The Limpet Syndrome

by Tony Moyle

  “Us?”

  “Yes, me and John.”

  “John’s gone…hasn’t he?” Herb inquired cautiously, in case he’d come back without his knowledge.

  “Yes, of course, totally.”

  “So why do you look so miserable? You should be happy. This means you can go back to normality, or at least your version of it. On top of that we…” He stopped himself. “I mean you, can make a shedload of money by selling the story.”

  “There’s more in the letter. It says in recognition of the Prime Minister’s generosity, and as a condition of the agreement, I must stop seeing Faith. In fact, it’s a bit stronger than that. There’s something about an unusual technique for the removal of a vital reproductive organ if I even attempt to see her again.”

  “She’s just a girl, Nash, give it up,” said Herb, attempting to offer consolation whilst at the same time being quite pleased with this second clause.

  “Well, I guess he’s not the Prime Minister anymore, what can he do to me now? As long as we don’t get caught.”

  Before Herb had the chance to argue there was a deep and loud knock at the front door. Nash waited to see if there was any likelihood that Herb might get up to answer it. There wasn’t. Nash got to his feet, wondering how long he might remain as his friend’s permanent servant. For the first time in a week he opened the door unconcerned as to what or who might wait on the other side. At least until he saw who it was. The doorway and its occupant fell away from Nash as his body went limp, his mind went blank and his head hit the tiled hallway.

  *****

  Ten minutes had passed before Nash came around. A deep, throbbing pain stabbed at the back of his head as the living room and its contents span like a kaleidoscope. Propped up by the leather sofa, that had until recently housed the incapacitated Herb, he tried to focus his muddled vision on the two characters above him.

  “Are you all right, Nash?” came a voice that even in his current state he knew immediately was not Herb’s recognisable Scottish accent. Rubbing his head in a vain attempt to restore his vision, he noticed that the figure gazing down at him was doing likewise to his own head. Eventually the man came into focus.

  “Oh shit!”

  Nash jumped out of his seat and, like a spider retreating from a rolled-up newspaper, scurried to the other side of the room. With the composure and skill of an astronaut who had just had his first experience of the Vomit Comet, he picked up a fire poker and brandished it in no particular direction.

  “I haven’t seen her. She’s not been here, I promise. Herb, hide the cheese grater, quick!” he shouted in reference to the distinctive threat outlined in the letter.

  “I see you got my message,” replied Byron calmly, quite unsurprised by Nash’s reaction to seeing him. “I’m not here to hurt you, Nash. I need your help.”

  “What do you want from me, Prime Minister?” uttered Nash feebly, keeping the fire poker outstretched, still wobbling it about inoffensively in mid-air.

  “I’m not the Prime Minister anymore.”

  “What do you want, Byron?” rephrased Nash.

  “No, I’m not Byron either.”

  “What?” said Nash, examining the bump on his head again in order to check whether the extent of the damage was escalating.

  “I understand twins often have such a close bond that they often feel pain or emotion when the other experiences it,” said Byron, removing his hand from his skull to expose a trickle of blood. “It’s interesting but I never believed it before today. Do you see what I’m getting at, Nash?”

  “You’re my twin?” bemused Nash, with a shrug.

  “No,” Byron sighed. “I was making a comparison, that’s all. Having occupied your body for so long, when you fainted to the floor I mirrored your pain quite psychosomatically. They did say there were some side effects, I just assumed that they would only affect you.”

  “John?” Nash lowered his weapon and cautiously approached Byron to check his instincts. “How? Why?”

  “How? Almost the same way that I encountered you. But this time I chose Byron and found a way to control him completely. Why? Well, it was the only way to stop him winning.”

  “So was it you that sent me the letter?”

  “Yes, I wanted to put things right.”

  “But why did you threaten me?”

  John had no way of knowing at the time of writing Nash’s pardon that he would ever see him again. His decision to ward off Nash from seeing Faith was John’s first selfish act. After all, his soul was still human, he was still capable of it. Maybe that’s what was meant by being dead jealous. The truth was he didn’t want anyone to have Faith, although he knew all too well that it was impossible for him to have her either, whether due to his condition or hers.

  “She’s not the same anymore. Byron used her to test Emorfed. It must have been after she left here and before I got to Byron,” John replied apologetically. “She will be protected and concealed, in case her disorder is discovered and she is exploited by less virtuous people.”

  “I could protect her,” answered Nash.

  “She’s away from both of us now.”

  “Why should she fear me?”

  “The truth is that she is now incapable of showing you the same love that you do to her. I asked her about you, Nash. She doesn’t feel anything for you. I’m sorry, but I’m protecting you as much as I am her.”

  Nash dropped the poker to the floor and slumped against the sofa, sobbing uncontrollably. Even though he was a renowned womaniser who had accumulated a collection of beautiful groupies in every town from Bangor to Bognor, in truth it was all part of an image that he himself had helped to create. Of course, he never complained. But secretly deep down he knew it was a false persona. Faith wasn’t just another sycophantic fan, sculpted from a stockpile of silicon and cosmetics. Nor was it the taboo and triumph of bedding the Prime Minister’s daughter that made her different. There was real affection between them. So much so it had been one of the motivations for him cleaning up his act.

  Nash wiped his tears and appealed to the room for comfort. Herb was sitting completely still and upright in a Georgian antique chair in the corner of the room. The colour had drained from his body and he was no longer sweating profusely.

  “Another cup of tea, Herb?” Nash offered, believing this to be no more than one of his ‘odd’ moments.

  “Where did the shadow come from?”

  Herb replied with a tone of voice characteristically familiar to John. He’d heard it only two days before. He knelt down at Herb’s feet, knowing that the darkness that Herb was experiencing would disable him from seeing more than a few feet.

  “I see you, John. You’re back,” stated Herb, groping forward to allow his hands to confirm what he believed his eyes were seeing.

  “How can you see me?”

  “The shadow is drawing in on me. I can feel it in my bones. It surrounds you also. Your soul has been ripped in two. The energy is burning you up. Right there,” came Herb’s one-dimensional reply as he placed a finger on John’s forehead.

  “What do you mean it’s been ripped in two?”

  “John…your soul is burning out,” added Herb.

  “What’s wrong with him?” asked Nash.

  “Has he drunk the water?” inquired John.

  “He’s drinking thirty cups of tea a day. I just forgot about the warning,” replied Nash. “I thought it would be fine if I was boiling the water.”

  “No. I’m afraid not. The Herb that you know has just left us. This is what Faith has become also. This is why you will find no happiness with her.”

  “What have I done to him?” sobbed Nash once more, placing a hand on Herb’s shoulder but producing no reaction.

  “You have removed his pain,” replied John, “but at a price. You can’t help him now.”

  “I’m sorry, Herb, I love you like a father. I wanted so much to help you. I wanted so much for you to be proud of me.”

  Herb remained
vacant as Nash hugged his waist, desperately trying to defibrillate a positive reaction. Nash hated himself. Why was it that only now he told him how he felt? Now, when it was too late.

  “Nash, there is more suffering on its way. You can’t help Herb, but you can help me,” demanded John.

  “What help can I be? I can’t even look after my friends.”

  “I need you to call Syd. Get him to ready his plane for one last flight.”

  “Where are we going?” asked Nash, rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.

  “Switzerland.”

  The eyes rolled in Nash’s head, his body crumpled like a concertina and once again he hit the floor.

  *****

  It was late evening on Thursday the nineteenth of June when Nash pulled up at Fairfax airfield, parking Herb’s pride and joy at an angle that monopolised three parking spaces. The gash on the front of his head throbbed in perfect harmony with the one on the other side of it. Anyone not familiar with the activities of the last few hours would quite reasonably believe he’d recently been through a poorly performed lobotomy. The rotor blades of Syd’s now familiar Cessna plane were already whizzing around impatiently, confirming the request for a swift and immediate departure. As John and Nash navigated their way across the runway, a third passenger was standing impatiently on the tarmac.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” Sandy cooed.

  “Well, we had a little trouble with a patient,” replied John.

  “This will be the other one, then,” muttered Nash trivially. Once you’d seen one talking pigeon, the novelty wore off somewhat.

  “Yes, this is the other pigeon,” John replied. “Any trouble getting here, Sandy?”

  “No, I took the train. The wing wasn’t up to flying yet,” replied Sandy, meekly trying to raise his damaged limb.

  “Wasn’t that a little risky?” asked John, who had a vision of Sandy sitting in first-class alongside the pristine-suited businesspeople, reading The Times and commenting on the ‘bloody railways’.

  “I didn’t travel in the train, I travelled on it. Quite a rush, I can tell you,” replied Sandy, noticeably more fluffed up than usual.

  “Come on let’s get on-board,” said John.

  “Nash, you’ve done enough. I see no reason for you to come with us. Thank you. You helped save humanity.”

  “I like that,” said Nash. “You’ve just given me a name for my new album. Don’t take offence, John, but I do hope we don’t meet again, it’s just getting too painful.”

  “None taken. Good luck with everything.”

  “You, too,” answered Nash, as Sandy and John made their way up the short mobile staircase and onto the plane. Not content with the assumption that this time John would leave him for good, he waited to see the plane take off and be fully reassured.

  “I think it might be best if you make yourself scarce, Sandy. I find it tiresome having to explain why you can talk,” suggested John, as they entered the plane and saw no obvious sign of Syd.

  “I’ll find somewhere quiet,” agreed Sandy.

  “Syd, we’re ready to go,” shouted John as he approached the door of the cockpit. It swung open to meet him, but it wasn’t Syd. Wearing a blue boiler suit that no longer sported a security badge, Victor Serpo was brandishing a pistol complete with silencer.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Short holiday,” replied John timidly, reminding himself that as far as Victor was concerned he was still Byron, at least visually.

  “Where is your companion?” demanded Victor, eyes unwavering from his target.

  “What companion?”

  “I think, ‘We’re ready to go,’ was the shout, was it not? Where is your feathered friend?”

  “Look, this is between me and you, not him,” replied John.

  “Probably, but that depends on who you really are. This is certainly not between me and Byron. It is clear to me that the real Byron would not have relinquished power quite so readily.” Victor took a bottle of pills from his trouser pocket and swallowed a few of the orange tablets as he continued to keep the gun and his eyes transfixed on his prey.

  “Stressed?” asked John.

  “Never,” replied Victor. “They suppress my little problem. There will be no distractions. I will not allow you to escape from me this time.”

  John was not in a position of strength. In front of him was one of most lethal individuals on the planet, who, to make matters worse, was carrying an extremely quiet gun. That person had just been framed for a major government deception live on national television by Byron. It was understandable why Victor might be miffed. John had clearly discovered a newfound ability to annoy people. The facts were simple. Victor had a weapon and in response he had a first-class degree in bullshit and a talking bird. First things first.

  “Look, you’re right. I’m not Byron, at least not totally. You and I have met before, although you would not recognise me even then. At 12, Blackhorse Way, the day we caught Ian, I was possessing Nash Stevens. What I learnt that night convinced me that I had to stop Byron going through with Emorfed. I was right to do that. Have you seen what it does, Victor? I have and it’s not fun,” explained John, waiting to see if any of this information was going to make sense to his opponent.

  “You must be John Hewson?” remarked Victor. “I don’t know who John Hewson is, or what he’s doing here. But I’m going to put a stop to it.”

  “Ha! You have no idea how stupid that sounds,” laughed John, partly amused and partly stalling. “This goes way above your head, a power at work that even I don’t properly understand. How do you intend on stopping me?”

  “Well, you may have noticed that I am holding a gun,” replied Victor sarcastically, “and you are not.”

  “Right, and what good will that do exactly?”

  “I’ll kill you, you moron,” Agent 15 snarled angrily. He’d never been mocked in this way before, at least not by someone standing in his cross hairs.

  “No, you won’t. You would kill Byron. Now that may be no great loss for either of us, but in effect you might as well turn the gun on yourself. If I don’t get Sandy back to where he belongs by Saturday we’re all dead. If you were stupid enough to pull that trigger the first thing you would see was a dead body and moments later you would see a blue cloud of electricity hovering above it. Then that cloud, me, would be gone. What’s more, there’s nothing stopping me coming back as you. That’s the power you are up against.”

  “Maybe I’m willing to prove you right. All I want is the bird, then I can clear my name and regain my place.”

  “Is power all you care about, Victor? Is it that important to you?”

  “Yes,” he replied without flinching. “I had everything and everyone that I wanted. I changed lives with the flip of a coin, brought down governments and destroyed institutions. That’s real power.”

  “As I have recently found out, there’s nothing that humanity really controls. It’s a fantasy, an illusion,” replied John, running out of ways to break down Victor’s granite-thick dogma.

  “The bird,” Victor commanded again, clicking the safety catch on his gun in a threatening manner.

  “And if I hand him over, what would you do then? Try to convince whoever has been re-elected that in some way a pigeon was responsible for the Emorfed fiasco? I think I might stick around, it might be quite entertaining. You’ll be in the loony bin quicker than you can say ‘split personality’,” added John, growing in confidence and urgency.

  There are definitely things that you shouldn’t do when someone with limited tolerance and a total disregard for life points a gun at you. One of them is to suggest defeat. It tends to result in the last mistake that you ever make. John had pushed Victor too far. But whether by luck, chance or fate, several events happened at once.

  The daylight that had been seeping in through the aircraft’s windows was suddenly muted as a dark swarm flapped against the glass. A ferocious army of winged soldiers pecked desperately against the
windows in a concerted attempt to break the glass. Through the cacophony of noise, Victor made his way to the side door to see what the commotion was. As he opened it a stream of pigeons finally broke through, joined at that very moment by Sandy from an overhead locker. He’d been listening intently to the conversation, waiting for the right moment to make an entrance. This audible sign seemed as good as any.

  The sudden appearance of so many birds presented Victor with a difficult dilemma. What did he aim his gun at? One pigeon, or the mass that were now trying to squeeze in through the opened door? He didn’t get the chance to decide. A lump of wood came flying through the door. It clobbered him on the back of the head and knocked him to the ground. In a last-gasp act of retaliation an instinctive shot discharged from Victor’s gun, smashing through one of the windows.

  Sandy swooped down and plucked the gun from Victor’s hand whilst John launched Byron’s huge frame onto the beleaguered and damaged secret agent. As more birds swarmed into the aircraft, John tried to establish what had just happened. There in the doorway was Nash. In one hand, hanging from a piece of rope, were the airplane chocks. The other hand was flapping wildly to stop the mob of pigeons from messing up his hair. Sandy recognised the pigeons instantly as his valley relatives. Forever they’d been following him, trying to protect him as one of their own.

  “Get off me, fatty,” Victor shouted, wriggling about to escape the one-man pile-on.

  “Don’t just stand there, Nash. Get some rope,” John shouted. Victor was tied and gagged securely before what had happened was properly dissected.

  “Where did you come from? Not that I am not eternally grateful, you understand,” said John.

  “I think you might be right about that bond between us, John,” replied Nash. “I was standing there waiting for you to take off and I felt this inexplicable sense of danger. Not mine, but yours. Something was telling me to go to the plane.”