by Kerrie Noor
PETE FOLLOWED A WOMAN into the darkness, his feet slipping as he tried to feel his way down several flights of stone stairs. The scent of vanilla wafted up from the bottom of the stairs along with Scottish dance music and chatter from thousands of women—no, millions, thought Pete, talking so fast he could not understand a word. Pete’s heart began to beat fast and hard. What was he walking into? Would they work out who he was or wasn’t, and if they did, would they even care?
The woman in front pushed open a heavy velvet curtain and Pete followed into a stone basement, dimly lit with fairy lights and candles and so smoky that Pete’s eyes began to water—yet another new experience.
It was a small room full of about fifty women of all ages, colors, and sizes: mothers and daughters, sisters and friends, all chatting with excitement. They looked like they were waiting for something amazing to happen. No one noticed Pete walk in.
Pete’s heart seemed to summersault. He walked past the first table and tried not to stare. Beside each table was a water-smoking pipe and on each table was a cake stand full of superb-quality baking—chocolate puffs filled with cream; cupcakes with so much brightly colored icing they could hardly stand it; tray bakes covered in coconut, chocolate, or toffee; and his favorite: tiny bite-size sponges oozing cream with jam dripping down the side.
Pete, however, was too tense to eat and his bra was killing him.
OVER THE FAINT TINKLING of a Scottish accordion, the Operators listened to Pete’s heart beating as he walked into the room. They could not see the women slipping cakes into their lipsticked mouths, sucking on a water pipe and blowing thick clouds of smoke into the air. All they could see was a pile of squashed-up paper, which jostled with each move.
OVER THE FAINT TINKLING of a Scottish accordion, Mex and Bunnie also heard Pete’s heart beating, but neither noticed. They were now several whiskies down and Mex was telling Bunnie about Beryl . . .
“She told the whole world he died,” said Mex. “She put it in the national circular; we even have a National Let’s Hear It for Legless Day.”
“And what do you do,” said Bunnie, “get Legless?”
“She said that sex on Earth was hard on a man.”
“Piffle—take it from one who knows.”
“Who, Izzie?”
They both fell about laughing.
“She hasn’t really thought this through, has she?” said Bunnie. “I mean, he is going to want to come back, interfere, takeover, maybe even get some compensation. After all, he’s been down here a while . . . he’ll know about that sort of thing.”
“Oh, bollocks, bugger, and beetroot, he is gonna want to run the planet or at least sit on the seat,” said Mex, mimicking Beryl. The H-Pad caught her eye—it was a mass of white. She looked at her empty glass. Perhaps she had overdone the whisky . . .
THE WOMAN IN FRONT of Pete took a seat and handed her jacket to an attendant walking by.
Pete had no jacket to hand in; he was wearing a dress coat, leggings, and a fine pair of boots. All of which covered his Teflon-ic robot jumpsuit, which he knew no matter how hot he felt he must not show.
Pete loved his dress coat; it was so much more fun than the boring jumpsuit. The coat had a high neck with fur, large buttons, and a big fake glass brooch that Woody told him to take off but he refused. In fact, he was even thinking of buying similar clip-on earrings, until Woody told him how stupid he would look.
Now, as he looked around at the women sprawled out on chaise lounges like Greek goddesses, he realized that Woody was right. His earrings would have stuck out like a footman in the Operators’ shed. These women coordinated on a subtler level.
Pete searched the room for a place to sit, incognito. He watched the woman in front sprawl out onto a dark velvet chaise lounge, pull a smoking pipe to her lips, and begin to suck. I could do that, he thought and followed suit; he had never lounged before, but it looked a comfortable pastime. As casually as possible, he walked to a dark corner of the room and sat down. The chaise lounge was like a rock-hard banana and not comfortable at all, despite how it looked. He tried several lounging poses, each more uncomfortable than the last, until finally he slipped off.
“Here, suck on this, it makes it easier,” said the woman next to him, handing him her water pipe. Pete got to his feet, took her pipe, and inhaled.
“And now for a wee Gay Gordons,” said a male voice from somewhere. The women stopped talking with expectant looks.
“Bring on the kilts,” shouted one woman.
“Ooooh, yes,” shouted another.
The voice from nowhere laughed as the curtain opened from the stage and a band with DJ at the microphone appeared. He waved to the women and they waved back.
“Let’s put the gay into Gordon,” he shouted as the room filled with wolf whistling.
THE OPERATORS ROOM was now full; no one was going home. Frank, thank God, had been switched off, the volume had been turned up, and a pizza with the lot had been ordered.
Chapter Twenty-Five—Dancing Queen with Spoons
“A KILT IS FOR DANCING, spoons are for tossing, and hair is for stroking.” —Identities Manual, chapter one
“We are live,” said DJ, “with Hamish on the accordion, me on spoons, and Nick on drums . . .”
“We’re in the house, let’s make some noise!” shouted Nick, silencing the room in an instant.
“It’s Scottish night,” muttered one woman.
“Kilts and things,” muttered another. “Not bleeding Ibiza.”
“It ceilidh time,” shouted DJ, tossing his spoons into the air with a few musical clicks. “Let’s start with an Autumn Leaves quick-step.” Nick began a drumroll as Hector struck a chord on accordion.
DJ couldn’t hear Frank Sinatra anymore; all he heard was the occasional round of applause after a volley of spoon playing. It spurred him on to louder playing and higher tossing, which spurred Nick to drumroll like a fiend and Hamish to curse under his breath; with a dodgy back it was hard to compete. DJ wondered what they—the women he had been listening to on the plugulator—looked like and if his spoons, appropriately played, would get their curlers rattling, like the great Legless at the washing line.
Maybe he was a chip off the ol’ block after all.
THE IDENTITIES WERE warming up for their kilted entrance, some with stretches and yoga poses, others lunging or lifting their leg into the air. One long lean feller was even doing a headstand, his kilt flopped over his face.
Woody tried not to stare as he listened to a barrage of thoughts about the plugulator, Dunoon, and how many women were out there. He was completely out of his comfort zone, which for him was sitting in café working on a story or, worse, looking at the vacant section. He was in a scenario that no one would believe and was being treated as one of the lads—a new and delicious experience for him. So this is what it’s like, he thought, to be part of a gang. He let out a loud laugh at a joke he didn’t understand and then threw himself into a couple of lunges and a squat.
“Yee-haw, you’re one of us,” came an ESP from the Identity still in a headstand. Woody turned with a thumbs-up as thoughts of Legless began to bombard his senses.
Over the years there had been many stories of Legless’s great coming—always from nowhere special. And now a plugulator had appeared from not exactly nowhere but a town next to nowhere, and the Identities were high with excitement. Maybe this was “it.”
Although what it was was anyone’s guess.
“So totally unexpected,” ESP-ed one to another.
“I know, so out of the blue.”
They talked and joked, occasionally peering around the curtain and pulling “seen anything?” gestures at DJ, who shrugged his shoulders mid spoon tossing.
Of course, no one of the West End connection had a clue about what was under their noses. They assumed that a dwarf like Woody was just that, a dwarf, with a fondness for transvestites; a dwarf so short he couldn’t even reach the kilt-and-survey hander-outer at the door. And Woody blen
ded in so well. He filled his mind with readings of Terry Pratchett to clear it of any incriminating evidence. A perfect choice, as Terry Pratchett was not a favorite with Identities, too complicated and farfetched . . .
I mean, a turtle—laughable.
And who would suspect Pete—a transvestite? Everyone knows transvestites are artists at heart and as harmless as the fatless, sugarless cakes with fatless cream served by Jimmie. No one batted an eyelid at Pete, except to find out where his fake tan came from so they could avoid it like the full-fat, full-sugar cake with full-fat cream and jam that Jimmie no longer served.
PETE POURED HIS TEA and glared at the plugulator thief. The stage was quite a distance and a quick escape unlikely. He looked about the dimmed room. Where is Woody? He sighed and sipped his tea. The thief’s going nowhere, bide your time, he told himself and then wondered if a cake might help.
Identities entered with their kilts swinging about their behinds, showing just enough to make a woman stare and forget her chocolate; it was as seductive as cleavage.
“It’s time for a Strip the Willow,” said DJ.
The women cheered and whistled as DJ began a spirited Gay Gordons.
“Let’s strip that willow dry!” Code for the men to begin to swing their kilts so high the women would forget not only chocolate but how to behave.
Pete watched his pal enter . . .
Woody did his best to follow, but it wasn’t easy; they had long legs and big steps, and he struggled to keep up. By the time they had moved on to the two-step, the men began performing high kicks, and the women squealed with delight, Woody struggled with a strained smile on his face. He had never danced in front of anyone before, not even the mirror, and here he was trying to keep up with giants who were happily showing off their underwear like a cancan dancer in a Western. Woody twirled and completed a few small soft shoe taps followed by a comic bow.
“Well done, luv.”
“He’s so cute.”
“And the underpants—how droll.”
Commando to an Identity means underpants of huge imagination. Underpants that a woman had never seen before: magnificent, colorful, and so much more fun than the real thing. Under the dimmed lights and smoky atmosphere, the phallic characters were lit up with fairy lights, smiley faces, florescent pliable sticks, and expandable unmentionables.
Woody, thanking God for his “I’m a knob” Christmas present boxer shorts, felt safe; the gods must have smiled on him that morning. For that morning Woody was down to his last two clean underpants: “Warning, Nuclear Waste” extra-small, extra-tight Speedos, and these boxers. Thankfully, he had gone for comfort.
The women cheered Woody on, and he began to get into the swing of things, attempting a real man’s cancan—making a mental note to toss out any incriminating underpants once home. The women clapped . . .
“On yer self.”
“Och, the wee man.”
“Higher, higher.”
“Trip the light fantastic,” yelled DJ, and many laughed. “The two-step, the three-step, and the five-and-a-half-step.”
“The side-step, the back-step, and slide-your-leg-up-your-man-step,” yelled the audience.
The Identities began to pull women from their chairs as DJ’s band moved on to a Canadian barn dance. It was danced nothing like Woody remembered from the weddings he’d been to. The Identities dipped and dived, occasionally running their fingers through their partners’ hair, who had become so accustomed to this that they arrived with their loose hair free of anything “stiffening.”
The Identities, despite their size and age, were light on their feet and could manipulate a woman into any step, lift her off her feet, and land her safely, sometimes on their knee as they jumped to the floor in a “will you marry me?” pose. They made Scottish dancing fun and sexy and a women feel like she was sixteen again. Once an Identity placed his hands on a woman’s waist, her body was his and it obeyed every move. All she had to do was look into his eyes and her body was hypnotized into a sense of wistful arousal, just ripe for a connection.
Woody pulled up a chair by Pete.
“I am not sure, but I think if we could hit the lights, I could grab it,” said Pete.
Woody took a sip of Pete’s Earl Grey; apparently it was that or breakfast blend. “We should dance,” he said. “Everyone else is.”
Pete’s Teflon-ic heart skipped a beat—Dance, me? How wonderful! “Do you think we could do a little dipping?” he said. “Over by the band, and then I could flick across and grab . . .”
Woody looked at his partner, and he was just about to tell him that the two of them dipping was physically impossible when Pete was whisked off his feet by Fin.
Fin was an expert waltzer and, with his hand around Pete’s waist, guided him . . . forward one, two, three, four—clap, back two, three, four—clap, skip to the side, and swirl around one, two, three, four. Pete twirled across the floor, so close to DJ he was almost within grabbing reach, and then Pete was whipped away . . .
Woody could see DJ staring at Pete with a “where have I seen that face before?” look.
Woody was about to try and stop Pete, persuade him to retreat into a dark corner, when a woman grabbed him by the arm and scooted onto the floor . . . one, two, three, four, forward and one, two, three, four, back.
“Make this sixty-year-old nurse live again,” she shouted, and Woody didn’t have the heart to argue. She looked into his eyes, waiting for a connection.
Woody smiled, his mind racing—Terry Pratchett, dance steps, look away . . . Adrenaline started to pump through his veins like an electric current. Bugger thought control—oh, bugger. One-step, two-step . . . Terry Pratchett; three-step.
He passed by Pete. “Tone it down,” he hissed. Pete chose not to hear, but the sixty-year-old nurse overheard.
“Tone down what, darling?” she whispered. And Woody, without thinking, went for a dip. He leaned back as far as he could, giving a quick flash of his “I’m a knob” boxers.
The nurse cackled. “I have never dipped one of you before,” she said. “Shall we do it again?”
Fin and Pete twirled around the dance floor like a Strictly Come Dancing couple. Pete was in his element and within minutes the plugulator was forgotten. Pete began to dance like there was no tomorrow; soon the Identities stopped to watch.
Pete wrapped one leg around Fin’s leg, tango style, and leaned back. In fact, he leaned so far back his hair swept the floor.
The Identities clapped, some whistled; the women silently glared—clapping and whistling was what they did—not the men. Pete shimmied his chest, and then he couldn’t help himself; he slid into the splits and jumped up again.
The music stopped. It was too much—even for the Identities.
“No one likes a show-off,” muttered one woman.
I’d recognize those splits anywhere, DJ thought—and Woody heard it.
The drummer, sensing a change in the women’s mood, went for a slower song and shouted, “Let’s have a Wild Mountain Thyme.”
With a suspicious look at Pete, DJ began to sing as Fin pulled Pete close to his chest with a “This is more like it” ESP. The other women, mid tut, turned to their partners and Pete, bewildered, wondered what he had done wrong.
Woody made to sit down but his partner pulled him up. “Where are you going? This is my favorite,” she whispered.
Woody looked into her eyes and, to quote Beryl, thought on his feet: he reached for her hair and ran his fingers through it.
She sighed and closed her eyes. Woody, on his tiptoes, sang into her ear, making the most of her closed eyes, and for a moment it worked.
“Will ye go lassie lassie go and will we all go together . . . around the blooming heather, will ye go lassie go?”
It worked until they were knocked by another couple; she opened her eyes and caught Woody making “we better escape soon” motions with his face to Pete.
“What the frig are you doing?” she snapped.
THE
OPERATORS HEARD it all through Pete’s breast pocket and were trying to make sense of it under the influence of a fair amount of pizza.
Pete’s shimmying was too much for Woody’s phone, which had been safely lodged beneath the underwire of his bra. It slid from the bra and landed on the floor, followed by a trail of toilet paper. Fin, mid twirl, stopped and stared. An Identity of heightened curiosity, he picked up the mobile and poked it.
The Operators saw two brown eyes with very hairy eyebrows glaring into the screen, followed by a tapping with a forefinger that hadn’t seen a manicure in years. A few dropped their pizzas.
“Emergency close down,” shouted the secretary, which of course Pete didn’t hear, but unfortunately the dashboard, which still needed a little tweaking, did and responded, causing the phone to not only vibrate but play Woody’s latest ringtone at full volume . . .
“Shit!” said Pete.
Chapter Twenty-Six—The Exit
“THE BRA, A WEAPON OF illusion, and is best opened after a decent warm-up . . .” —Volume One: The Apparatus of a Woman by Legless
The music stopped as everyone stared at Pete trying to switch off his phone, which was on repeat and blasting through the basement.
“Thought this was a no-phone establishment?” said the sixty-year-old nurse.
“It is,” muttered an Identity.
“Then what’s she got in her bra, tinfoil?”
Fin offered to look but was swiftly ESP-ed back in his place by DJ, who jumped off the stage in a flash—brandishing a spoon in each hand.
DJ had his eyes on Pete from the moment he was up on the dance floor, and he knew from Pete’s first backbend that Pete was the magician from Dunoon. DJ also knew that even before he had a chance to toss his spoons in a drawer his mentor would have Pete swept away like last night’s sponge crumbs—hypnotized, mediated, and story-told into submission.