Curse of the Potency

by Oliver Franks

  Yet I didn’t want to do that, to break out, be a villain, a fugitive, a pyromaniac, a feared freak. Not if I didn’t have to. That felt like the ultimate way to lose. I simply wanted a peaceful life. A quiet life for me. A place to live, food to eat, PS4 to play, and a place to wee. To be myself.

  But a man can only take so much, can’t he?

  *****

  During that dark time, I thought about calling all sorts of people: Molly, the lads, even my parents. I dreamed of talking to “normal people,” people outside, and having a “normal conversation,” as if somehow contact with the “real world” might help me feel better.

  I couldn’t bring myself to actually call anyone though. My parents had had it with me for good; I was sure of that. The twenty grand worth of damages they’d paid to my landlord had seen to that. To be fair, I’d had it with them long ago too. The lads? Well I knew they’d be scared shitless by what happened, especially with the police and courts getting involved. I could never forget how the silly sods had lied, told the cops they didn’t know what they saw when there was only one way of describing it, really. Acid wee—a strange thing, for sure, but fairly simple to say in English. No, I very much doubted they’d want to talk to me. Martin possibly. He might be missing me, but what good would it do to call anybody anyway? There was no future there.

  Molly was the one I felt the strongest urge to talk to and who I got closest to actually calling. She’d have answers, a way of looking at things. She understood me and my situation. I often stared at her card but chickened out from actually charging my mobile and dialling the number.

  I struggled to imagine the opening to that conversation.

  “Hi, Molly. How’s things with you? Me? I’m a total prisoner here. A lonely, tortured soul. Only myself to blame though. I couldn’t help myself. You should’ve seen that beauty! But yeah, everything is going to shit. Help!”

  At least not without me sounding like a pathetic twat anyway.

  In the end, I was saved the embarrassment when, about a week or so after that drunken fiery lunacy, she called me.

  “Oh my God, Dave. Are you alright?” she said. “I just heard what happened.”

  “Hi, Molly. Crazy, huh?”

  I was standing by the door and holding the phone they’d installed. I never received calls and was somewhat in shock both that it had rung and that is was Molly I was suddenly talking to.

  “I’m so sorry I didn’t call before,” she said, sounding like she really meant it. “I’ve just been a bit, well, confused by everything. I hated quitting like that, leaving you alone like that. I’ve never done anything so drastic in my life. I’ve hardly known what to do with myself since. It’s terrible what happened to you though. How awful for you.”

  “I’m surviving, I suppose. Everything’s changed round here though.”

  There was a moment when we both seemed lost for words, and I wasn’t sure anymore. Did I really want to speak to her? Was there really any point except to make me feel even more stuck?

  “Dave, look. Daryl told me your situation now. Sort of. How do you feel about things?”

  “Ah, I don’t know…” I sighed. “I haven’t got much choice, have I? It’s my own bloody fault, really.”

  “I was afraid of that,” she said. “You always seem to think that way. Why don’t you think there’s a choice?”

  “What do you mean? If you spoke to Daryl, you know the situation.”

  “Well yes, but there is still always your side of things. Come on. Humour me. Do what you do best and tell it like it is.”

  I felt an ember of warmth inside to know there was anything she thought I did well.

  “Alright,” I said. “Well yeah, I do have a choice, but it’s a crap one. Stay here and do everything how they want. How he wants. You know, the junk food diet and everything. Or, er, basically go to prison. That’s it.”

  “But, Dave!” She sounded appalled. “That’s completely disgusting! You may have transgressed, but no man deserves to be cornered like that, especially considering everything you’re having to deal with. Your situation is totally unique and that has to be taken into account.”

  She really did seem to care.

  “Well, yeah, I suppose,” I said. “But I think I’ve already been treated pretty special, haven’t I? I mean, if I was normal, there’d be no choice at all, would there? I’d just go straight to prison, simple as that.”

  “Possibly,” she said. “But if you were normal, it never would have happened in the first place, would it? It all seems like a bit of a setup to me. I mean, they don’t want you in prison, do they? They can’t deal with you there. And it certainly suits Daryl just fine to keep you where you are.”

  “But what choice do I have? I don’t want to go to prison.”

  “Dave, don’t take this the wrong way, but I really do think you need help.” She suddenly sounded very serious. “You’re not equipped to deal with all this on your own. And I’ve been thinking, since I left, and since I found out about these new developments, I can’t just go and get another job and forget about you. I mean, I can’t just leave you stuck there like that.”

  She paused.

  “So…?” I said.

  “Well I’ve been talking to some friends of mine,” she explained. “One in particular. She’s a lawyer. She believes you are being mistreated. I mean, your rights are being violated. Would you consider letting us help you? I mean, I know you don’t have any money. It would be totally pro bono. And she can’t guarantee anything. It’s going to be hard, especially with all the secrecy surrounding you. It may take time. But well, what do you think?”

  “Of course,” I said. “Why wouldn’t I want your help? Thanks.”

  It might seem strange that I wasn’t more wildly enthusiastic. I was grateful, yes, very much so, and it was wonderful that she gave a toss about me, but honestly, I doubted whether it would come to anything.

  “Great,” she said. “Well, I’ll get the ball rolling with my friend. We can arrange for you to meet her soon. She’s away at the moment, so it will have to be after Christmas. In the New Year. Can you wait?”

  I fell silent. Could I wait? What sort of question was that? And any talk of Christmas and New Year’s really got me down. Being stuck alone in that basement, I struggled to see any way through the festive season that didn’t involve getting blind drunk and quite probably crying my stupid eyes out on a daily basis.

  “Dave?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Miles away. Course I can wait. I’ll have to, won’t I? You’re helping me, so I’ll do whatever you say. Thanks.”

  *****

  So that was that. It did give me some hope and some comfort to know she was out there caring about me, but as mentioned, I just couldn’t shake the horrible feeling it would take ages and come to nothing. I wasn’t in the best place in my head, really. I was eating and drinking loads, guzzling all the time, really, just automatically, not to mention smoking and dreading the holidays. Plus, I couldn’t stop those crazy thoughts about cutting loose, about disappearing, and I couldn’t shake the thought of the crazy flammable nature of my wee. I wasn’t just some bloke with acid for piss anymore. That had been bad enough. But no, I was a total man of destruction, a complete combustible package.

  In fact, the more I thought about myself, my member, my urine, what I could do and what the company was doing, the more the whole thing confused me.

  I remember putting some questions I had to Bill, after he’d just completed another scan for the day and had yet again expressed his amazement at the shimmering, eye-watering, luminous green radioactivity inside me.

  “Bill,” I said. “I’ve been wondering something. If my urine is so fire-burning crazy and my insides are getting more and more sparky every day, as you’ve been saying, well, there’s something I can’t quite figure.”

  “Yes?” he said.

  He liked to humour me now. In fact, I think he knew he hadn’t been fair at first. I wasn’t quite the tot
al idiot he first thought me to be.

  I went on with my thought. “Well, this material of yours. I mean, yes, I get that it’ll be super-strong and super-light and in a few years will be perfect for space flight and generally for building super-strong things that need protecting from batshit heat and all that. I get that it is ultra-cool stuff and if all goes to plan it will rock the world, but still, doesn’t it seem like there’s way more you can be doing to milk all of the potential? Use it to develop other amazing shit? Weapons maybe? Seems an obvious one—once you’ve seen the way it burns stuff anyway. Or maybe fuel? I don’t know. Just going all in on that material, it doesn’t quite seem like the whole shebang, does it?”

  He nodded seriously, taking some time to consider all the ideas I’d just laid down.

  “Those are good points you raise,” he said, “and I don’t know the answer. I do know that we have some sort of agreement with the Omega Group in terms of their funding and what we can and can’t do. I’m pretty sure they steer clear of weapons and anything bad for the environment too, like fossil fuels—they have a really ‘strict ethical investment policy,’ you know. Plus, I am assuming that when the government signed you over to Solar Ray, there must have been some rules around that. But I really don’t know. I am pretty far down the food chain.”

  And that was pretty much the end of the conversation. I felt as if I could smell something a bit iffy but couldn’t quite put my nose on it.

  On the other hand, what the hell did I know? I should just be thankful they weren’t developing acid wee missiles and my piss wouldn’t be used to burn cities to the ground.

  *****

  Things went along in the same quiet and rather desperate way for the next couple of weeks—until I got a surprise visit from Daryl bearing some innocent-sounding news that turned out to be crucial for the total disaster that was later to befall me.

  “How’s it going, Dave?” he said, looking decidedly sheepish, his nose by now plaster-free, his face back to its usual, well-moisturised norm.

  “Like you give a toss.”

  “Oh come on, Dave. Can’t we move forward from all that?”

  “Well.” I sighed. “I suppose on the plus side I am eating and drinking loads. Anything and everything I fancy, just like you said. Almost excessive eating, I might call it, and I do feel quite shitty most of the time. To be honest, I am almost missing that vegan diet—”

  “Dave,” he said, his eyes widened, “are you seriously telling me you—”

  “I said almost.” I laughed half-heartedly. “Almost. That was a joke.”

  “I see.”

  “But since you asked, yeah, it is generally extremely bloody boring and depressing just stuck down here all the time on my own. And God knows for how much longer…”

  I wondered whether to tell him about Molly, our conversation, her lawyer friend. That would be sure to rile him. But quite frankly, I was just as tired of the childishness between us as him.

  “Well I am sorry, Dave,” he said. “I’m afraid there’s little we can do about that, but actually, I came down here because there is something which I thought might cheer you up, something a bit more positive.”

  “Oh yeah?”

  I very much doubted he could have anything to say that would cheer me up.

  “Yes,” he said, smiling. “I came to tell you about the Solar Ray Christmas party! It’s taking place later this week.”

  I was right—no reason to be cheerful at all, though the way he announced it, you would’ve thought he expected me to fist-pump the air or something. In fact, as he proceeded to confirm the date (the Wednesday just coming), the dress code (“dress to impress”) and the fact that there would be free booze, gourmet food and a disco, I had a sneaky suspicion he knew very well such a social nightmare wouldn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I suspected he was merely telling me all this and indeed only inviting me in order to wind me up. After the break-in and the fire, despite the friendship of Bill, I really was nothing more than a freak and a joke to most employees in that company. Plus, I had a proven track record of misbehaviour when drunk, and there was the small matter of needing to wee in a specially prepared mega-dega-poly-alloy piss tank or face the destructive consequences. Really, it was hard to think of any worse idea than an office Christmas party.

  “Please don’t go to any trouble on my account,” I said. “I’m guessing you’ll be going to some posh restaurant or other and I know my situation doesn’t allow that. I don’t need to attend.”

  “Oh no, Dave,” he said, waving a hand. “No, no, no. We discussed this at length and the staff wouldn’t hear of it. Neither would I. We’re having it right here in the Solar Ray offices. Can’t have a party without our in-house junk food dynamo, now can we?”

  He smiled childishly.

  What reaction did he really expect from me though? To thank him? To laugh? As a rhetorical question, it didn’t quite work for me either. Yes, of course you could have a party without me. Why on earth not? Safer that way too.

  Much safer.

  Chapter 20

  So just a couple of days later, Wednesday evening came around, the terrible night of that godforsaken Christmas party. Of course, I had no idea what kind of a spectacular disaster it would turn out to be. I merely dreaded it in a vaguely irritated sort of a way. It would be highly awkward, I knew, and it was the last thing I wanted to worry about, what with all the really serious crap going on in my life.

  So my main goal was just to get it over with, to get through the evening with what dignity I had intact and without causing any damage or lamping Daryl again. That chat with Molly had at least raised some hopes in me, so with her fighting in my corner, I at least had a reason to lie low and to behave.

  It wasn’t until around eight thirty to nine-ish that evening when I arrived. This was around an hour later than the advertised start, but I happily took my sweet time downstairs—showering, getting dressed, putting on multiple layers of deodorant, playing a few rounds of Need for Speed, and generally having a couple of pre-party beverages while wondering if I had chosen the right clothes to wear. I did find “dress to impress” quite a vague dress code, as it seemed to me that it did really depend on who you were trying to impress. I wasn’t intending to impress anyone, but in the end, I wore my best Ben Sherman and jeans—only in the hope of fitting in, you understand, and with a slight worry, too, since these items were several years old and nothing special at all, really. At least I didn’t wear my Marks & Spencer’s office wear.

  The party was held on the fourth floor, where Molly’s office used to be, and there was already quite the hum spilling out into the corridor when I exited the lift there. Chatter, Christmas pop music, laughter, the promise of painful social situations. Why on earth did they want me there, really? I still had to wonder at that. Not to talk to, surely. They must have known I would just head straight for the food and drinks tables. Wouldn’t it have been a hell of a lot simpler just to leave me out? Hadn’t I caused enough bother?

  Inside, it seemed twice the size I remembered it. The stack of office furniture pushed to one corner was the only clue it had once been Molly’s workspace—shelves and desks and containers and, oh yes, the infamous examination bed. The rest of the darkly lit space appeared to be filled with twinkly Christmas lights hanging here and there and draped around the windows, and there was a small crowd of people milling about in the middle of the open floor. There was also a stage at one end with a large TV screen on the wall and what appeared to be a DJ mixing desk where some bloke stood tapping his fingers and nodding his head in over-sized headphones.

  I soon spotted the most important area: the corner where several tables were laden with beverages. I headed there, careful to avoid looking anyone in the eye, a largely successful effort at not being noticed, though I couldn’t escape the eyes of the American bigwig, Frank. He made a point of nodding and grinning at me from a solitary corner near the windows, where he stood tall with a glass of bubbly in one hand.
So he was still around, was he? I gave him a vague nod and made a note to avoid talking to him.

  There were several bottles of Champagne on ice, but I mixed myself a good old vodka and Coke. Only when I put the glass to my lips did I recall with a shudder that it had been just that very old favourite of a drink that Julia had so sneakily drugged me with that night. Sod it, I thought, taking a big swig of it. No use being sentimental.

  I hung around by the drinks table and was soon joined by some ginger bloke I vaguely recognised as working in the lab with Byron and Marcus.

  “Hi,” he said nervously, pouring himself a glass of Champagne. “Are you okay?”

  Oh, don’t say it like that, mate, I couldn’t help thinking.

  “Yup,” I said. “You work in the lab, right?”

  I asked the question, though I wasn’t really sure what sort of a conversation I intended to start.

  “Yeah,” he said rather simply.

  “Must be difficult,” I pushed on. “All that delicate equipment and that.”

  “Um, not really.” He shook his head. “It’s what I trained to do.”

  “Right.” I laughed. “Course.”

  He nodded.

  I offered him my glass to chink, we said a brief cheers and a happy Christmas, and then he was on his way, quite content to leave me to it.

  If that was the level of conversation I could expect, this was going to be a long, long night.

  *****

  I soon found a good spot to one side of the room to park myself in, just next to one of the cupboards, so as not to be seen, but only a few convenient steps from the drinks. I stood there, observing and keeping quiet for as long as I could.

  The thing that struck me most in this brief time was Byron and Marcus. Firstly, both were wearing outrageous, proper party shirts—starchy, brightly patterned, multicoloured. Dressed to impress. Or to ward off predators maybe. Byron was even sporting a little bow tie.

  What was far more interesting, though, was that each of them was accompanied by their very own drop-dead gorgeous catwalk model. Well, of course, I don’t know that they were actually models—both probably had several PhDs—but they certainly could have been models. Byron was accompanied by an Asian lady who looked very much like how I imagine Japanese royalty: dressed in a green silky kimono, milky white skin, and her hair all up in one of those Asian white chopstick thingies. Lucky bugger. Marcus, also a lucky bugger, was with this tall, dark-haired and wonderfully tanned lady, sort of a real-life modern-day Cleopatra with a perfectly shaped, almost hand-drawn face, and a slim yet filled-out-in-all-the-right-places figure.