by Tony Moyle
Jenkins pointed a finger over to the mysterious man sitting in the row in front of John. The fascinated congregation followed the finger.
For the first time the man turned to the row behind him. “Hello, Nash. Sit still. Once I have dealt with this lot, you and I need to have a little chat.”
Lifting the hat from his eyes he let out a droll, sarcastic laugh, still bearing its monotonal quality. Poking his fingers into his eyes, he removed two fake contact lenses before peeling off a fake plastic chin and nose. Finally he removed a small metal object from the inside of his mouth that transformed his voice into something more friendly and welcoming than it had been. He started a one-man, slow hand clap.
“I must congratulate you on your extremely sophisticated, but highly ineffective security. It’s a shame that the real Sandy is no longer able to keep you safe in this place, isn’t it?”
“Who are you?” shouted Violet.
“Oh…ha ha ha…how sad that I know everything about you, Violet, yet you know absolutely nothing about me. Who am I? I’m your worst nightmare. I’m the man that’s about to burn down your organisation and piss on its smouldering remains.”
A number of the crowd had started a silent panic. They’d been sought out and were about to be identified. Some crept quietly towards the doors.
“STAY WHERE YOU ARE,” Agent 15 bellowed. “There is nowhere you can go. The whole place is surrounded by my people. There’s no escape.”
“You’re assuming that you’ll get out of this room with your life,” said Violet quite calmly.
“Oh, I’m scared,” taunted Agent 15.
He’d anticipated the fact that he might be outnumbered by about one to a hundred and that they might attack him. He hadn’t prepared for this possibility, though, because in truth he loved a good scrap, especially if the odds were almost impossibly against him. Maybe Violet had spoken too soon about the power of one.
“What are you going to do, you oversensitive bunch of hippies? You going to throw joss sticks at me, or chant me to death? That’s your problem, you don’t know how to fight properly. You’ve convinced yourself that you can win with words, when everyone else fights with fists. How very pathetic.”
“GET HIM!” Violet shouted to the crowd.
“Oh shitty bollocks,” gasped Agent 15, as a dozen or so of the gathering flung themselves at him from all angles.
Some saw this as an opportunity to retreat to the exits. John saw it as a fantastic opportunity to slip out unseen and look for Ian.
“BACK-UP!” shouted Agent 15 into a concealed radio, as he aimed punches in as many directions as possible.
As John found his way through the melee to the door at the back of the stage, dark-suited agents burst into the meeting hall.
- CHAPTER TWENTY -
THE UNFORTUNATE STUPIDITY OF IAN NOBLE
The clamour of the fight escalating behind John grew faint as he searched everywhere to find Violet’s bedroom. John hoped that the noise of trouble downstairs hadn’t found its way through the corridors and scared off Ian. Only once, a decade or more ago, had John been inside this building and not as far into the property as this. He’d been a somewhat outer member of J.A.W.S. in his youth, his only real connection being his friendship with Sandy Logan. Therefore he had no local knowledge to aid his search. He systematically turned every door handle he found. Each wrong choice hastened the chance that someone followed him.
As he opened doors, scanned rooms and discarded them as dead ends, he thought about what he’d heard in the meeting. The news that a government could effectively change people’s very way of being without them even knowing it sent a deep shiver through his soul. All the while that he had been in his present semi-deceased state he’d had at least some control over his direction. He’d decided to take Brimstone’s deal, chosen who to possess on Earth, and co-ordinated the search for Sandy and Ian. The fact that some of these decisions had gone wrong was merely the consequence of being human.
That was the silent truth of Emorfed. It would stop people making mistakes or taking responsibility for themselves, all basic human conditions. It would affect everyone he knew and cared for. How could he do anything about it? A semi-dead person with a borrowed body was no match for the Prime Minister? It would have to wait. There were other priorities right now.
Success came after he opened the eighth in a long row of doors. Sitting on a double bed with his head stuck in a crisp packet was a bright, pure white and larger than normal pigeon. John had known for some time that Ian and Sandy had become pigeons but he still wasn’t prepared for the reality of it. There was no doubt it was Ian. Who else was able to incapacitate themselves with a snack product?
“Is that you, Violet?” said the pigeon with the crisp packet head, trying ferociously to shake it off. “Can I get some help here?”
“Hello, Ian, I see you’re still getting yourself into the wrong place at the wrong time,” said John, gently lifting the foil bag off his head.
Ian panicked from the instant realisation that not only was this not Violet, it also was another person who knew who he was underneath his feathery disguise. After flying around the room like a hyperventilating balloon for a few seconds, he tried to decide whether this revelation was incredibly good news or unbelievably bad.
“Ian, you won’t recognise me, but it’s John Hewson. I, too, have had things done to me that I don’t fully understand. We are both souls that have become squatters in other bodies. I know how you got like this,” said John, trying as he might to keep track of the randomly spiralling bird.
“How do you know all this?” Ian replied, having finally repositioned himself in the only safe place he knew, on top of the ceiling lamp.
“I have been to the…other side.”
“What, Australia?”
“No…the afterlife,” John answered, remembering Ian’s handicap and trying desperately to remain patient with him. “You have been affected by a phenomenon called the Limpet Syndrome. A human condition driven by a desire for your soul to remain on Earth when the physical body has no life left in it. I don’t fully understand it if I’m honest. The consequence, however, is that the longer you remain on this planet, in this Universe, the more of a threat you are to it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“You never really do, Ian,” replied John sympathetically. “I’ll try to make it simple. In essence, if you stay here the Universe will end. You don’t belong here. You should be dead and the fact that you’re not is making the Universe irritable.”
“I don’t care. I have to stay here. It’s you that doesn’t understand,” said Ian, still not fully accepting of the whole pigeon thing, let alone this new exposé.
“Do you know why your soul remained here?” asked John.
“I think it has something to do with protecting Sandy, but it’s very hazy, just emotions rather than memories.”
John felt a great deal of empathy with Ian. Here was one of only three people in the entire Universe who had been through an ordeal similar to his. Ian, too, had felt the loneliness, wallowed in the confusion, and been consumed by the irrepressible thirst for answers. Experiencing death, whilst retaining certain emotions of a life not quite past but neither ultimately present wasn’t an easy existence. The ultimate pity that he felt for Ian was that he had come to extinguish the flame that still burned brightly inside his soul, still very much alive. Would that make John a murderer? Did he have the courage to take that away from someone? He doubted it. Nothing had changed, he wouldn’t have killed someone in life and that same attitude burnt within his soul, body or no body.
“Ian, the truth is I’ve been sent to bring you and Sandy back to the afterlife. If I don’t then there will be no life at all, for anyone. Your existence is jeopardising every living thing.”
To be told that you could be responsible for the biggest genocide in the history of creation can’t be an easy thing to hear at the best of times, let alone when you’re stuck in an oversiz
ed pigeon suit.
“How do you know all this?” asked Ian.
“I’ve been to Hell, Ian, and have it from a pretty high authority. I’m sorry but I have to take you back there.”
“You realise if you do that, John, there may be no humankind to save?” Although this was uncharacteristically quick thinking, it was also a spontaneous acknowledgement of the truth.
“Do you think Emorfed is the reason why you’re here in the first place, Ian? Maybe you triggered the Limpet Syndrome to stop it destroying humanity?”
“I think between me and Sandy, you’re right,” he replied, still clinging to the lampshade for dear life.
“The irony is by doing that you threatened it in an entirely different way.”
“You may be right, but I must help Sandy.”
Suddenly the bedroom door crashed open against the bookshelf and Ian and John were presented with an entirely different stand-off. Holding the expression of a man who wasn’t going to take any more shit stood a bruised and bloodied Agent 15. Several new experiences had happened to him today that he wasn’t entirely comfortable with, one of which was bleeding. Sure, he saw bleeding a lot. It was what other people did when they stood up to him. But when your own blood was spilt on the actions of a dozen unexpectedly aggressive hippies, you weren’t going to put up with any trouble from a girlie musician and a big pigeon.
“Who’s this joker?” said Ian.
“Joker! Is this a joke?” said Agent 15, pulling a gun from his inside pocket and screwing the silencer in place ready for the shot.
As both of them had reason to believe that the aim would be at them, neither needed much further motivation to scatter. Ian’s escape route from the lampshade started with a perfectly placed nosedive into the bookshelf. He careered into the copy of ‘War and Peace’, that he knew would trigger the opening of the trapdoor. Before John or Agent 15 reacted, Ian had flown through the trapdoor and into the tunnel.
John had to acknowledge that the man in front of him had a gun and was probably prepared to use it. Yet his only chance of finding Sandy was leaving down a secret passage. Agent 15 had to acknowledge that he couldn’t interrogate Nash Stevens if he was dead, and shooting him would create a bag load of paperwork. Having weighed up the options, John made the brave decision to throw himself at the closing trapdoor, just before the door slammed shut behind him.
Before Agent 15 followed in pursuit he had some issues to deal with. One of the only living witnesses to the Emorfed project was getting further away from him, yet his attention was struggling not to be diverted to a much less important wooden object that he’d flung open minutes earlier. If someone else had opened, it then there would be no problem. But when it was his responsibility it was also his destiny on the line. Torn between two priorities, an argument broke out.
“You’re being stupid, nothing’s going to happen if you don’t do it. You’ll be fine,” he muttered schizophrenically to himself. “It’ll only take a few seconds. Isn’t it better to be safe than sorry. No, I’m not going to do it, for once in my life I’m going to leave the fucking door open. Sod the consequences, I’m going after them.”
Unsure which book had been the trigger for the exit, he pulled them from their shelves at random like a burrowing mole. Through tearing paper and buckled spines eventually the trapdoor collapsed into the ground to signal the discovery of the correct one. Clambering down into the darkness his pursuit continued. The chase lasted ten seconds before he’d jumped out of the hole again. Running over to the bedroom door he hastily swung it back and forth three times before emptying a round of bullets into it.
“I need help,” he said to himself, jumping through the trapdoor for a second time, moments before it closed shut again.
*****
As Ian flew down the tunnel towards the park toilets, he, too, had a dilemma to solve. There was so much that he needed to tell Sandy from tonight’s events. But doing so risked bringing a fox into the chicken coop. Which would be worse? It wasn’t Emorfed that had triggered the Limpet Syndrome in him, as he’d confessed to John. It was his stupidity at Tavistock that had triggered it. In all the years that he’d known Sandy, all he wanted to do was prove his worth. To be appreciated for a unique and valued talent. In whatever life he had left it was still achievable. Leading John further from Sandy might be his unique talent, even if that meant sacrificing himself.
As he reached the exit at the far end, he heard the echo of sloshing footsteps from the hollow behind drawing ever closer. There was no trace of the door’s release mechanism as he searched in the darkness. The footsteps were almost upon him. If he couldn’t find the exit, then maybe John would. If he stayed quiet enough he could wait patiently and escape unnoticed.
Unfamiliar with his surroundings and in his haste to catch up, John did not anticipate the end of the tunnel until he ran straight into it. The force of the impact catapulted him off his feet and with a thud he hit the filthy sewage that lined the stone floor.
“Awwwhhh! I can’t see a thing. Ian, are you there? Do you know the way out?” yelped John pathetically.
Ian remained like a statue.
Feeling the walls like a blind man, John crawled to his feet, assuming that Ian had already found his way out and the door had closed behind him. John thumped every brick with his fists, searching for many minutes without success.
“Where’s the bloody exit?”
Befitting of a man who had spent his entire career preparing for such situations, Agent 15’s descent had been much more stealthy. In fact, the first news John received that his adversary was there was the searing pain of a gun handle striking the back of his head, forcing him to be reintroduced to the wet floor. The adrenaline that flowed through John came to an intersection labelled: fright, flight or fight. The slip road labelled ‘fright’ appeared to be already in use, ‘flight’ had roadworks blocking any access, and the only lane free of congestion for his adrenaline to run down was ‘fight’. As it engaged throttle and hit full speed his arms thrashed forward as clenched fists firstly caught brick, then Agent 15’s leg, before finally a left hook landed on something feathery.
Agent 15 switched on his mobile phone. In the glow of the light a man squelched around on all fours punching at invisible foes, whilst next to him a white pigeon lay unconscious with its feet in the air. The illumination made light work of discovering the resting place of the lost exit lever. As he pulled on it, the wall unveiled a filthy toilet cubicle and what smelt like several rotting corpses. As Ian’s brain settled back in place and he regained consciousness, the fuzzy sight of the exit opened up the lane marked ‘flight’. Still disorientated from the punch that had hit him in the dark, he flew straight into the stomach of John Hewson who had just risen to his feet.
John’s adrenaline was still set on fight mode as he grabbed hold of Ian’s scrawny feet. Driven by self-will and a power many multiples more than the lactose available in his muscles, Ian flew towards the exit, pulling John along with him. Agent 15 had a much more annoying instinct flowing through him than fright, flight or fight. Again he’d been responsible for opening the door and the only instinct he heard was the one telling him to ‘quickly open and close the door three times’. Only this time the door had already swung closed and he was on the toilet side of the tunnel.
“Where’s the bloody handle?” he shouted whilst searching the cubicles for a clue. All he found was a semi-conscious, half-dressed woman slouched on the floor next to the sinks.
“Hey, darling, you looking for some fun?” she stammered.
Agent 15 aimed his gun in the woman’s direction. “No. I’m looking for a way to open this door and having gone over the point of frustration, fuck the paperwork, I’d be quite happy to shoot someone. Unless you can tell me how to open this door, then fuck off.”
“I don’t know how to open it, love,” she said, quite unfazed by the possibility of a bullet in the head, “but you’ll never guess what I saw coming out of that toilet earlier tonig
ht.”
“Then enlighten me, you scabby spac granny.”
“A white pigeon covered in shit.”
Without hesitation, Agent 15 launched his hand into the pan.
*****
Ian pulled John with the strength of a Saint Bernard sniffing out a cat. Sadly for Nash, being dragged through the park by a pigeon hadn’t gone unnoticed. Several late-night drunkards rubbed their eyes in astonishment at a grown man being pulled at speed, legs running furiously to keep up, across the park by an overgrown bird. One even used his phone to take a picture of it to endorse his drunken memories during tomorrow morning’s inquisition.
“Ian, stop, let’s talk about this. We’re getting nowhere here. I’ll rephrase that, we are in fact fast approaching the main road. Ian, you need to slow down now.”
“If you want me to slow down, John, then you’ll just have to let go, won’t you?” mumbled Ian, quite out of breath.
They burst through the hedgerow and out onto the main road. There wasn’t much traffic on the road at 2.30 in the morning with one exception. A red double-decker night bus was rounding the corner and heading straight towards them. John had seen it all right, but he wasn’t quite sure if Ian had.
“Ian. Bus. STOP.”
John instinctively let go and stumbled to a halt, wobbling precariously on the kerbside. The sudden reduction in weight had the predictable effect of speeding up Ian’s progress at exactly the same moment as the bus passed by. The bus didn’t stop. When it had driven by there was no sign of Ian’s flattened outline on the road. It wasn’t there because it took up a position that made driving a bus much more challenging. John sprinted down the street after it.
When the bus reached the next stop, to pick up and drop off the night’s stragglers, John was still jogging down the road some fifty metres behind. Poor Ian had evidently been catapulted by the hard braking of the bus and was now spread out on the bus shelter’s concrete floor. John quickened his pace. Maybe Ian was already dead and his soul had disappeared into the ether? When he picked Ian up he rejoiced that the bird was still breathing. On further inspection he diagnosed a broken wing and a beak that was definitely flatter than it had been earlier.