by Frank Lamour
Like much of the main house it was sparsely furnished. A rickety dresser, a couple of book shelves stacked with a good quantity of books and walls covered with vibrant and psychedelic posters, throws and hangings. There was also, which seemed a little out of place in the room, a large flat screen TV over in one corner, under which Don saw an X-box and controllers.
A freakishly tall guy, no doubt the infamous Thornapple, was sat in a beanbag. He was facing away from Don, towards the window, in front of him was a low wooden table over which his was hunched and fumbling with a pack of cards.
Don entered, still making sure to keep in mind to scan the room, both for any sign of a flour or mealie meal bag, and any way of getting back in here. Aside from the dresser, and maybe the kitchen cabinets, he so far, at least in this room, didn’t see where else the money could be kept.
Thornapple turned to Don, and gestured. “Pull up a pew.”
Don headed in to take a seat in the beanbag on the opposite side of the table, facing Thornapple.
The man was maybe about forty, thin, slim head, long neck. It was hard to pin down his exact height as he was sitting, but Don would have guessed close to seven foot. Maybe handsome in his youth but now looking a bit worn around the edges. He had a huge grey patch on the one side of his head, the rest of his straight hair was dark.
He was barefoot wearing a pair of muted green boardshorts, no shirt. He had number of intricately patterned monochrome tattoos on his body, too difficult to detail at a glance, a pair of huge tunnels in his ears.
Around his neck was hung a black, filthy looking leather drawstring bag. The man’s eyes were locked on Don’s eyes.
Don felt a degree of distress meeting Thornapple’s gaze, and did his best for now to avoid extending the experience for too long.
In front of the guru was a low carved wooden table on which, at a glance, Don took in a variety of exotic and esoteric looking paraphernalia, as well as a rolled-up wad of toilet paper.
From the table the tall man now picked up a bottle of green powder and emptied a tiny amount into his palm. He then picked up what to Don looked like a three-jointed pipe. Made of some kind of bone or ivory, it was fixed together at the junctions with a black, clay-like substance. To the body of the pipe was attached an impressively detailed carving of a goat’s head.
Thornapple stuffed the powder down into one end of the pipe. “You want to try some?” he said.
“What is it?”
“It encourages protective spirits. Don’t worry it’s not gonna fuck you up or anything.”
“Uh, okay,” Don said, although still very uncertain.
“Okay, lean forward,” Thornapple said. “When I blow out, close your throat,” Thornapple said.
Still not entirely sure what the plan was, Don nodded anyway, hoping he’d get the gist as things went along. The vegetalista placed one end of the pipe in his mouth then directed the other end up to Don’s left nostril. Don could see the little goat’s head on the pipe now staring menacingly at him.
“Close your throat,” Thornapple said again.
Don approximated as best as possible what felt like closing his throat as Thornapple blew slowly but firmly into the pipe sending the powder up into Don’s nostril. Don unfortunately chancing to look at the vegetalista’s burnt out eyes as he did.
“Now inhale,” Thornapple said.
Don did and felt the burn immediately. An intense pain was tearing up his left sinus cavity. His eyes began watering, vile tasting stuff dripping post-nasally down in to his throat.
Thornapple picked up the wadge of toilet paper and handed it to Don, which Don took it gratefully, wiping at the mucous that was now beginning flow.
He saw Thornapple was now packing the pipe with more of the green powder. Christ.
“Breathe out,” Thornapple said. “Remember to close your…”
“Throat,” Don nodded.
Thornapple nodded and sent the second quantity of awful stuff up Don’s right nostril.
“Inhale,” Thornapple said.
Although the pain was increasing, it was at least balanced out now, Don thought, the whole nasal cavity on fire, Thornapple and the room a blur through his tears. Don wiped at his nose again with the toilet tissue. Dirt coloured mucous was now flowing freely. He spat out some the junk dripping back into his mouth.
“It burns,” was the most constructive thing Don could think of to say. After a few moments the pain started to subside, and Don actually started to feel okay. The stuff began to seem to warm him up. Just the awful taste and constant dripping of his nose was unpleasant.
The toilet paper Thornapple had given him was rapidly saturating and there didn’t seem to be any more on the table.
“Have you got a bathroom here?” Don asked.
Thornapple indicated the door to his left. Don got up and stumbled through the doorway.
Through his tears Don briefly made out a large bed with black sheets dominating the space. To the left of the door a tall freestanding cupboard. To the right a chest of drawers. Diagonally on the opposite side of the room was another door which Don pushed through to find the bathroom.
A small room with a basic built in tub, toilet and basin. Don headed over to the basin and started to hock up as much of the stuff as he could. Nose still burning but the pain subsiding. Almost pleasant now. A kind of stimulant feeling. Sort of warming. Dirty mucous still running he ejected as much as he could into the sink, washing his hands and face with water to get rid of the slime.
After about half a minute the worst was over. The drip seemed to have eased up for now. Don splashed his face again with water. He washed his hands and then dried face and hands with a hand towel that was already disconcertingly damp.
Despite Thornapple’s assurance that the stuff was not hallucinogenic, Don was still unsure. Perhaps the guy used drugs to make meeting him seem more significant? Wasn’t there some sort of thing like that in one of the Ancient Greek mystery cults? Weren’t they were supposed have used a hallucinogenic drug to create a sense of the sublime in their adherents? Was he going to start tripping out?
He had to stay on course. Was there any point of entry through the bathroom? Out of one toilet into the other? A bit Freudian, Don thought. He recalled now reading somewhere that in a dream the bathroom was a symbol of change.
There was a largish window above the bath. Thinking it might be an option, if he could get a ladder up to it somehow, he examined the bars.
These though were unlike those in the bathroom in the house, being solidly welded in. The outbuilding had obviously been constructed much more recently than the main house.
He tested it anyway, yanking hard at the metalwork, trying to pull it free from its moorings. It felt pretty secure.
“How you doing?” Don heard Thornapple calling from the front room.
“Uh, good,” Don mumbled. He flushed the soaked toilet paper in the bowl, then rolled out some more and stuffed it in his pocket, sure his nose would start running again.
On the way back through the bedroom Don took the chance to sneak a peek in the cupboard. It was too filled with junk to make much sense of anything. On the top shelf, under some blankets, Don made out what looked like metal pipes of some sort but couldn’t really work out exactly what they were.
He closed the cupboard again, not wanting to take too long, but then stopped briefly at the chest of drawers. On top, amongst the knick-knacks, was a bowl filled with some coins, crystals and a small bunch of keys. Without thinking about it, Don lifted the keys and stuffed them in his pocket, holding them tight so they wouldn’t jingle.
Through in the living room he collapsed back down into his beanbag.
Thornapple had the set of cards out again, and was busy laying them out, picking them up and dextrously shuffling.
They were Tarot cards but no kind of pack Don was familiar with. He’d dabbled at one point for about a week with the Ryder-Waite-Colman deck and accompanying book. These though looked very s
inister.
“Did you puke?” Thornapple asked, looking concerned.
“Uh, no,” Don said. “I’m okay. I feel good.”
Thornapple nodded, seemingly satisfied, and continued shuffling the cards. “You didn’t have to make a donation just to get to see me,” he said. “I was just about to call for you anyway.”
“No, no,” Don said. It’s just that I’ve got a bit of money left. I wanted to be part of this. You know?”
“How much?”
“Well about five thousand,” Don said. He had nothing like that of course, but was hoping he would be out of here before it came to it.
“You had a cat problem?”
“Uh, yeh.”
“Not that common for addicts to have that much cash lying around,” Thornapple said.
Don tried to come up with an answer but suddenly couldn’t seem to. While he was still trying to think of a comeback Thornapple handed him the deck of cards. “Have a shuffle,” he said. “Clear your mind as you’re doing it.”
Don nodded and took the deck. He shuffled the cards in silence. The room eerily quiet. Don wondered if he felt a little bit of nausea coming on from the snuff. He handed the deck back towards Thornapple.
“Set them down on the table, ‘seblief,” Thornapple said.
Don did so.
“Now cut the deck in three.”
Don did.
Thornapple piled the stacks of cards one back on the other and then began removing cards from the top, laying them out, seemingly haphazardly on the small table. The pipe and snuff paraphernalia Don saw had now been put into a carved wooden box and sat on the carpet, next to the table.
Thornapple stared at the laid-out cards what felt like for a very long time.
“You’ve come from a forest?” Thornapple said.
“Uh…” Don wasn’t entirely sure if it was a question. Did he mean metaphorically? “Yeh,” Don offered.
The room fell into what felt like a long silence again.
“Is that the death card?” Don said, pointing to a card with a grim reaper looking figure on, a bit concerned, but also just wanting to break a sudden odd, oppressive feeling.
Thornapple nodded.
“But it doesn’t mean real death? Just change or something?” Don said.
Thornapple spent another few moments staring at the deck then suddenly said, “Uh… let’s not worry with the cards,” deftly scooping them up and putting them back into the deck which he began to shuffle the pack agitatedly.
Don was not sure what to make of this.
Thornapple now rose, still shuffling the cards. He moved over to the window, pushed back the curtain and stared out, looking very concerned about… something. “Is that someone out there?” he asked finally after some time gazing out into the twilight.
Don stood, tried to work out what the hell the man was looking at but couldn’t see anything but the empty garden and some of the street. He was beginning to feel very creeped out, and not a little unwell.
Thornapple now lifted his head to stare up at the blackening sky. “You know about mind parasites?” he asked suddenly, turning and seeming to forget all about what may or may not have been outside.
“Uh. No,” Don said, by now feeling pretty weird.
Thornapple headed back to his beanbag. Don followed suit, returning to his own seat.
“What most people aren’t aware of is that we are in constant contact with entities,” Thornapple continued. “Some benevolent some malevolent. Angelic beings, elementals, mind parasites, constantly influence what we say and do. The subtle body, as I’m sure you are aware, has a number of energy centres, chakras, where the nadis intersect in greater number. In some instances these can grow brighter than normal and sometimes parasites see these lights and become attracted to them. They attach to them as food sources. You know what I’m saying?”
Don wasn’t really sure but nodded anyway.
“Drugs are one of the technologies that can cause these centres, these junctures, to burn brighter,” Thornapple continued. “Which one depends a lot on which drug. Amphetamines are particularly insidious. The burn is in your dick and your prostate and your tailbone area. They stimulate base desires. Necessary for survival but not particularly transcendent. Parasites like these lower ones. They attach and feed on the energy you get from the drug and cause you to want more. Desire more to feed them.” Thornapple straightened. “The plants I work with, stimulate higher centres, re-channel some of the energy, help balance some of this shit out. Forget the cards,” he said. “We’ll sort you out on Saturday.”
◆◆◆
A short time later Don was laying back on his bed. He had his ring-bound book open in front of him but wasn’t reading. A page was open on Katha Edulis that he was staring blankly at, the details of the meeting still turning over in his head.
Now that he thought about it, didn’t Lam, Les’s last name, mean wood or trees? Don vaguely remembered having a conversation with Eunice about it in connection with the name of the bookshop. Eunice being of a sort of etymological bent. But then Les was the “forest”…? But he hadn’t come out of Les. The plan. Maybe Les’s mind. Or maybe it referred to the bookshop? Or had Thornapple had found out who Don was and was now just messing with him? No, no, surely he was just making connections that weren’t there because Thornapple had been built up to have this aura of mystery about him? That was how he sucked people in.
It didn’t matter anyway. He just had to press on with the mission.
On the way out, sky darkening, no one in sight, Don had tested the keys he’d picked up, in the security gate. Two keys looked close to the size and shape, and the second one he tried fitted and turned.
Don had to admit now to himself that all the way up to then he had been pretty doubtful. Once in the House, the situation seemed more real, the job less doable. Scratching the damn windows. Just killing time.
But now he had it. At least a way in.
Now all he needed was for the money to still be there, and not in a safe, and he’d be out of there. And, to Don, Thornapple didn’t seem like a safe kind of guy.
There were a number of places the money could be, he thought, the dresser in the front room, the kitchen cabinets, possibly still somewhere in the cupboard in the bedroom. He just needed to get back in there after everyone was asleep to search.
Sativa and Indica were probably okay enough with him now. It had only been a few days, he would’ve liked a little more time but the longer he had the keys, the more likely the chance was that they would be spotted missing. Thornapple although quite perspicacious in some respects did seem a bit dozy in others. Don thought he might have some time, but he would need to move tonight.
In this regard Don had spent some time while out in the garden choosing a good spot to get over the wall. The gate motor, he’d already checked was padlocked so that was out. Instead, he’d decided on the oak tree near the main gate. It grew right up inside the front wall, its roots even starting to push up some of the wall. If he could make it up to the fork of the tree, Don then thought he should be able to easily enough use the branches to help him negotiate the barbed wire. It had been flattened in some parts and he was sure looked do-able. Tricky, maybe, but do-able.
He’d also now got the idea of enlisting the Shangri-la sensual oil to lessen the squeak in security gate.
Now putting all the pieces together Don also thought of maybe as well using the bathroom mat to cover some of the spikes in the barbed wire. All good ideas. Q branch would be proud.
And if the money wasn’t there. If he couldn’t find it? Don thought maybe he’d just be out of there anyway. There’d be no point in sticking around. Avoid the purge. Maybe just hitchhike out of the city, take his last couple hundred and do his best.
Either way, he was definitely going to be out tonight.
Chapter 15
That night had not gone well.
It had started okay enough. Don had come up with another idea. Worried
about how he was going to wake up in the middle of the night without an alarm, Don had decided to drink as much water as he could and as late as possible. Hopefully, his distended bladder would force him to rouse at least a couple of times during the night.
As long as he didn’t wet the bed, he thought, it would surely qualify as a secret agent level manoeuvre.
So on Friday night, after dinner, most of the House members talking about the purge the next day, many continuously asking Don if he was nervous, making him more nervous, Don had knocked back as much of the old H20 as he could manage.
As soon as the lights went out Don was in bed and ready for sleep but then, as had been per usual of late, he still lay awake staring into the blackness for a good long while.
Don had been running over in his head possibilities of where the money could be. He’d first check the kitchen and the lounge. Then the chest of drawers and the bedroom cupboard. He wasn’t crazy about searching the bedroom cupboard with Thornapple so close asleep in bed. But if behind closed doors, the man was as much of an opiate addict as Hamza had suggested, he might be okay.
The first time that night that Don’s need to urinate had woken him, he had, after being satisfied his roommates were soundly enough asleep, gotten up to check the time. There were few clocks in the house, but he had managed to find one, a small old-fashioned alarm clock, amongst the junk on one of the selves in his shared room.
Now holding it near the window to get some illumination from the lights outside, he made out it was not yet quite eleven. Too early still. He wanted to be sure everyone on the property was as in a deep a sleep as possible. He still had to go urinate though and stumbled off to the toilet, did the business, drank some more water, and then stumbled back into bed.
He was up again at eleven-thirty. Still too early. Don stumbled off again to the toilet and back.
Then after numerous dreams of peeing his pants and urinating in public, his bladder forced him awake again at about 2:35 a.m. It was as good enough a time as he was going to get. (He’d sort been aiming for 3 a.m., remembering having heard somewhere that that was the time when the body dropped to its coldest. Although thinking about it now, wouldn’t that mean people would be stirring at that time, trying to get more snug in their beds?)