Nurse Becky Gets Shot

by Gary Baker

  'Seriously,' said Roger trying to make amends, 'it all sounds rather simplistic. No consequences. So feel free to do anything without regard for anyone else.'

  'Not quite,' said Meadhill, 'The Founders of The KOPALDA recognised that none of us live … in isolation.'

  'No man is an island?' offered Roger.

  'Each of us needs the assistance and co-operation of others to get through this life. The Founders also recognised that the vast majority of humanity is weak and stupid and needs religions of one kind or another. Like a ham actor needs his audience, the weak mind needs its religion. So The Founders created The KOPALDA. In essence, an association of like-minded individuals. An association with … rules. Rules dedicated to the protection of its members and exploitation of everything else.'

  'I'm sure it's all … ' Roger struggled for words, 'very nice for you and the other members of your KOPALDA, but, from where I'm sat it just sounds like another cult or something inspired by the Da Vinci Code - if you don't mind me saying so.'

  'I don't mind at all which is why I mentioned Schrödinger's cat and the falling tree earlier. The KOPALDA has an answer to these two … questions.'

  'Really?' despite himself, Roger was interested.

  'Yes. The answers are: the cat is either alive or dead, not in some strange potential state. And, yes. The tree does make a noise.'

  'How do you come to those conclusions from the basis that the mind comes to an end at death?' asked Roger. Easy, said Roger C. 'Oh, I see,' said Roger.

  'You do?' asked Meadhill looking puzzled.

  'Yes, I think so. Does your argument run along the lines of: the mind dies so there is no observer for the private thoughts and feelings that mind had? With no observer, the mind should not have existed. But clearly it does. So an observer is not necessary for things, events, anything to happen. This means that observer-less phenomena will, more than likely, follow the same rules as observed phenomena. That is, the cat will have either died or not and the tree will fall with a splendid crash.'

  'Very good,' said Meadhill. 'When I was told about you I must admit I was sceptical. But … '

  Roger felt uncomfortable again. This time, like a mouse being eyed by a big black cat.

  Meadhill stood. 'You must be tired,' he said. 'Let me show you to your room. Shower, rest. There is a change of clothes which will fit. This evening you will meet The Captain for dinner.'

  There was no argument from Roger.

  *

  Roger lay on the bed. The pain behind his sternum came back when he thought about Harry. It seemed like months ago but it was just the other day. Wasn't it?

  That girl who had been shot: it was that … ape's fault. Not his.

  Roger tried to put Harry and the shooting from his mind.

  She was dead. That silly girl with the short skirt and stupid front-only hairstyle. Gone. No pain. No memories. And everything ended in memories didn't it? If there were no memories then it was as good as if it had never happened. Like an operation. You didn't remember the surgeon's knife slicing through your flesh, did you. No memories. No pain. Nothing. So it didn't matter how you died. No matter how much suffering there was during a life, it didn't matter. Because it would not be remembered and so not have happened. Another consciousness would pop along with another newborn baby. Minds come and go. Might as well be the same minds. Maybe they are the same minds. Maybe we're all one big mind. Baby's minds. Which mind gets which baby? Before they're allotted perhaps they're interchangeable.

  Roger had the uneasy memory of a forgotten epiphany. An epiphany where a clear argument could be made for saying that all people are the same person. It was chance that created your physical brain. The mind grows from a chance brain. Therefore they're all the same potential mind.

  The girl no longer existed. He could have done anything to her. Tortured her. Raped her. Made her do anything he felt like. And she would not have remembered. So it would not have mattered.

  He could do anything to anyone. There were no repercussions and the victims; dogs, cats, people; they all died eventually. As good as if it had not happened.

  He could do anything.

  Roger felt something release his chest. Harry would be dead one day. Harry's mind would no longer exist. No memories.

  Roger could do anything he bloody-well liked.

  But if everyone felt that way it would be chaos. The world would cease to exist in its present form. Anarchy.

  But of course.

  Rules.

  You needed rules.

  Co-operation and rules.

  A knock at the door startled Roger.

  Dinner was ready.

  Chapter 4

  Loki somehow unlocked the door, turned the handle and stepped into the room in one, loud move, startling Jennifer into gasping with surprise.

  'Miss me?' he asked, grinning at his success in making Jennifer jump like a startled dik-dik.

  Jennifer sat on the bed, hugging her knees. The fluffy headed monster was back. The opened manual slipped to the floor with a thud making her jump again.

  'Aw, come on,' he pleaded like a repentant lover, 'I bought you a present while I was away.' He stepped back through the door, returning with something covered in plastic on a hanger. A dress?

  'You,' he said, 'are having dinner with The Captain, this evening. And this,' Loki ripped off the plastic cover in one smooth motion, 'is how you're going to impress the arse off him.' He held up a black dress triumphantly.

  Jennifer looked away so he placed the black dress across the back of a chair and took a step towards her.

  'You smell,' he sneered then turned and went back out through the door returning with a small grey plastic vanity case. He approached Jennifer, held the vanity case by its strap on one, long index finger. 'Some ladies' crap in here,' he said, dropping the case onto the bed.

  'Why would they do that?' Jennifer regretted the question instantly.

  Loki narrowed his eyes at her and used a scary, back-of-the-throat voice, 'Be ready in one hour or I'll drag you there by your hair. Oh, I forgot, you don't have hair. Just be ready. Okay?'

  Jennifer fought down the urge to sob. Loki bent towards her.

  'Okay!?' he bellowed.

  Jennifer covered her head with her hands, 'Yes, yes,' she whimpered.

  Her eyes closed, she heard Loki snigger, shut the door then whistling, fade away.

  She looked at the door. 'Not nice,' she whispered.

  The vanity case was filled with shampoos, makeup, perfumes, combs, brushes, a full array of toiletries for the discerning lady.

  Dinner with The Captain? She wasn't on a boat, was she? No. She could hear the faint rumble of traffic.

  She remembered the manual that had slipped to the floor. Lifted it back onto the bed. Reading the Machine Access Codes, the compression algorithms, the cipher matrixes; had been like listening to an old friend. The memories. The tunnels under Admiralty Arch in London. The smell of damp brickwork and cement. The underground rooms. Rooms abandoned after World War Two. Tables with dusty notepads opened to pencilled scrawl. Some rooms held evidence of their former residents. Blurred circles pushed into the old carpets by six-wheeled chairs. Wheeled chairs that had been turned and shuffled by their occupiers for months. Maybe even years. They'd refurbished some of the rooms. Exchanged the smell of the past for the smell of now. Rubber, cleaning fluid, sweat. Some said the ghost of Churchill roamed those tunnels. Some would swear they smelled whisky, cigar smoke, felt an impossible chill. It was Jennifer's happiest time. Let loose with algorithms, patterns, polynomials. The guardians of secrets. The pictures were gorgeous. Data, information, fragmented and split into divine structures dancing chaotically, reforming and swirling through wires and computers, electronic buffers, making Jennifer laugh out loud. Pictures to music. Music to pictures.

  They wanted those secrets. Loki and Heimdall. Maybe they would let her go if she told them. Maybe they would not.

  Control the fear. Deep breaths. Small steps.<
br />
  Jennifer showered and changed and preened and at last looked at herself. Jennifer Penrose, you look like one of those cocktail party hostesses on the TV adverts. More coffee? Another mint? Shame about the scabby head!

  The fear had gone. What could they do to her she hadn't already imagined doing to herself? The fear came back. Oh, yes. That.

  *

  Loki acted the perfect gentleman and escorted Jennifer up stairs to a room with a long, well-polished dining table. Other guests stood around, talking. She kept her gaze low. Sat down. White, silver, glittering glass. Someone was ringing a crystal bell. A bell fairies would sound to welcome their queen. People sat around her. Napkins were unfurled, flapped and placed on knees. Glasses were being filled. Mumbled conversations. God, I hope no one talks to me. What will I say? No one's looking at me.

  Jennifer drank some white wine and hoped her trembling hand wouldn't draw anyone's attention. The glass wobbled against her lip and stung the healing cuts.

  Soup. Fish. Lamb. Crème Brule. Trembling hands. Murmuring conversation all around. No one looked at her.

  A presentation? A fake. A strange fake parchment and an impossible story.

  It was finished. Back to the room. Safe in prison.

  That went well.

  Apart from that fake parchment that is.

  What was all that about?

  Chapter 5

  The size of the gathering surprised Roger. He'd expected just Meadhill and the mysterious Captain. But there were, perhaps, twelve or so people gathered in small groups around a dinning table which would not have looked out of place at a Queen's banquet.

  Through a window which ran the full length of the room, Roger saw it was darkening outside and lights shone on the other side of the river. This was Roger's favourite type of view: lights shining from buildings black against a light blue sky. Long shimmering reflections. Small clues of people. Birds. Here and there a boat. The lights, the dim buildings and bright sky reminded Roger of the Rene Magritte painting, Empire of Light. A daytime sky over a night-time building. Comfortable oddness.

  The view, the smell of good food, the murmured conversations, they were all colluding to make Roger feel even more tired. A hand holding an extra-long match appeared beside him to light a number of candles on the window sill. Following the white clad arm as it continued its task Roger turned from the view then looked back into the room which had momentarily been excluded from his consciousness.

  Meadhill and another man stood on the opposite side of the table, heads bent, deep in conversation. Each man had an almost identical blonde girl clinging to his arm. Each girl stood back slightly from her partner making it clear that, though she clearly belonged with this man, she was giving him space and privacy for his conversation. The girls were exquisite though, with perhaps a little too much makeup. Soft flowing blonde curls, great figures, no, sensational figures. Roger, for the first time in days, was aware he had a penis that wasn't just for peeing through.

  Roger surmised that the man with Meadhill was The Captain. No one else in the room demanded attention in the same way. Middle-aged, grey hair, grey beard, plump. Nothing special to look at really. But there was something about his bearing. His clothes were perfect. The line of his arm as he held a glass. Just the right amount of white cuff on display. A hint of an expensive gold watch. Roger recognised someone he could never be. If you could bottle that …

  And suddenly the man looked straight at Roger. Dark brown eyes that looked like all pupil from across the table. Eyes that saw Roger for who he was. No hint of a smile or recognition. The man turned back to Meadhill, concentrating on what he was saying. Then he looked at Roger again. Taking in whatever Meadhill told him. The dark eyes swallowed his image. Roger felt a flush rising. I'm an exhibit. An object to be discussed free from the encumbrance of empathy with the object. An object with no thoughts, feelings, input, mind.

  There has to be a better word for this feeling than 'uncomfortable', thought Roger.

  One of the white coated waiters who had been lighting candles stood by The Captain and rang a small crystal bell.

  The other guests knew where to sit. Meadhill gestured to Roger to sit at the place on his right. At the head of the table sat The Captain. To his right sat Meadhill. To Meadhill's right sat Roger. To The Captain's left sat an attractive middle-aged lady in a low cut black dress. Excellent cleavage, thought Roger nodding and smiling to her. To her left sat another attractive middle-aged lady in a low cut white dress. Another excellent cleavage, thought Roger nodding and smiling to her. Result. Ms Black and Ms White both smiled back.

  To Roger's right sat the young lady who had been clinging to Meadhill's arm. Roger self-consciously unfolded his napkin then placed it on his lap. He couldn't help but notice that her skirt had risen revealing the lacy black top of her stockings. Don't stare. Look away. Perhaps one quick look. Excellent.

  She was looking at him.

  Shit!

  She smiled. Roger's senses were filled with her sexuality.

  'Hi,' she said through perfect teeth, pink lips and a hint of moist tongue.

  Roger opened his mouth, breath came out but no sound. He coughed.

  'Hi,' he managed. Very smooth, thought Roger B. Shut up.

  The pea and ham soup arrived.

  Meadhill spoke quietly with The Captain. The two ladies across from Roger chatted to each other. The gorgeous creature to Roger's right made conversation with whoever was sat to her right. The other guests produced spasmodic mumblings and the odd laugh.

  Very subdued. Very polite. No one addressed Roger. The occasional eye contact with the Ms Black and Ms White opposite. Avoid looking at those excellent cleavages.

  The soup bowl was removed.

  The stocking-tops to Roger's right drew him like they'd thrown grappling irons in his face, pulling him to look down.

  The white wine was superb. Fresh. Vibrant.

  A small piece of white fish arrived. Delicious. Crunchy cheese on top. Scrumptious.

  'Mr Peerson.'

  Roger wasn't sure if he had heard or imagined his name being spoken. He looked up. The table had fallen silent. He was being studied with interest by Ms Black and Ms White from across the table.

  'Mr Peerson?' It was The Captain.

  'Yes?' Roger put down his knife and fork and dabbed his mouth with his napkin in, what he hoped, was not as self-conscious and effete as it felt.

  'In no way do I intend any disrespect here, but,' The Captain took a sip of his wine, 'would it be possible, and please feel free to say no, would it be possible to ask you one or two questions targeted at your particular … talent?'

  Roger looked round uncertainly. Bring it on, said Roger C. 'Now?' he asked.

  'What is the square root of, say, one thousand and thirty-nine?' said The Captain.

  'Thirty-two point two three three five two two nine two,' said Roger, relaying Roger C's answer.

  A small, Mexican gasp went round the tale.

  'Remarkable,' said The Captain.

  'I could be making it up, of course,' said Roger.

  'He's not making it up.' Ms White, directly opposite Roger, held up a calculator confirming the number.

  The Captain raised his arm and snapped his fingers. The waiters sprang into action and extinguished all candles. A picture on the far wall facing The Captain was taken down revealing a blank white surface. Curtains glided together across the window shutting out the view. A ceiling projector clicked into life throwing a stark bright picture on the wall. Guests partially blocking the image moved their chairs. The shuffling stopped. Silence. Everyone looked at Roger.

  The image was of a very old piece of parchment. A modern 6 inch ruler placed next to it sized it at about the same size as a piece of A4 paper. At first glance, it looked like an extract from a very old bible. A beautifully painted picture of a monk-like figure leaning on a long staff and holding up his right hand in blessing was clearly visible at the top left of the page. What followed, coverin
g practically the whole of the page, was a script of some kind. It was divided into horizontal lines but the characters where very strange. Like Chinese characters built from Egyptian hieroglyphics instead of lines.

  Roger felt numerous pairs of eyes on him. Concentrate on the picture. The lines swam and dissolved and suddenly there was that familiar feeling.

  Roger began to read as if in a trance, 'Knights, alchemists, join great Paracelsus on the one affirming quest. Come kneel before our General in this cryptic right of passage. Knights Of Paracelsus And Latter-Day Alchemists bring redemption to the ignorant mass.'

  Roger stopped, squinted at the image.

  'Well that's what it appears to say,' said Roger, 'though I've no idea what it means.'

  The Captain clicked his fingers. Like time reversed the room assumed its previous state.

  While chairs were being shuffled, Jennifer's familiar voice whispered at the back of Roger's head. 'It's a fake,' she hissed. 'It's using a code developed during World War Two and it's decoding directly into English.'

  Roger wondered for a moment if he had dozed off and was dreaming.

  There was a pause while The Captain studied Roger. Then The Captain stood, pushed back his chair and started to clap. Everyone around the table did likewise. Roger sat stunned as the applause washed over him. People before had said, 'Wow, how do you that?' 'That's amazing.' 'Do something else.' But this, this was different. This was real appreciation. Recognition for what was, after all, an amazing talent. This was what he deserved. The fake parchment had been a test. Hadn't it?

  The rest of the meal was pleasantly intense. Discussing his 'gift', Roger's weariness fell away. Forgetting Julia for a while, Roger almost convinced himself he'd never discussed it so openly before. But more thoughts were crowding in which he tried to push away. They were leading to Harry, and there were problems with his gift. Problems that Julia had helped him with. Problems to do with patterns. Patterns everywhere. Julia had helped Roger keep the patterns out of his way. Roger C had the shield. The key.

  'It really is a voice in my head, you know,' he'd insisted. But everyone had laughed. So he had laughed with them. When the questions fell away about his computational and cryptographic talents it was Roger's turn. He elected to avoid the word 'fake' for now. What was the message on the parchment about? He had worked out The KOPALDA was an acronym of Knights Of Paracelsus And Latter-Day Alchemists, but who was Paracelsus?