JUNK and other short stories

by Duncan James

  He outlined the plan.

  “You’ll be on the crew manifest for the British Airways flight out of here later tonight. BA058 leaves about midnight. Once you’re safely on board, change back into civvies and travel as a passenger. Club Class, of course! Non-stop to London, where you’ll be met. It takes about 13 to 14 hours, depending on high level winds over Siberia, so you should get in before six, London time. Now let’s get a meal before your double arrives for the switch.”

  “I hope this works,” said his father. “I have vital documents and copies of plans of their nuclear facilities, which simply must get to London. If anything happens to me, you will have to take them. Everybody wants them – UK, USA, United Nations; everybody; except China. Let me show you where they are.”

  Some were in the lining of his small bag, others strapped to his body.

  “There’s a letter on its way to you as well. Whatever you do, get that to London as well if I don’t make it. It’s in code, so don’t lose it.”

  “I’ve still got every letter you’ve ever written. They have been a bridge between us.”

  “I’ve kept all yours, too, as it happens. For the same reason.”

  Peter’s secure phone rang. It was Suzy, his minder.

  “Alex Sumner will be with you in twenty minutes or so,” she said. “You know the drill. One of our friendly taxis will be cruising nearby when Penny has changed. Go with him to the Mandarin, and make your own way home.”

  “OK, Suzy.”

  “Peter! Take great care. I want to see you again.”

  “You too,” replied Peter. Suzy Chi-Lye was about the first girl he’d met who he thought he could possibly have a relationship with, but they had agreed it wouldn’t be sensible. Apart from the odd meal together, they had kept at arm’s length from one another.

  Peter and his father had just finished a rather hurried meal when the doorbell rang. It was a smartly dressed BA flight attendant, Alex Sumner. Maurice quickly changed into his uniform, which was a remarkably good fit.

  “The hat suits you,” said Peter. “Let’s go!”

  Anyone watching closely would have noticed that Alex Sumner had aged quite a bit in the last twenty minutes, but there was no sign of anyone suspicious as Peter and his father bustled into the taxi, and headed down-town. Peter decided to walk back to his flat – it would be easier to spot if he was being followed. He let himself into the flat, and went to tell Alex that the coast was clear for him to leave.

  Alex, though, would be going nowhere. He was stretched across the bed with a neat but bloody hole in his forehead.

  Anyone else would have panicked. The first thing Peter did was check, swiftly but thoroughly, that nothing important had been taken. So far as he could tell, this had not been a robbery that had gone wrong. Everything was in its place, and even things like day-code books were where they should be. The intruder obviously only wanted one thing – to kill.

  Now he panicked slightly. He had a murdered body lying across his bed. The real issue, though, was whether the killer had meant to shoot Alex Sumner, or kill his father, the much-wanted escaping spy, or even himself. If they had got the wrong man and found out, they would be back, he concluded. His father had been right. Now he was in danger, too.

  There was only one thing to do.

  He rang Suzy, and told her what had happened.

  “The worry is that we were, after all, being watched,” he said.

  “Probably still are,” she replied.

  “Exactly. So I need to get out fast myself now. Any ‘tunnels’ left open?”

  “Nothing much,” she replied. “The nearest military transport is over 1,000 miles away, and we probably wouldn’t be able to divert it, even if it was a good idea. The only other option is a coastal Junk to Macau, and then hope the Portuguese can do something to help you.”

  “All too slow,” said Peter.

  After a moment’s thought, he said, “So here’s what I’m going to do. I shall pretend nothing has happened. Sling my bag over my shoulder, get to Chek Lap Kok, buy a ticket, and go home. There’s just a chance that if I act quite normally, I shall get away with it, and nobody will notice me.”

  “I suppose it’s worth a try,” she said. “I agree that you certainly can’t stay here a moment longer than you need, but I can’t think of any better plan on the spur of the moment.”

  “I’m off, then,” he said. “Do me a favour if you will, after I’ve gone. There’s a body here to be dealt with, and other bits of admin and paper-work to be dealt with. Will you look after all that for me?”

  “Of course I shall,” she replied. “And Peter…”

  “Yes.”

  “Please take care!” There was the slightest of pauses. “I love you.”

  There was only a momentary hesitation from Peter. “You too, Suzy. If I’m spared, I’ll be in touch.”

  For the second time that day, he walked to Lam Tin, and caught the A22 coach to the airport. He was the last to board the coach, and was almost sure he had not been followed. But he had been sure earlier this afternoon, too. What the hell! If someone was after him, they would get him whatever he did. And there was no other way of getting out quickly.

  He bought a ticket, Club Class, and checked in.

  With any luck, his father would already be on board the 747, with the rest of the crew.

  By then, he should have ditched the uniform and changed into civvies. The crew were glad to see the back of him. They didn’t like this sort of operation, well rehearsed though it was. Just knowing they had a runner on board made them nervous. They should have found him a seat at the back somewhere, where he could mingle anonymously with the fare-paying passengers.

  They’d been airborne for about ten minutes and the seatbelt signs were off, when Peter spotted his father a few rows in front of him. Safe, thank God.

  He slid into an empty seat next to him.

  “Hello Dad. Long time, no see!”

  “Peter! What the devil are you doing here?!”

  Peter told him.

  “I just had to get out, and this was the only way we could think of in a hurry.”

  “Will you be going back sometime?”

  “I doubt it,” replied Peter. “Apart from anything else, I’m a Defence cut. I’ve been made redundant thanks to the Defence Review, and was due to leave the Army in a month or so anyway.”

  “This was to be my last run, too,” said his father. “I very nearly didn’t make it into retirement, though. It’s only thanks to you and your contact, Suzy, that I’m here at all.”

  “We should be OK now, Dad.”

  “What will you do when you’ve left the Army?”

  “Not a clue. I shall get a pension of some sort and redundancy pay I suppose, but it won’t be enough.”

  “You could take my old job. I could probably fix that, if you’re interested. You’re better at languages than I ever was, and the Foreign Office is always looking for linguists who are prepared to travel a bit.”

  “Could be fun,” said Peter. “What about you?”

  “If I’m spared, I shall retire gracefully to the country. I’ve got a small cottage in Hampshire, near some pretty good fishing. We could set up home there together if you like.”

  “It’s what we’ve always wanted,” mused Peter. “Perhaps I could get Suzy over as well. She’s an excellent cook, you know. I’m sure you’d like her.”

  “And she’s already pretty good at looking after both of us,” said Maurice.

  The girl came round with the Champagne.

  ***

  4. - UP IN ARMS

  It’s all very well for you, sitting there, reading this. You haven’t a clue what it was like to be my age. You can’t remember a thing about it, anymore than I probably shall when I’m your age.

  Well, let me tell you that
it’s no real fun. And that’s mostly thanks to people of about your age. If you could only remember what it was like, you’d treat people like me a bit differently. Not that you mean to be unkind, I’m sure, but the indignity of some of the things we have to put up with is quite awful. And we can do nothing about it yet, because we have none of the skills that you seem to have. I suppose one day we’ll catch up, but until then, being my age is no real fun.

  In my house, there seem to be three people around most of the time, although they are different. One is shorter, with long hair and knobbly bits that give me milk when I’m hungry – or at least, when they think I should be hungry. Her name seems to be Mum-mum or Mamma or something, so she keeps trying to tell me, and another one is taller, out of the house a lot and generally not much use except that he seems to take his turn getting up in the night when I yell. He seems to be Dada, or something like that. He doesn’t do milk.

  Then there’s a much shorter one, also with long hair, whose name is Yoursister, although she seems a bit unsure of this herself. Quite often, I hear her telling people ‘I’m four’, so perhaps she has two names. Anyway, Four or Yoursister or whatever she is called, is my favourite, as she is always around, and seems to have plenty of time to spare. She makes me laugh, too, but doesn’t actually seem able to do much that’s useful. She doesn’t do milk, either.

  There are others about, whom I come across from time to time, but I know nothing about any of them. Mostly, they are just intensely annoying.

  In general, I find life extremely frustrating, and not a little boring. So would you. For a start, I spend a great deal of my time lying on my back, either on the floor, or in bed. I spend hours staring at the ceiling, which is white and nothing ever happens up there, apart from the odd spider or fly. The others in the house, who are strong enough to sit up and have learnt to walk about, don’t have this problem. For one thing, there’s a sort of flat box thing in a couple of the rooms downstairs, which have colour pictures moving about on the front, and which make noises. They seem to spend hours watching the things. Why can’t I have one on the ceiling, that’s what I’d like to know? I bet if those boxes just had pictures of the ceiling and nothing else apart from the occasional fly or spider, they wouldn’t sit there for long, and would soon switch them off.

  I have a sort of thing on wheels that I get pushed about in outside from time to time, and sometimes I’m left in it indoors. There’s a string across the front just above my head with coloured bits hanging on it. I think it’s supposed to amuse me and keep me quiet. It would be a good deal better if I could get at the thing, since some of the bits rattle, except that they don’t unless someone twangs the string. I can’t do that, because I can’t reach it. I’d also like to see what the bits taste like. I like to have a suck at everything new that I come across, although most of it is rubbish, and not even cooked, and certainly none that I have discovered so far does milk. I have small soft things I can play with, but the fluff comes off when I put those in my mouth, and they taste like nothing on earth. They don’t really seem to be a lot of use, except that I’m getting quite good at throwing them over the side. I find then that, if I yell loud enough, someone will pick them up for me and put them back, so I can chuck them out again. I could play for hours like this, but pretty soon they yell back at me and keep the things. Even Four or Yoursister or whatever her real name is, and she’s usually pretty good at providing some amusement. Sometimes, she brings along soft things of her own to show me, but, more often than not, I’m not allowed to touch, let alone suck.

  She can be a bit sensitive, though, I have discovered. There’s one thing I quite enjoy having around – it’s sort of short white plastic stick thing, with a ball on the end that rattles when you shake it. I have discovered that, if you hold the stick at the end, you can really throw it quite a long way. That’s about all its good for, really, as it certainly isn’t worth chewing. Anyway, one day, after weeks of practice, I managed to hit Yoursister on the head with it. You should have heard the noise. I wish I could yell like that, although one day I shall be able to, as I’m practicing that as well. I’ve heard people say what a good pair of lungs I’ve got, and it seems to run in the family, if Yoursister is anything to go by.

  Mind you, I think she’s a bit deficient in other areas. For one thing, I’ve noticed when we’ve been in the bathroom together, that she doesn’t seem to have a willie, poor thing, which is probably why she takes such a keen interest in mine. But she can at least get about, like the rest of them, on her two legs. I’m in training for that, of course. I spend as much time as I can, kicking my legs about to build up the muscles, and they do already seem to be getting a bit stronger. Certainly, the cup of tea I hit the other day went further than I thought it would, much to the annoyance of the tall thing that was holding it while pulling faces at me and making funny gurgling sounds. Do you know, that really does annoy me. It is supposed to amuse me, I think, but I thought the flying cup and saucer was much funnier, although the reaction was a bit fiercer than usual I must admit, and accompanied by a good deal of yelling. But I raise my hat to Yoursister – she thought it was hysterical and laughed out loud, until she got shouted at as well.

  If I could, I would complain about my diet. I’ve been downstairs when all the others have been having a meal, and they get platefuls of the most interesting looking stuff, some of which smells pretty good as well. Even Yoursister is given some. Me? Me, I get milk, and not much else. And it’s not delivered on a plate, either – I have to work hard to get any at all sometimes, and all that sucking can be quite tiring. Every now and then, it comes in a bottle, but I still have to work at it. At least it’s warm, but that’s about all you can say for it. Never strawberry flavoured or anything like that for a change. I’ve seen the others getting milk, too, and theirs comes in a cardboard box of some sort. I haven’t been able to work out how mine gets from the box to the knobbly bits of the Mamma person. Just recently, she has tried to give me stuff on a bit of bent metal, but it seems to go all over the place, especially if I blow with a mouthful. It tastes pretty awful, too, whatever it is. But it makes a change, and it could be the start of something better, because I’ve seen the others using these metal things when they eat.

  But what really gripes me about the whole procedure is what happens straight afterwards. When you’ve had a decent meal and taken on board just about all you can hold, all you want is to put your head down and sleep it off, right? Not in this house, you can’t! You get hoist onto the shoulder of the Mamma one, and thumped hard on the back. I’ve got the message now, I think. Their theory is that it makes you burp. Well, let me tell you that I burp when I want to burp, not when someone else thinks I should. Apart from anything else, when you’re full up, it is most uncomfortable hanging over someone’s shoulder, especially when all you want is a quiet doze. I had thought I had worked out how to put a stop to this nonsense, but it didn’t quite work out as planned. My theory was that if I threw up instead of burping, I would immediately get put down, and so be able to have forty winks. But I only managed to achieve this once, and it caused such a fuss, there was no way I could get to sleep. So now I have to put up with it, but I do manage to put the elevated position to some use, as I study all there is on view from this lofty perch. There’s a good deal of very tempting stuff down there, and I can’t wait until I can get mobile and have a really good look at it all. So I have redoubled my training, and kick hard whenever I can.

  As I mentioned earlier, I quite often get taken out of the house in a thing on wheels. It’s the second one I’ve had. The first was a sort of bed, and I would normally lie down in it, so the outlook was nothing special, not least because I faced the way I’d been. This view was largely dominated by Mamma’s crutch, which I can tell you is not a pretty sight even when hidden in jeans. But once they started prop
ping me up a bit, so that I could see things a bit better, I eventually got a different sort of machine. In this one, I face the way I’m going, which is a mixed blessing. The view is better, but you come close to hitting things, since you arrive before anyone else. Trees and lampposts are obvious hazards, which so far have been avoided, but only just. We’ve managed to take the paint off one or two other pushchairs, and run in to numerous people who should, apparently, have been looking where they were going. But I really don’t like being launched head first into moving traffic when we cross the road. Apart from the jolt as we crash off the kerb, the mad dash to get to the other side is really quite scary. And you’d be surprised how big busses look from low down. So do dogs. I don’t like dogs. I went off them in a big way when I was left parked outside a shop – only for a few moments, of course, - and one of the brutes came sniffing around. The stick thing at the other end was wagging about, but my end gave me a good licking. It then had the nerve to pee against the wheel, until someone heard me yelling and chased it off.

  Apart from my temporary lack of mobility, which I am in training to overcome, my other big problem is that I seem unable to communicate with the others properly. Try as I might, they never seem to understand what I’m saying, and I never get the drift of what they are on about, either. They never seem to have the time to teach me, that’s the problem, although sometimes they will repeat the odd word a couple of times, bent low over me, and seem to expect me to immediately grasp what’s going on. Yoursister is best, I must admit, as she has more time, and doesn’t mind devoting some of it to my education. She’s quite good company, and chatters away, trying to get me to understand what’s going on. But at least I know her real name at last.

  It happened the other day, when we all got dressed up to go out. They even put me into some sort of long white thing, which I’m not sure quite suited me, but there you are. We ended up in a place I hadn’t been to before, with lots of other people milling about. It all looked a bit serious at one stage, and there was a lot of muttering, and then some singing. There seemed to be a chap in charge of all this, who also had a long white thing on like mine. Eventually, I was handed over to him, and he splashed water on my face for some reason, and then we all went outside to have our photos taken. Everyone kept coming over to tell me I was Hugh and hadn’t I been a good boy. The more people said I was Hugh, the more Yoursister told them she was Four, so that’s how I came to learn her real name. Whoever it was who had said all that time ago, “This is Yoursister,” obviously hadn’t a clue what he was talking about.