I Keep Thinking It's Tuesday

by BarnaWilde

  "Did you want the darts, Sir. Or did you come in merely to engage me in conversation?"

  "Oh No. I mean Yes. I mean I don't want to talk to you. Well I shall have to to some extent, of course. But I do want the darts. You said there are two sorts I believe."

  "Yes, Sir. We have untipped, for practicing with, or for friendly tournaments, and we have the tipped ones for the actual hunting. As you are a novice, I expect you would want the untipped. You wouldn't want to kill someone would you?"

  "Kill someone? How did you know that? I haven't said anything to anyone. What makes you think I want to kill my wife? Even if I had a wife, that is. Which I do, as it happens. But I love her. And anyway I would have thought there were easier ways to kill your wife than with a blowpipe. A gun for instance. Hypothetically speaking that is."

  "Yes, Sir. Hypothetically speaking I suppose you are right. Unless you were a pygmy of course."

  "Why of course?"

  "No pockets you see, Sir. Where would they put the bullets? I can't imagine a pygmy with a handbag now, can you, Sir?"

  "Ha. Ha. No, preposterous idea. Funny mind you must have to think of something like that."

  "Yes indeed, Sir. Just my little joke. A little laughter makes the world a better place I always say, Sir. Yes, a little laughter goes a long way."

  "Especially if you are a pygmy, eh?"

  "I'm sorry, Sir. I don't follow."

  "Pygmy. Little laughter. Little people. Don't you see? Little people would have little laughs."

  "I don't think it's very amusing to mock someone's small stature, Sir. Frankly I don't think I like that kind of remark in my shop. Now did you want the darts or not?"

  "Yes, please. No offense intended you know. Sorry if I spoke out of turn. Just got a bit carried away, that's all."

  "None taken, Sir. Let's not mention it again. How many darts will you be wanting then, Sir?"

  "Oh, just the one. I don't suppose I'll get a chance of a second shot."

  No. Somehow I shall have to make a dart. It shouldn't be too difficult. Why, if a pygmy can do it in the middle of the jungle without any tools at all, it should be easy for a man with a DIY superstore at the end of his road.

  I lean over and kiss Gail on the shoulder. She snores on. I turn over and drift off to sleep and dream of being chased by hundreds of little men only a few inches tall. They are firing tiny darts at my ankles and feet. Hours later when I wake up, my left foot is numb with pins and needles from where I have been lying on it.

  CHAPTER 7

  On my way into work I stop to buy flowers for Julie. I can't decide what to buy. They have everything. I stand, dithering in front of the stall. I hate making decisions.

  "Morning guvnor."

  "Good morning."

  "For the missus or the girlfriend?"

  "Sorry?"

  "So what did you do wrong then? Lipstick on the collar job is it, eh?"

  "Sorry?"

  "Yes Guv. So you said. So it's a forgiveness job then. Must be pretty bad for you to be worked up in a state like this."

  "Sorry?"

  "Look Guv. Why don't I ask you in words of one syllable and you just nod your head once for 'yes' and twice for 'no'. Savvy?"

  "Sorry."

  "Gordon Bennett, Guv. You must've done something bloody awful to be this bad."

  "I haven't done anything. I don't follow a word you're saying."

  "Look, Guv. Blokes only buy flowers for two reasons. They've either done something wrong and they're trying to dig 'emselves out of an 'ole. Or else they're on the make. Which one is it? Are you saying 'sorry', or 'how about it'?

  "I don't understand."

  "Listen. Did you do something naughty last night, or are you just hoping to do something naughty tonight?"

  "N.No. It's nothing like that. Someone's birthday, actually. My boss. Yes. It's his birthday today. Yes, he’s Fifty three I think. Or Fifty four."

  "Pretty is he? Always get him flowers do you?"

  "Yes, actually. I mean No. He isn't pretty. I mean he likes flowers."

  "Bit of a poofter then is he? Not that I'm complaining mind. It's all good business. Takes all sorts, I say. Pity I haven't got any pansies!"

  "Sorry? I was thinking of freesias, actually."

  "Why don't you show him you really care and give him some nice red roses? That should be worth a rise if you get my drift."

  "No. I'll just take the freesias thank you. One bunch."

  "Right you are Guv, but I reckon he won't be turned on by a little posy like that. I'd really recommend you to go for something a bit more ostentatious. Show him you care. You never know, it could be your lucky day."

  Somehow I find myself carrying two bunches of flowers when I get back to the car. A small bunch of freesias in a delicate cream colour, and a dozen red roses. The freesias perfume the inside of the car as I drive.

  When I get to the office, I leave the roses on the back seat. I'll take them home for Gail. I take the freesias in with me. Julie is already at her desk. She is putting on lipstick, peering into a tiny mirror perched on the top of her wordprocessor.

  "Hello Mr F." she says.

  I smile nonchalantly and saunter casually over to her desk with the flowers. "Hi," I reply. "What's a nice girl like you doing in a joint like this?"

  "Who are you today then, Mr F? Do I have to guess? You're not being Bond again are you?"

  "Bond? Who's Bond? It's me. Tom."

  "Yes. Mr F. I know it's you, but yesterday you said I had to call you Bond. I thought it was a game. You know, something between us."

  "I love you Julie."

  "I love you too, Mr F. You're funny."

  "N.No. I mean it."

  "Mr F. What would your wife think if she could hear you now? Or Mr Hudson for that matter?" She leans over and blows a kiss at me. "Oh those are nice," she adds, seeing the flowers. "Shall I get a jar for you to put them in?"

  "Y.Yes. Yes please. They're for you."

  "Oh, thankyou. Mr F you are sweet." She leans right across the desk and kisses me on the cheek. As she leans forward I can see right down her shirt. She's not wearing a bra. I can see the soft pink of her nipples brushing against the shirt fabric. Her breasts rise and fall with her breathing. My heart almost stops beating.

  "Why, Mr F, you've gone quite pale. Are you alright?"

  "Yes. Yes. I'm fine. Fine. I'm very fine, thankyou. It's just that. Well I mean. You, you aren't.. I mean I was just a bit surprised that's all. Not that you need to of course. I mean, it's fine. Yes, very fine by me."

  "Are you sure you're alright Mr F? Do you want a glass of water?"

  My pulse starts racing. I can feel the colour rushing back to my cheeks. I have to do it. It's now or never. I shall just lean across the desk and take her in my arms. She'll melt when I kiss her. I've seen it on the films. I've practiced for it in my mind. This is the one. Go! Go! Go!

  The world slows down. Everything happens in super slow motion. I lean slowly towards her. My arms swing slowly up to take her slim young body into a close embrace. My lips begin to pucker in anticipation. I can smell her scent radiating across the ever shrinking gap between us. As my arms close, she moves just as slowly away and I am holding air. Kissing space. Stumbling over my own feet.

  The door to the office crashes open, and Mr Hudson strides through.

  "Morning Fletcher. Good morning Miss Green. What on earth is the matter with you Fletcher? You look as though you've been sucking on a lemon."

  "He's had a bit of a turn, Mr Hudson. One minute he was alright and then he sort of doubled up and pulled a funny face. I think he's in pain."

  "Is that right, Fletcher? Are you in pain? Not a bloody heart attack I hope. You're not going to die on me are you Fletcher?"

  I can hear the words being said all around me, but it seems a bit unreal. I feel as though they are talking about someone else. I look around, but I can't see anyone else. It must be me they're talking about.

  "Are
you alright, Fletcher? Come on man, say something. Don't just stand there like a bloody tailors dummy. Are you in pain? Where does it hurt?"

  "Hurt? It doesn't hurt anywhere."

  "Then why are you standing like that? Is this some kind of joke? Are you trying to scare Miss Green, is that it?"

  "Scare? No. It's just that she wasn't ...and then I .. and then she...and I."

  "You haven't been drinking have you, Fletcher. If you've been drinking you're fired. Can you smell drink on him Miss Green? I'm sure I can smell something."

  "Freesias."

  "What's that, Fletcher? What did you say?"

  "Freesias. That's what you can smell. Nicer than roses. Anyway I left them in the car."

  "No you didn't, Mr F. You gave them to me."

  "They were for Mr Hudson."

  "Freesias? For me? Good god man."

  "No, not the freesias. The roses."

  "Roses? What roses?"

  "He made me buy them. He thought you were queer. After I told him it was your birthday. Wouldn't let me go with just the freesias."

  "Birthday? Whose birthday? Is it your birthday, Fletcher? You're not trying to swing a day off are you, just because it's your birthday?"

  "No, Mr Hudson. It can't be his birthday. He had a birthday last month."

  "Then whose birthday is he talking about? Is it yours, Miss Green?"

  "No, Mr Hudson. I thought he said it was yours."

  "Mine? Good god I haven't had a birthday for years. Whatever gave him that idea? So who are the flowers for?"

  "He gave them to me, Mr Hudson."

  "What on earth for?"

  "I don't know, Mr Hudson. He just gave them to me, and then he had his turn."

  I stand there listening to them discussing me. It doesn't happen this way in the films. In the films the hero reaches out and takes the girl. And she doesn't resist. Usually she can't get her clothes off fast enough. Where did I go wrong? I go over the details in my mind. I'm sure I made all the right moves. It should have worked. I think Gail must be right after all. I don't have any charisma. I might as well not be here. I might as well be invisible.

  Perhaps I am invisible. Do you ever get the feeling that only you are real? That everyone else is just existing in your imagination?

  No. Of course you wouldn't, because you are only a figment of my imagination anyway. You don't exist at all beyond these pages.

  Or is it me that doesn't exist? Maybe you are the real one and I am a figment of your imagination. If that's it, then what happens to me if you start to think about something else? The idea makes me shiver.

  "I think he's going again, Mr Hudson. He's starting to shake."

  "Fletcher. Are you ill? Are you cold?"

  "Don't stop thinking about me."

  "Thinking about you? What do you mean?"

  "Don't want to disappear, you see."

  "Disappear?"

  "No. Can't afford to yet. Still have to make the dart."

  I look down at my hand. I'm sure it doesn't feel as solid as it did. I try to look through it, moving it about from side to side. I'm almost sure I can see light through it.

  The door bangs open. Two other staff members crash in. Mr Hudson motions to them to quieten down. They peer at me from a distance. I must be fading quite quickly now because they seem to be having trouble seeing me at all. I wonder if my clothes will fade with me. It doesn't seem entirely logical that they should. It's always concerned me slightly that the invisible man must have spent most of his time in the nude. Cold for one thing. And no pockets.

  I'm wondering how to get out of this situation. Maybe now that I'm almost invisible it will be easier. All I have to do is walk to the door and slip out. No one will even know I've gone.

  I start to move towards the door. Everyone is looking at me. Or through me. Yes, I reckon it must be through me. No one says a word. Halfway to the door an idea hits me and I walk back to where Julie is standing. I reach out and take her in my arms. Our faces meet and I give her a long lingering kiss. She is warm and soft in my arms. She responds to my kiss and presses her body against me. I feel her moist warm lips on mine. We hold together for about five seconds before I let her go and walk out of the office.

  There are some advantages to being invisible.

  Nobody tries to stop me leaving. They just stand there in the office, mouths open, not moving. They seem to be frozen. Perhaps I have moved into another dimension. I remember seeing that once, when I was a boy. In a comic. The hero could switch into another dimension where he moved at the speed of light and everyone else moved so slowly by comparison that they appeared to be frozen. He had time to save the world and get back to his starting point before they even knew he had gone. Perhaps I'm in a new dimension now, as well as being invisible.

  Perhaps I'm supposed to be saving the world. Please don't let me be responsible for saving the world. I don't know where to start. I don't want to wear my pants on the outside of my trousers.

  In the street people are still moving. Doing their shopping. Going to work. Unless the whole street has shifted to another timezone they appear to be in the same dimension as me. I walk down the road in a daze. Noone takes any notice of me. I guess I must still be invisible. I am wondering how long it will last until it wears off, when I catch sight of myself in a reflection in a shop window. I look normal. Probably I’m not invisible. Unless invisible people can see their own reflections?

  I step out in front of a woman hurrying to work. She steps around me, and tuts. I guess the invisibility must have worn off. Perhaps it's a force field that only operates inside the office. Maybe I'd better keep away for a while until it dissipates.

  Listen. I'll be alright. You don't have to worry about me. Things have been getting on top of me recently, that's all. This business with Gail has upset me rather. I only wanted to love her. I only wanted her to love me. But it's all changed now. I'll sort it out though. I know I can. It's my story. I can make it go any way I like.

  Curare. That's what I need. To tip the dart with. I wonder where you buy curare? Sainsbury's perhaps? I think I've seen it amongst the spices. Or was that cumin? Perhaps cumin would work just as well?

  I decide to walk along to the reference library and check up on curare.

  I find it easily in the Encyclopaedia Britanica. It tells me that curare is a plant derivative from South America used to tip blow pipe darts. It acts as a muscle relaxant. If you have enough of it you relax so much you forget how to breathe. A little goes a long way. It would be a painless death. Just a small prick and then drift off to sleep. It doesn't say where to buy it. South America is not really practicable at present. I would have to arrange the time off out of my annual holiday quota, and I'm not sure Mr Hudson would be too cooperative over that just at the moment.

  I look through the gardening books to see if there are any alternatives. None of them carries much useful information about poisonous plants. I do discover that rhubarb leaves are mildly poisonous, but you would need anout half a sackful to kill someone. Too uncertain. Firing sticks of rhubarb down a blowpipe doesn't seem a very realistic proposition.

  There is one of group of plants, though, that seems more of a possibility. Euphorbia. I know enough about gardening to know that euphorbias have a poisonous milky sap. And I know where there is a euphorbia.

  I take the gardening books back to the librarians desk. "Any good?" she asks.

  "Poinsettia," I reply.

  "Poinsettia?"

  "On your desk. The plant with the big red flower."

  "Oh. Is that what it's called? I'm not very good with plant names. It's pretty though, isn't it?"

  "Pretty dangerous I would say."

  "Dangerous. How?"

  "Member of the euphorbia family you know. The sap is very poisonous. Just a spot of it on your skin can kill you instantly."

  "Really?" She is eyeing me strangely. "Oh I shouldn't think so. They wouldn't have dangerous plants in the library." />
  "Well you see they don't think about blowpipes. Kill you from fifty feet away with a blow pipe. People just don't think."

  "No. I suppose not. But noone would come into the library with a blow pipe now, would they?"

  "Except a pygmy, of course. Never go anywhere without their blowpipes. Even take them to bed with them so I've heard."

  "I've never seen a pygmy in the library though."

  "Well you wouldn't. Masters of disguise. Merge in with the forest. Just slip silently from tree to tree, then whoosh, and before you know it it's all over."

  The young librarian is giving me very strange looks. I put on my nonchalant face and begin to whistle. Suddenly, I grab the poinsettia and run.

  Have you noticed how often I end up running away? I wonder if it means anything?

  CHAPTER 8

  I walk back to the office with the poinsettia. Noone says a word when I come in. They pretend to be absorbed in their work, but I see their eyes track me across the room. I put the plant on the corner of my desk and sit down. Only Julie acknowledges that I am even there at all. She smiles nervously at me from behind her desk.

  "Bracts," I say to noone in particular.

  Curiosity gets the better of the others and they stop their writing and look towards me.

  "Bracts," I say again. "Not flowers at all. There is a flower, but it's tiny and insignificant. These large red petals are actually leaves. Modified leaves, called bracts. Not a lot of people know that."

  Julie smiles encouragingly at me. The others just stare and say nothing.

  "Spray them with hormones, you know, to bring them into colour early. Otherwise they don't flower until they are about six feet tall. Too big then for your normal sized living room. Just imagine having a six foot tall plant on your desk. Could hide anything. A pygmy could get lost in a plant that size. Useful things hormones."

  The others exchange meaningful glances. There is some sniggering, but Julie doesn't join in. She smiles at me again. "Would you like some coffee, Mr F?" she asks.

  "Yes, please," I reply.

  Mr Hudson comes through from his office. "Oh, I see you've decided to come back then Fletcher. Glad you could make it. Feeling better now are we?"

  "Yes thankyou, Mr Hudson. I think some fresh air was all that I needed."

  "Well you'd better get on with it then. You can take care of this for a start."

  He passes me a note with a name and a phone number. "She was most particular that you deal with this, Fletcher. Can't think why, but she said she wouldn't talk to anyone else. A Mrs Carrol."