The Electric Dwarf

by Tim Vine

  ‘Right, Elvis, shall we take a look at our new equipment, then? This lot is gonna change the way people look at the world, you mark my words,’ he informed the dog, slowly rising to survey the contents of the suitcase which he had meticulously laid out . There, just as the girl had explained, were all the components for the bomb: a stubby battery, a short wire loom neatly tied with gaffer tape and connectors at each end, a tiny box with an LED light and switch, a glass vial of colourless liquid in a plastic frame, a larger package all wrapped up, various other leads/connections, and several A4 pages stapled together with printed instructions. Ahmed picked up the paperwork, before slumping into the sofa to slowly read in detail.

  A while later, he sighed, itched his knee and set the papers down. He now understood his mission and saw that there was little time remaining. There was still one thing though that bothered him greatly: Elvis. The thought of leaving his trusty friend abandoned to a fate unknown weighed upon him, and troubled him. He could never imagine Elvis with another, it was not possible to even consider, especially as any new ‘owner’ (undoubtedly an Infidel) would certainly not be worthy of Elvis and his love. There was only one solution, clearly. He was to sacrifice his beloved canine companion before carrying out the mission in hand. He felt no grief, regret or even sorrow at this unexpected revelation, merely a sense of duty and responsibility to the tasks that he was compelled to undertake. He sat with his computer and, after some brief internet research, made up his mind to immediately go out to buy some cooking chocolate and rat poison. He found it harder and harder to look at Elvis, but his decision was beyond recall and he grabbed his coat en route for the shopping trip of doom. ‘No Elvis, not this time,’ he told the confused animal. ‘You’re staying in.’ Elvis whined as the door to RonJoyce slammed firmly shut behind Ahmed.

  Paul’s mobile rang, electronically chirping a ridiculous jumble of sounds masquerading as a tune, concocted in a studio in Korea by the young and ambitious Kang Ji Seok who was handsomely rewarded (in South Korean Won) to create a few hundred ringtones every year. He jumped slightly, as the ring had become a rarer and rarer event. On the screen Tony’s name appeared faintly. ‘Oh, the ol’ bastard,’ Paul grumbled to himself as he took the call.

  ‘Hello, Tony, how are you then, my friend?’

  ‘Hi Paul. Well, everything seems okay my end, how’s London life been treating you?’

  Golf. A round of golf down in the countryside towards Havant, easy for Paul as he’d jump on the Waterloo-Portsmouth Harbour train line. He would hire some clubs down there, and Tony would take his own. The following week was looking promising . . . ‘The Tuesday?’ . . . ‘Yep, that sounds fine’ . . . ‘Great, I’ll pick you up at Havant station at midday, and we’ll drive to Rowlands Castle from there, maybe a pub lunch on the way before an afternoon with the clubs, then a pint?’ . . . ‘Tony, that sounds wonderful, looking forward to it already, see you then. Bye.’

  The Rock ‘n’ Roll ­Choirboy (and his girlfriend).

  He sits and eats his Cheese on Toast

  Such a British snack

  Preparing to conduct a Concert in Church

  By watching a Fetish Porn movie.

  She sits and Sucks her Thumb,

  Nothing to do with the film, though

  After 25 years of being either Drunk or Hungover

  Sobriety is a far sight Trippier.

  I say,

  Discipline them with Milk!

  YES, DISCIPLINE THEM WITH MILK!

  By Yatter

  Ahmed really couldn’t sleep. At all. Elvis was downstairs writing in agony, whining and letting out chilling gurgling noises that Ahmed had never heard before. The combination of rat poison and chocolate, both in eat-as-much-as-you-dare quantities (and the dog had), was taking effect, and what effect! Ahmed lay motionless on his memory-foam mattress, snug in his 11-tog duvet with its British Home Stores duvet/pillow/sheet triple set in a simple magnolia, bought in the January sales of 1999. He hadn’t washed any bedding for a couple of months, as he enjoyed the fug of his own smell mixed with the house’s general stuffiness and dog staleness. The mix of too much coffee and the fact that his dog was suffering a protracted and clearly painful death below did not exactly aid his quest for sleep. However, at around 4:38 a.m., when all was quiet, Ahmed’s brain was still racing even though he had just managed to get to sleep.

  Rick Astley brushes past me in Aldershot town centre, just outside the WHSmith shop. I am delighted as he recognises me at once, and his gorgeous face reveals his unequivocal joy in seeing me.

  RA: Oh, Ahmed, my friend! We are friends, indeed! I have been searching high and low for you, here and there, long and far. And now I gather that you have been residing here, in Aldershot, for all of this time. If only I had known, I could have brought you hot sausages and other meaty snacks for breakfast, lunch, dinner . . . even midnight snack . . . every day. I need to nourish you, to give you strength and force for your mission, with the power that only quality meats can provide. But this is bothering me, there is something I need to know – my life is perfect apart from this burning desire to know, which is weighing me down. It’s just . . . why didn’t you tell me before about you residing here, in Aldershot?

  (At this interrogation, I feel awful. I really should have informed Rick about my whereabouts sooner, he was right. An awesome feeling of guilt envelops me like a duvet, a magnolia duvet. I sink to one knee before Rick, an act of supplication that I really need him to appreciate).

  Ahmed: Rick, please forgive me. I’m so sorry, you can’t know. I’ve been so busy, you see. I have unpacked my suitcase and emptied all the affairs. I’ve even been duty-bound to let Elvis eat too much, I think he’s on his way now. He will be at Peace, so as my mission may be fulfilled.

  I have nothing else to say to Rick at this point. It doesn’t matter as he always just seems to understand me naturally, words aren’t always needed between us as he believes in me without judgement or criticism. He is just fantastic. There are never awkward silences between us, just time that passes as we relish our precious moments together. Shoppers pass by, engrossed in their consumerism and credit cards, yet at the same time no one is moving, and all that matters at this moment is my interchange with Rick. He smiles gently, and I melt. He’s such a nice man, so gentle . . . and genuine too. His eyes meet mine, and I melt some more.

  RA: I’m not going to give up on you, nor do I intend to let you down in any way. I certainly won’t desert you, Ahmed, as it now feels like we’ve know each other for a long time.

  Ahmed: These are comforting and somehow familiar words. I thank you. Perhaps you should put them into song, Rick?

  Before he has the time to answer, Rick steps onto a low-flying cloud that fully obscures H&M, and even a part of the Clarks shoe shop – so much so in fact that I can only but glimpse a part of the kid’s summer range at the far end of the window. I am aware that Rick is singing as the cloud moves away (perhaps even composing after listening to my songwriting encouragement, and taking my advice on board). I’d certainly like to think so. He is just amazing. He dances elegantly, as always, and I am sure that I smell sweet sausages . . .

  Ahmed awoke, startled and stressed, penis flaccid. Sausages again? No . . . Elvis! He lept out of bed and raced down the fourteen stairs to RonJoyce’s ground floor, where he found the animal asleep on the sofa. Not dead, just asleep, apparently breathing normally, even snoring gently. A mess of rancid dog vomit carpeted the carpet, its liquid portion mostly soaked into the fabric, leaving the remaining solid mass glistening disgustingly with its random formations and patterns, a sick painting ready to dry. Ahmed simply thought to himself, ‘Ok, coffee first. Then I kill Elvis. No need to clean up the mess as I won’t be around for much longer.’ The kettle chugged into life, louder than usual, it seemed, and shaking a little, as the crescendo of its water-boiling efforts brought to mind a Boeing 747 preparing for take-off (th
is wonderful plane, the workhorse of the skies, that well-known, well-loved wide-body four-jet commercial airliner and cargo jet aircraft designed by Joe Sutter in the late 1960s) . . . until – click! – it’s instant coffee time, followed by a simple canicide.

  Joyce, Ahmed’s late mother, had poor taste in, well, everything. One of the prize artefacts from her legacy that still remained in the house was a large bronze dog, which adorned the hallway of the property in the 1970s and hadn’t moved until now. As it tumbled down onto Elvis’ head at some speed there was a sharp crack as his skull crushed under its weight, the hefty item delivering a mighty blow to the sleeping canine. The dog was unaware, not even having time to waken before copious amounts of blood gushed from the disaster area that was once his head, flooding the sick-spattered carpet with a wash of red. Jelly-like brain matter spilled out onto the sofa, the animal’s scraggy coat matted, flattened with liquid. Dog murder and carnage had come to Aldershot, and the room had looked better. Deflated, Ahmed retreated to his kitchen, rinsed his hands half-heartedly, sat down, and wept into his coffee. And wept. He hadn’t realised that parting from Elvis would be so hard. Killing a whole bunch of human beings will be so much easier, he thought, and he wept some more.

  Untitled, or Am I?

  Love is a thorn that

  Cannot be parted

  From Torn skin

  Punctured by feeling,

  A fractured heart

  Still beating strong,

  Though changing rhythm

  To follow a different beat,

  Less complex, yet still, towards

  A new horizon.

  To document life, as

  The pen is mightier than the sword,

  Fuck this . . .

  Who writes poetry?

  By Yatter

  Sue was on the phone to her printer’s in Portsmouth, who had just finished a first small run of Time Management for the Worried Working Mum, a modest introductory 250 copies. ‘What I’ll do is pick them up from you directly, there’s absolutely no point in sending them to France when I’ll be needing them in the UK to sell at the launch. Is that okay? I’ll be over next week on the Monday flight, so if I come to you on the Tuesday around lunchtime, early afternoon, would that be okay? Brilliant. I’m so excited! And you’ve received the final artwork for Confidence Starts in the Womb, I hope? Great, well, that’s fantastic. I look forward to seeing you next week then. Thanks . . . byee!’

  ‘Fuck, that woman’s annoying!’ exclaimed Craig to John on hanging up the phone at Pompey Printers (at the top end of Sultan Road in Portsmouth, Hampshire). ‘We should get a bit of dough out of her and her fucking self-help books though, it might end up being a bit of cash cow, you never know.’

  ‘I’ll let her know you called her that!’ quipped John.

  Back in France, Sue turned to Claude, glee written all over her face, lines and wrinkles of age fully activated.

  ‘This is it, Claude, it’s amazing. I’ll go on Monday, stay with my sister in London, and get the train to the printer’s on Tuesday. They’re so nice, I spoke with a charming man called Craig. They’ll already be doing a run of Confidence soon, as well. Then I’ll see the solicitor on Wednesday morning, so I’ll already be in town to go clothes shopping in the afternoon, ready for the launch on Thursday, and back here in the evening. I wish that you could come, mon amour.’

  ‘Me as well, Sue, but as you know, with the animals it is not always so easy just to be leaving like this,’ Claude explained.

  In verity, the thought of leaving his farm and travelling to London absolutely terrified him, but he didn’t want to let on. Sue was on a roll. ‘You see, once it’s all up and running, it should snowball. We’ll get a buzz going about, some press, women’s magazines and things, then we need to publish Confidence without messing about, within a couple of months. Then we’ll push on and get Menopause out sharpish.’ She was referring to Miserable Menopause? I Don’t Think So . . . ! Claude was, in fact, a little lost, but he was swept up with Sue’s enthusiasm and energy.

  ‘I will drive you to the airport, you know the SNCF are on strike again? Then, of course, we must hope that there is no industrial action by our friends in the Air Traffic Management.’ He found her so independent, modern and vibrant, especially in comparison to his long-standing dowdy wife. She turned him on. ‘A little Pastis to celebrate, no?’ he suggested, grinning.

  ‘You turn me on, my French lover!’ she replied, attempting a sexy husky voice, having read his mind and previous thoughts. ‘Make it a large one!’

  Ahmed was calm, and Elvis was dead. The bomb was packed and primed and after praying for a while Ahmed felt strong, full of resolve. Leaving RonJoyce carefully (as he was carrying a bomb!), he stepped on the morning’s untouched post which lay on the doormat, comfortable brown suede shoes (size 10 from BHS) leaving a dusty imprint on the reverse side of a letter. If he had stopped to look, he would have seen that the correspondence was stamped Atkins Greene Jones Solicitors, with a Croydon address.

  ‘No need to water the vegetables today,’ he told himself as he closed the garden gate, even allowing himself a vague grim grin.

  Will bumped past a faceless commuter at Waterloo station, a duck with hoisin sauce wrap and sugary milky coffee in hand. A soft guitar case was casually slung over his shoulder and he was sporting some good fake Ray-Ban Wayfarers®. He considered himself to look pretty cool, and was looking forward to relaxing on the journey. With 15 minutes left until the train he ignored the multitude of shops and passed the barriers to stroll up the platform so as to bag himself a good seat at a window, preferably with a table and facing forwards. The rest of the band had left earlier in a tatty hired van with most of the gear including his pedalboard and amp, but due to a long-standing problem with his teeth Will had urgently needed to see a dentist that particular morning to sort out a niggling pain in one of his left-side molars. He was to meet up with them later, hopefully in time for the soundcheck. The destination was HMP Isle of Wight (formerly Parkhurst Prison), for a gig with The Prison Breakers. Easy enough – the train to Portsmouth, then a ticket to Ryde, IOW. (He’d suggested that they play that old Beatles song tonight, ‘Ticket to Ride’, but no-one else had been up for it.) He found a decent spot and sat down to eat. In the seat opposite there was a middle-aged woman speaking on her mobile, switching between English and bad French. She giggled before telling the person on the end of the line: ‘Listen, mon amour, je te laisse because this must be costing a fortune and the train’s going soon. Just make sure that our little beloved bonsai doesn’t dry out, don’t forget now, will you? Ok . . . oui, we speak soon, okay? Je t’embrasse fort. Je t’aime.’ It was Sue, reassuring Claude back on his farm, who was already on his second Pastis of the day. She was on her way to Pompey Printers to pick up 250 copies of Time Management for the Worried Working Mum. Will thought that she seemed a bit annoying, and didn’t wish to engage her in conversation.

  He could hear tap-tap-tap on a laptop, an incessant clicking as if an electronic insect was hooked up to a nuclear charge. It was, in fact, the last-minute effort of a nervous Best Man putting the finishing touches on his speech for the weekend, still searching for appropriate stories and crowd-pleasing jokes. An occasional ring of a mobile would jostle for soundtrack space with the rustle of a nearby newspaper or a distant cry from an infant. A grown woman was angrily biting her nails right back to her wrists it seemed, lost in her digital world of tablet and banal American sitcom, navy headphones clasping her tiny skull. Then a guy who he couldn’t see behind him suddenly started shouting at breakneck speed into his handset: ‘Yep, it’s me. Listen, it’s a summary level piece, focusing the team into the project – standard 123/XYZ. Obviously, you’ll present it to Jules before we take it to Marketing, the time scale’s a bit tight but we can make this work,’ (cough), ‘excuse me. I know you don’t have all the answers . . . yep, absolutely, absolutely. I wa
s just wondering about the page-by-page skeletal team, could we ask about the slider, perhaps . . . you know, the fuzzy one!? Shit, why does tea on a train never taste quite right, is it the water? Anyway. Yep, that could work me thinks. Incentives, rewards . . . break it down into teams, make it fun, then we’ll see how it goes. Brainstorm all the way, ’cos we need some meat on the bone before March, Collins will be breathing down our necks too no doubt, so I’ll leave the ball in your court until I’m back. Ciao!’ Will imagined what the guy must look like: nice smile, white teeth, fine clothes, charming manner (when necessary), clean hair and nails, interesting age (just nudging 30), clear complexion and slightly tanned skin, bright eyes, fair temperament, good job . . . aaggghh!

  Will was becoming mildly irritated so turned his attention out the window to watch a train worker with a high visibility vest who was milling around on the platform doing, well . . . not much, it seemed.

  Tony was often late, and today was no exception. He loved his car with a passion, a 1978 Mercedes W116 280S in light olive green which, despite some minor carburettor issues, was still running like a dream. He was looking forward to seeing Paul, the golf, some fresh air, a pint or two. His new red and white golf shoe sunk to the floor, accelerator sending the purr of the 6-cylinder engine up to more of a light but satisfying roar. Ignoring completely the 30mph traffic warning sign as he approached the bridge, Tony nudged 62mph as he fumbled with the Denon CD player to raise the volume from 12 to 29 (bass on + 1, treble on +2). He wanted to catch the tail end of Ian Kirkham’s sax solo in a rare live version from 1999 of Simply Red’s ‘Money’s too Tight to Mention’. As he crossed the pretty stone bridge, an extraordinary sight on his left caught his eye. A train was in the process of crashing, flailing off the tracks in all directions, an awesome force of weight, mass and speed chaotically hurtling forwards. Tony blinked, unaware that he too was unfortunately in the process of losing control and wiping out, distracted as he was by the shocking scene below. The final sounds that Tony heard – after 62 years of life on this earth – were Mick Hucknall singing about money (or the lack of it), screeching rubber on tarmac, a deafening bang, and finally his upper vertebrae violently cracking as he broke his neck after smashing into the unrelenting trunk of a 142-year-old oak tree at high velocity.