood. Now he considered his role in real life, as it dawned on him that events in the not-too-distant future could easily transfer to the big screen, dramatic as they were surely to be . . .

  Be

  Live

  Discover

  Forage

  Consider

  Process

  Formulate

  Cultivate

  Enjoy

  Originate

  Relax

  Ruminate

  Meditate

  Persist

  Act

  Sue’s list had been expanding daily, and she was now satisfied with her bullet points for life/work/action. The words were to be printed and placed on the walls all around her office, the aim being to serve as a constant reminder of her intentions, as well as encouragement and inspiration to hand. Everyone needs a good list, she had told herself, otherwise the world would grind to a disorganised halt. She had re-invented herself as a Self-Development Guru, and her plan was to pen a series of self-help books for women. While using her life experience to inject pearls of wisdom into each publication (that she would get printed up herself), there would be the opportunity to sell the books at self-help seminars (which she would also set up and promote), and, of course, online. Each book basically had the same vapid message, bulkily padded out with over-worded waffle to bring the paperback up to an acceptable size and weight, ready to persuade the weaker of the fairer sex to part with their hard-earned cash (or that of their husbands). The covers were to be eye-catching, female-friendly and inoffensive, and the books were to retail at a perfectly reasonable £7.99. She had just finished Time Management for the Worried Working Mum, and was delighted with the cover, which featured a 30-something-year-old plain-looking brunette frowning up at an oversized antique station clock (a flash of an idea that had come to her out of nowhere while in the shower one morning). Sue couldn’t quite decide if next she should start Confidence Starts in the Womb or Miserable Menopause? I Don’t Think So . . ! After considering, processing and eventually cultivating her thoughts, she had decided on a course of action. She would spend mornings on Confidence, which would leave afternoons to concentrate on Menopause, thereby allowing several hours in the evening to spend time with Claude, plus a break for lunch at some point. This precisely-organised scheduling was devised as a direct result of the hours considering and documenting the Time Management book, advice and schemes dreamt up by her (the self-proclaimed expert) over the last few months for the now-finished latest oeuvre. So now she followed her own teachings, found . . . for reader’s reference . . . in Chapter 3, Part 2 (iv) of Time Management for the Worried Working Mum:

  ‘If you ever find yourself at a crossroads as we all do at various periods in our complicated lives, unable to make that decision about which road to take, it is always preferable to leave your options open and to try to keep juggling everything equally until the path becomes clear. Compartmentalise, ensuring that you divide your time and efforts as fairly as the day’s hours permit, and you wi
ll soon discover a balance and harmony will fill your being, existence and spirit.’

  Sue had followed her own teaching, and it appeared to be working out. This gave her more confidence in herself and her abilities, which in itself was a great help and put her in exactly the right frame of mind as she started the notes and structure map for Confidence Starts in the Womb. Since she had left Tom and started her new life with Claude she had undergone a change within that shocked even herself when she considered it. An immense self-assertiveness had swept over her which brought alongside it a previously untapped fortitude to her character, and it was this tidal wave of self-belief that had given her the inspiration to become an overnight Self-Help Expert. Various titles were neatly listed in her notebook as possible future projects, including: