The Other Things

by Jonathan Dransfield

  ‘Oh, Jones, it’s you!’ she whispered with relief, and squatted down to pet the cat. It suddenly hissed at a sound behind her and straining her eyes in the darkness, she discerned a crouching shadow hiding under the desk. The figure seemed to glow and unfurl, and, panicking, she rushed for the door as it too shot in the same direction. An invisible hand shoved her and wheeling round she instinctively swung the rolling pin to defend herself. The startled shriek of pain was followed by a sickening crash as the figure pitched forward against the doorjamb.

  Mr Lemon’s consciousness slowly returned, with the smell of coffee and fresh herbs hanging in the candle-lit air and the gentle hands of a woman dressing his scalp. Where the hell was he and how long had he been out? His body felt lifeless, immobile. He strained to move but the police handcuffs binding him to the solid pine chair held firm.

  ‘What’s the point of all that nonsense, then?’ demanded Jane as Lemon stared wildly round the farm kitchen. Outside, he could hear the police sirens and shouting as they ejected the protesters and in the next room the voice of Darko on the phone.

  ‘Yes, sir, there was a whole gang of them and one got into the house… Jane’s shook up but OK and the police are here.’

  Lemon’s groggy eyes rested on a framed print on the wall – ‘The Gates of Paradise 1793’.

  ‘That image is what my husband’s really about, not dogma and hatred like you lot. He may be a scientist… a rocket man, but he’s soulful. It seems to catch his sense of wonder.’

  The whistle of the kettle on the hob blew and Jane fetched a bowl of hot water.

  She proffered the sweet tea to the lips of the recumbent figure and bathed his head once again.

  ‘Why don’t you nutters leave us alone!’

  Lemon protested, ‘I’m not one of them. I’m a reporter. My press card’s in my wallet.’

  She carefully took the wallet out of his pocket and there was his photograph on a ‘Pure News’ press card. With sudden recognition Jane blurted out, ‘You’ve been here before, the telecom man! You advertised my house to every loony in the country and now look what’s happened.’

  She poured the tea away. ‘You’re worse than they are! At least they believe in something. You’re not a reporter, you’re a bloody burglar.’

  Blake, Gates of Paradise

  Chapter 22

  Training

  Icelandic Trout

  The night drew in and the children, having fallen behind, pitched their tents alone by the edge of the twinkling lake.

  They unpacked and made their nests for the night. The storm now a memory, the wind was soft and the temperature mild.

  The question ‘What’s for supper?’ hung in the air. This was the first night they’d have to prepare their own food.

  ‘Bread, noodles and sausage!’ Elin pronounced as she shuffled through their supplies.

  ‘No pork for me!’ protested Mo.

  ‘OK, cheese and tomato pasta?’

  ‘I can’t eat cheese!’ declared Xing.

  Bheki turned his eyes to the starry heaven. ‘Hey, what’s wrong with you? I’ll have both!’

  There was a splash in the shallows.

  ‘Ach! That’s a fish!’

  Thingvellir Lake has some of the best freshwater fishing in the world, famous for its giant trout.

  ‘Hey, what are we waiting for? Find a good stick.’ Bheki delved into his pack and brought out his special purchase. A fishing line and hooks.

  ‘Did you say fish?’

  He picked out feathers from his sleeping bag and bound them to the hook and trace. His friends returned stickless, so he borrowed a carbon-fibre pole from the front of the tent.

  ‘Stay to my left while I cast.’

  The children, like all who watch a fisherman, stood by the lapping waters in keen anticipation.

  ‘Useless on Mars!’ he laughed as he flicked the rod, before setting the fly on his chosen spot. As he cast, an enormous moon rose above the broad horizon, spangling the dark waters.

  Cast after cast he made, well-practised in the seasonal streams of the Matopos Hills.

  Then high above the waters, Buzz spotted the unmistakable beacon of the ISS gliding overhead. ‘They’re sending bits of us up there!’

  The children followed his finger.

  ‘Those samples they took; they’re testing them in space! Eugene told me.’

  In the depths a cold body stirred, disturbed from her torpor by a long hunger and the tempting vibration of ready food. The crafty old trout was cautious of figures by the bank, but the storm had left her disorientated, and the yellow moonlight echoed the long summer evenings when the surface swarmed with an insect harvest.

  Her brain was cold and mechanical. Shifting through the information conveyed through scent, vibration and electrical fields, she created a map of the murky world, letting her instincts home in on her prey or avoid danger, long before her fish eyes focused on these objects of desire or menace.

  Tonight the dark figures on the bank were outshone by the moonbeams spreading through the water.

  Bheki’s skill was to lightly drop the line to mimic the evening dance of the mayfly. The old trout cautiously patrolled the spot, weighing up the odds as she scanned the shimmering surface and the tempting bait. It was not a conscious decision, like choosing a tempting cake. Her conflicting urges tipped into feeding mode and with a silvered flick of her tail she struck, breaking the surface and diving with her nemesis in her pouting mouth.

  Bheki felt the tug and pulled, embedding the hook deep beneath the clamped lips and held firm as the strong body flexed against the line, lunging for the safety of deeper waters.

  A thrill tremored through the row of children as Bheki strained against his foe. There was a flash as the brown-and-blue-speckled form broke the surface and dived. It was enormous, and even in these winter waters, pulses of adrenaline spurred the fish on to fight against its fate.

  It was long and hard but the years of battles with African fish had prepared Bheki well. Exhausted and beaten the creature was finally coaxed into the shore.

  ‘Hey, man! Someone bash it!’ cried Bheki as he kept the line taut against a late escape.

  Buzz looked at Mo; Elin looked at Enza. Frozen, none of the faint hearts moved. With a sudden splash and a squelching thud the spark of life was extinguished. Xing had crashed a rounded rock into the sleek blue scales just above the gills.

  That night ‘The Other Things’ feasted on the fish, sushi-fresh and with beautiful texture and taste. However squeamish Enza had been to kill the fish, she was in her element cooking it. Last season’s wild thyme was gathered and chopped with the raw fish into a trout carpaccio and the fillets were fried in thyme and oil and served with noodles.

  They slept like contented kittens that night, but as the night became day, Enza woke fretting about the remaining fish.

  As she took the remaining fillet off the bones, a voice emanated from the boys’ tent.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get going?’

  ‘Shut uppa, Buzz!’

  ‘We’re totally behind!’

  Then Elin piped up. ‘It’s a test not a competition!’

  He didn’t get it. ‘What’s the difference?’

  ‘Mummia always says not the quickest it is, but who’s best at the work. A race, no one said it was. If we go to Mars, it will be what we do there, not how quickly back we come.’

  She emerged into the cold, misty air and addressed the two tents. ‘We are on an expedition, so work we need to do. Samples I’ll take of the rocks and look for fossils with Mo. Buzz, about bugs you’re supposed to know, so look for them. Xing will help you! Enza, you can record everything. Empty-handed we can’t end up. Bheki, smoke the fish and pack up the gear.’

  ‘Who says she’s the boss?’ moaned Buzz.

  ‘I do,’ affirmed the little girl.

  They left the adults to race each other and spent a cold, moody morning among the rocky outcrops and frozen bogs. Enza eagerly donned her fingerles
s gloves to draw the ‘finds’. Bheki scoured the waterfront for junk. In a cleft was a weathered fragment of tin roofing. Delighted, he then foraged back among the mosses and dry grass.

  Bheki formed the tin sheeting into a funnel to smoke the fish. His sure hands steadied the structure as he carefully hung the side of trout with wire from the top. He coaxed the smouldering vegetation until the peaty smoke billowed merrily out of the cone. He soaked in the warmth as he tended the fire. Then he carefully packed the gear as the pink flesh slowly turned into an aromatic bronze.

  They set off just before noon, following the shoreline as the frigid waters lapped at their feet. Packs groaning with rock samples they headed south until the wide, salty sky and cold Atlantic breeze enveloped their diminutive figures. Bheki proudly carried the fish. He sang as he hiked, forgetting about the cold, but still accustoming himself to the world of a thousand shades of blue and grey. He wondered if the red hues of Mars would feel more like his familiar African palette.

  His song stopped abruptly with a new visual shock. Before him was the coast. The blues, whites and aquamarines were expected, but the beach!

  He’d seen plenty of pictures of the sea, but nothing like this. The sand was jet black and rocks of white ice played games with his vision. It was like a negative world!

  He stood mesmerised and the others stopped with him, then broke with an infectious laughter as he ran skipping through the dark sand, kicking the ice which shattered into explosions of dancing white flakes. They all followed, screaming until they reached the waterline and the crashing breakers.

  There is nothing beyond the line of surf, except the ocean stretching south to the icecap at the bottom of the globe.

  With this vast horizon to their right, they trekked eastwards, crossing the shallow rivers that punctuated the shoreline until they reached the looming slopes of the Eyjafjallajökull glacier as it met the ocean.

  Icelandic Coast

  Exhausted, Buzz tugged Mo’s sleeve. ‘Are we there yet?’

  Mo checked his co-ordinates. ‘Nearly there, innit!’ Then around a bluff they spotted the shapes of the three faithful camper vans laid up by the grey ribbon of a road. He called Magnus to announce their arrival.

  By the time Magnus’s response of ‘Mission Accomplished’ came through, ‘The Other Things’ had been warmly welcomed by the adults and were soon unpacking bags to pool their remaining rations for a celebration dinner. The introduction of the smoked trout transformed the meagre menu.

  Repacking the rocks and mosses, Enza reassured Buzz and Xing. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve drawn the fish to go with your samples.’

  Felix triumphantly winked at Virgil. ‘We won, man!’

  Virgil sported an increasingly perplexed look as they all swapped notes.

  ‘What’s all this about samples?’ he whispered.

  Felix spun round and kicked an ice rock. ‘Damn! Eugene was taking the samples. Weren’t you briefed?’

  ‘I thought it was just a race!’

  Felix shouldered his bag. ‘Quick, man! Grab some rocks and stuff.’

  Tomorrow they’d be heading to the capital to present their reports and for the long-awaited visit to the world-famous Museum of Practical Jokes.

  Rumbling through the untidy suburbs of Reykjavik, they headed for the university. The clean Scandinavian lines made the JPL look like a budget hotel. Magnus and Eugene – now on crutches – welcomed them into a wood-lined lecture theatre.

  They presented their samples and reports, then retired for a short lunch. The excitement was palpable as they set off to the Museum of Practical Jokes. Even Kirsten allowed herself a frisson of anticipation. By luck it was only a short detour off the main road to their final destination, Keflavik airport, so they had plenty of time to enjoy it.

  Since it was founded by Ingolfr Arnason, the people of Iceland have been renowned for their love of practical jokes.

  The long winter evenings have, almost out of necessity, been broken up by fun and japes and as the Icelanders say, ‘If we didn’t have a sense of humour we would all be Danish.’

  Pulling off the barren tarmac, they whisked past an enormous sign.

  Safn Practicla Brandara (the Museum of Practical Jokes)

  As Eugene was on crutches, the vans drew up in the disabled bays of a vast parking lot.

  Eugene limped out as they spotted an arrowed sign.

  Museum – 500m. Remember to pay for your parking – 2,000ISK.

  The children could hardly contain their excitement.

  ‘Come on, Mummia, it’s this way!’ screeched Elin, dragging her along.

  Ingolfr Arnason

  Norwegian Chieftain

  Founded Iceland in 874 AD and made its first practical joke.

  He promised his wife Hallveig Frodesdatter they were moving to America.

  Under grey slabs of cloud, they trudged past ranks of empty bays.

  There was nothing in the distance except a strange-looking kiosk with a blue ‘Botts Hughson Pylsa’ sign and a low pyramid-shaped gift shop.

  Bewildered, the party confronted the bald bearded man standing behind the sizzling onions.

  ‘Where’s the Museum of Practical Jokes?’ demanded Felix.

  ‘The clue’s in the name!’ beamed the hotdogista. The wind moaned as he tapped the side of his nose. ‘It’s a well-known fact that museums only make money out the parking, gift shops and food and we are a practical people… They just cut out the middle man. Never built it.’

  Ingolfr Arnason

  ‘That’s ridiculous!’ retorted Felix.

  ‘The ridiculous is the cornerstone of all humour!’ The man smiled.

  Felix looked puzzled. ‘I thought it was timing!’

  ‘Ah, thanks for reminding me. It’s also shut on Thursdays!’

  Kirsten burst in. ‘How can it be shut on Thursdays if it doesn’t exist?’

  The man stirred his onions. ‘It’s shut every day, of course!’

  Eugene had just caught up. ‘You can’t have a goddamn museum without galleries or exhibits, fella!’

  The poor man looked hurt. ‘That’s how we ran our banking system! The hot dogs are good!’

  As they left the car park, still picking burned onions out of their teeth, Felix pointed to the back of the large entrance sign.

  Thank you for visiting Safn Practicla Brandara

  The world’s first virtual museum (www.thejokesonyou.is).

  Please remember to drive on the left!

  Chapter 23

  The President’s Last Year

  A blank piece of paper stared back at Luther Garvey. His last ‘State of the Union’ speech, his last year in office. Where to start? A culmination of his life’s work then years of lectureships and ceremony. He shook his head at the thought of his high hopes for social reform. Now there was little he could do to salvage his bold ambitions.

  ‘Damn it,’ he muttered, ‘I’m going to enjoy myself… and get that rocket off the ground.’

  He recalled the conversation the vice president, who’d put his hat in the ring for the party nomination but not his commitment to the project. With a grimace he considered the alternative. Although Peggy Tyler hadn’t yet been nominated for the opposition, for a man as experienced as Luther, he considered it a slam dunk. What’s more, he feared she’d give his stable mate more than a run for his money. Either way he had to get the project off the ground before either of them took up the reins. He scanned the room for inspiration. The images of both John and Martin stared back reproachfully. ‘Get on with it, man!’ they seemed to scold.

  Belle came in with a flourish and brought coffee and a piece of fruit. Luther picked up the halved pear by the remains of the stem and eyed it suspiciously. ‘Why the fruit? There’s a bowlful yonder?’

  ‘Because you ignore it, sir, and Wilma had a word with me.’ She stood looking at him, hand on the hip. ‘Remember you’ve got a conference call with Mr Harris and his team.’ Then, with a glance at the bowl again, she said, ‘I th
ink his visit was the only time you’ve touched it!’

  As she left the room she called over her shoulder, ‘I’ll patch you in when everyone’s on board, sir.’

  There was an interminable wait as Ford desperately tried to end his previous call.

  ‘Yes, honey, you’re quite right, can we talk lat… OK, I know it’s important but the president is wai… Yes, I know it was his bl… idea, but I can’t say that to him… Yes, sweetheart, I’ll try to bring it up… I mean, I will. OK. Yes… Yes… I love you!’ Ford put the phone down with a sheepish look to his colleagues who were pretending not to notice.

  When the conference finally started Luther was feeling decidedly tetchy. ‘I hope your comms will be snappier on the mission!’

  Ford flustered apologetically. ‘I’m sorry, sir, it’s just that Jane, my wife, came through on the line and I thought it was the conference call. She was a bit upset!’

  ‘Upset?’ quizzed the president.

  ‘Yes, well, more like a bit furious! It was difficult getting her off.’

  Luther looked at the cameo on his desk. ‘Well, Wilma’s never a bit furious, she only has one setting. I guess it’s about security… Well, I don’t blame her.’ Luther tapped the phone to gain attention.

  ‘Hello, Manny, you there? Let’s talk about security. What about Ford’s wife?’

  ‘I think Jane would be safer with Ford in LA. The press have made her address known to everybody and the farm’s too big to guard discreetly.’

  Luther tapped the phone again. ‘Stephen, what about you? How come you’ve slipped off to China?’