It had evolved early on that we needed to plan an escape. It also became evident that if we were going to effect such a plan, we had the right guys in here to make it happen. It was like these guys had been planning things like this all their lives. Quickly, we’d arrived at a good guesstimate as to how many guards or “suits” there were—roughly almost two per man.
“Man!” Reg Evans whispered. “That’s heavy-duty!” Amid a chorus of hisses directed at him to quiet his outburst, we all were in agreement. This was excessive. Far more than any “regular” prison. That seemed to bear out my original assessment—that this was some kind of secret government project. Who else but the government could afford this kind of manpower?
I was aware I was sweating and as I looked around could see I wasn’t the only one feeling the tension.
Eventually, we settled on a plan that everybody liked. There were now twelve of in the room. There were others in the place—we had all seen them—but we agreed that they’d have to fend for themselves. When we got out, we’d do whatever we could to alert the authorities to what was going on here, but none of us were sure which of those authorities we could safely notify. Scotland Yard was the best anyone could come up with. As the only Yank there, I had to agree, although I thought Interpol might be a better bet. It really didn’t matter. All I wanted to do was to beat feet and get the hell out of there and that looked to be the same mindset as the others had.
We were going to go at three in the ayem.
***
At two-thirty, I was up and dressed. I opened my door carefully and peered out into the hallway. Good. Nothing—nobody—was stirring. We’d agreed to meet up in the dining room and I made my way there in the darkness. Outside the dining room, I hesitated and then pushed the Dutch doors open and stepped in.
Instantly, all the lights came on, momentarily blinding me, and my eyes began adjusting. There at the center table, sat all eleven of my co-conspirators.
Laughing.
Hooting.
At me.
From behind me, the host himself stepped along with two of the suits. The each grabbed an arm. The host reached his arm toward me and before I could react, had plunged something sharp into my neck. I stepped off into oblivion.
The next thing I knew, I was back in his office, sitting in the same chair I had before. The only difference this time was that I had leather straps imprisoning me in the chair so that I could barely move. There was something else. All eleven of my buddies were gathered there in a circle of chairs. I was at the end. Looked like some kind of group therapy deal.
As soon as he began talking, it felt like some kind of group therapy deal.
“What’s your name?” he began.
“Jake Bishop,” I said.
“You see?” he said to the group of men in the chairs? They all nodded.
He turned back to me. “Your name is Les Edgerton. You’re married to Mary Edgerton.”
“No,” I said. “I’m not. My name is Jake and my wife’s name is Paris. Used to be Paris. She’s dead.”
He sighed. “I’m going to try something, Les. The truth. The truth is, your wife Mary is the one who came to us and had you committed. Do you recognize this?” He held up a piece of paper with the words: “Don’t play what’s there, play what’s not there. Miles Davis.
“No,” I said.
“You should. It was taped to your monitor on your desk. It’s what alerted Mary to what was happening with you.”
I was getting a funny feeling in my stomach.
“Mary told us an interesting story,” he said. “She told us that had become your mantra. That you repeated it, over and over, all day long.
“That you’d quit writing.
“That you’d spent all day reading. Dozens and dozens and dozens of books.
“That she was afraid you’d entered into your own fictional world. Trying to write what wasn’t there. Wasn’t there in real life. Trying to emulate Miles Davis.”
I tried to speak, but nothing came out but a small croak. I swallowed, waited on him to go on.
“These guys?” He swept his hand, indicating the men seated around me.
“They don’t exist.” He waved his hand again and just like that… they all disappeared. Except one. That fucker Truman. Truman Ferris Pinter. He just sat there and grinned at me.
“Your name isn’t Jake. Your name is Les. Jake is a character you invented. Paris is a character you invented. You’re playing what isn’t there, Les.”
I almost believed him. Almost. Until Truman spoke.
“Don’t listen to him, Jake,” he said. “He doesn’t know. He’s a Philistine.”
In a trice it all made sense. They’d almost caught me. Almost. Thank God for Truman. I began laughing. Truman began laughing with me. Louder and louder and more and more hysterically we laughed, and with each hoot we made, my host began vanishing, bit by bit, until finally… he disappeared entirely. What was remarkable was that with each bit of him vanishing, the others began to come back.
The chairs were filled again.
Luke Case.
Kori Woodson.
Davy Sheridan.
Brian Morgan.
Reg Evans.
Tommo.
Saul Stone.
Alan Foster.
Davie Diller.
Josh Dedman.
Rex Allen.
Truman, of course.
I couldn’t control my laughter. It roared out of me, out of my throat, my nose, my very pores.
More and more people kept coming and popping up in chairs as the room filled. People I knew. Old friends.
Tubal Cain, the brothers Jimmy and Sean Bennet, Charlie Arglist, Jack Taylor, Dean Drayhart, Lupita and Dante, Elvis Cole, Black Elvis, Adel Destin, Tom Chan, Matthew Galen, Jack Taggert, Wayne Porter, Ray Midge, Roy Dillon, Metcalf the Retard, Moe Prager, Jarhead Earl, Constantine, Elliot Stilling, Tom Widmer… they just kept coming and coming and coming, filling the room and then out into the hall.
My friends…
Nine
“Who do you think I am?” I ask him for the third time, but he’s clammed up.
“Uh, nobody I guess, had you pegged for some other feller, don’t pay me no mind,” he’s saying, shaking his head.
“Who’s Foster?” I ask, struggling against my own will to go in there and punch him, but there are several very good reasons why I shouldn’t. First and foremost being that this looks like a man who’s been around the block, and will most likely kick the living shit out of me before I’ve even laid a finger on him. With that in mind the rising anger subsides, being replaced by sheer frustration, “please?”
He pulls down the sunglasses from his eyes once again, and leans in. Taking the time to scrutinize my features. He frowns.
“Well, you sure do look like the fella, but on closer inspection I’d say you ain’t him,” he says.
“Who? Foster? Who is that?” I ask.
“Just some dude who lives here, he’s a creepy bastard.”
I’ve never heard of any Foster. Benny didn’t mention him.
“I’ve never heard of him,” I say, shaking my head. He mirrors my gesture.
“Naw, you won’t have, those assholes out there call him somethin’ else, same as they try to call me Les, but it ain’t his name. His name is Alan Foster.”
“What do they call him?” I ask, but I’m rewarded with another shake of the head. He mutters something. A question. Then he answers himself but with that Northern Irish lilt. He grumbles. Shakes his head violently before looking back to me, a resigned look on his face.
“Don’t matter,” he says, “it ain’t important.”
“Is it Bracha?” I ask, with no idea where that question came from. He stops his head from shaking and he stares at me. This time his eyes narrow in the darkness and he makes as if to stand up but for the first time I notice that his hands are chained to the arms of the chair. His features twist as he snarls a torrent of unintelligible abuse at me,
and he pauses, panting impatiently, before he speaks again.
“See, I knew it was you, get the hell outta my suite! You ain’t gonna kill this ol’ stranger! Get out!”
Nothing makes sense. Least of all the further outpouring of abuse from the resident before me. Who does he think I am? Why does he think I’m that person? And who the fuck is that person? I cast a dejected shadow across the man tied to the chair as I quietly close his door and leave him to his fury. As the lock clicks shut he laughs. It’s not just a chuckle. It’s a booming Yankee laughter from a booming beast of a man. The laughter fills my brain derisively. It knows something that I don’t. Fuck’s sake, every fucker in this place knows something I don’t. Except Benny, Benny’s dead. The door vibrates against my back from Edgerton’s laughter, and it send spasms into my back and neck. Makes my ear tickle. My finger guides its own way into my ear hole and rigorously scratches away that tickling itch, and as my hearing returns to normal I hear Les Edgerton cough out another laugh, and this time he speaks. It’s simple, and it’s cryptic.
“Blue skies, Mr Foster. Blue skies.”
Who is Alan Foster?
“Hey, Jake! Would ya be quiet about your blue fuckin’ skies for just a minute would ya? I can’t hear myself think over here!”
Another Northern Irish accent, only, this one doesn’t boom from behind the door where the man with a hundred accents resides. It’s coming from somewhere else. Room eight. The last room on this floor. The hallway slides along as if was nothing and I’m standing by the door. In front of it. The slate at shoulder height reads Brennan, Gerard. Behind the steel there’s a panting. A gasping. It’s nothing like the meaty, slurping slaps of Wilson and his robotic cock. It’s something else. Exercise? Is that what it is? A Counting. Twenty six, twenty seven, twenty eight. It’s quick as a flash too. No straining. Thirty four, thirty five, thirty six. An upturn in tone as he passes a milestone. FIFTY, fifty one, fifty two. I knock.
“Come in, sixty eight, sixty nine, seventy,” an almost cheerful voice beckons, I hadn’t expected that, I do nothing, “I said come in fer fuck’s sake! Eighty two, eighty three, eighty four.”
I do as I am bidden and unlock the door. Behind it there’s a wiry man doing sit ups. Not an ounce of fat on him. All tight muscle. Thick veins. Tendons everywhere. Ninety six, ninety seven, ninety eight.
“Don’t expect me to stop here fellah, tell me what you’re after and I’ll tell you if I can help,” he says between breaths.
“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess,” I say, mesmerised by the blanket of tattoos that coat his topless body. Dancing beneath the muscle that protrudes beneath the skin with every new shape the man makes.
“Then why would you bother me? Tell me that,” he gasps, “it’s not like I’m botherin’ you now is it?”
“I just wanted to check you were okay,” I say, “you know? Duty of care.”
He laughs at that part.
“Duty of fuckin’ care? You’re a funny man so you are,” he says, “one ten, one eleven, one twelve.”
“Why would you say that?” I ask. Part of me thinks that Benny and Gary have been abusing these men. Not abusing, as such, not in the modern sense of the word. I doubt they’d get away with their cocks intact. No, I mean psychological, and physical abuse.
“Well, no offence there fellah, but you’ve got the biggest tits I’ve ever seen, you’re not likely to be able to help me out, if y’know what I’m sayin’?”
I want to change the subject. I need to know about Foster, and Bracha, and all of the other shit I’ve been hearing. I want to ask where the fuck the staff are. I want to know what the fuck this place is, and it’s as if Brennan can hear my thoughts, because he starts to speak between sit ups, and he just doesn’t stop.
Lost
By Gerard Brennan
It’s a bit shite in here. I’ve been worse places, like. Believe me. Or don’t believe me. I don’t care, if I’m totally honest.
What I mean is, I don’t care about your opinion. There are other things on my mind that deserve more of my energy than you do. Don’t give me that look. I’m sure you’re a lovely person. You’re probably really good to your kids, or your other half, or your goldfish, or whatever it is that gets you out of bed in the morning. And good for you. You should be grateful. I’m grateful. Grateful that my mind is still my own. Even though on paper I might be a bit of a wee rocket, there are things we’ve all done that would write us off as a little... off beat.
It was just bad timing and terrible geography. Swear to fuck.
We all go through wee times of stress.
But I survived mine.
And I’m all the stronger for it.
That’s how I get back at them.
I take the negative and find a way to turn it into a positive.
Like, now I have time to meditate and exercise.
The exercise is slightly limited in this space, but you know what? I couldn’t do a handstand press-up before I got here. Now I can nearly do a hundred in a row. And some day I’ll get to a hundred without passing out and landing on my skull.
Squats. You can do squats in a wee room like this, no bother. I can do hundreds and hundreds of those. If I had a roommate I’d ask him to jump on my back and I’d squat with a decent weight on me. I’ve got a bit skinny, you see. Not enough protein in our diets. I tried to supplement with things that crawl under the door. Ended up puking.
Did you notice my accent? There’s some Belfast in there all right. I’m a bit of a mix. A mongrel, I suppose. Wouldn’t be surprised if there was some traveller blood in my veins, truth be told. People look down on those crazy fuckers but I’d be delighted if I found out I was related. Never met a soft traveller, like. A couple of them actually helped put me in here, you know? But they were a bad example. Trust me to find the only gypsies in England that abide by the actual law of the land.
Was that a bit racist?
Didn’t mean it to be.
Meant it as a compliment to their way of life.
I’m not even lying. That’s one of the reasons I’m here. I never lie. It makes them uncomfortable.
Them.
I’m good at spotting the ever-present them. Rebel blood in my veins, you see. And that’s not speculation or wishful thinking. There’s a rich history of it in my family. Sometimes it’s misplaced, but it’s always there. It was simpler a generation or two ago. The oppressors hadn’t learned the value of guerrilla tactics. Now they’ve got it down just nice. Cloak and daggers shite. None of the old waiting to see the whites of their eyes. They’ll cut your throat when you’re sleeping.
I don’t sleep.
Working on the blinking thing.
Cameras don’t blink.
You don’t blink much.
There’s something about you, mate. I can feel it. You’re about to wake up too. Right now you’re in that muzzy twilight and you’re trying to remember what day it is. Here’s a bit of free advice for you. Quit this job. Won’t matter what day of the week it is then, mate. Gives you more time to free yourself from all the other bullshit we’ve been fed.
That’s where I started. Jacking in gainful employment. Maybe I went at it a wee bit too fast after that. Drew too much attention to myself. You should try and be smarter. Then what I went through won’t be wasted. History defeating, not repeating. See what I did there?
And here, don’t get me wrong. I’m not telling you what to do or nothing. That’d make me worse than them. I’ve no right to tell you what to do, I really don’t. But if you take in my wee story maybe you can learn from it. Aye, that’d be the best way to help you with your awakening, wouldn’t it?
This is what I did.
The job. I don’t even want to talk about that shite. Spent fourteen years at a desk and had nothing to show for it. No sense of achievement or pride. The money was almost decent, in fairness, but still. That’s all I’ll say about that.
The family. I’m still waiting for my missus to forgive me for jumping wit
hout a safety net. Yeah, so what I did was a bit reckless, and the kids really do need shoes, but they also need to be led by a strong role model, not some sad, soft sack of office-boy shite. She’ll come around. So will the kids.
The home. I miss some of those creature comforts like an ex-smoker still breathes in the stink from the walking chimneys he passes in the street. Gadgets and toys. Distractions. I got weak.
It was a blessing in disguise when she asked me to leave.
Most men in my situation say that their wife threw them out. Threw, like. How fucking big are these women?
I didn’t make a fuss. Just went. Packed a backpack with some essentials, tapped her for a fistful of cash from the joint overdraft, and told her she could sell the other stuff. Over the years I’d collected a lot of books. First editions, signed, rare... You’d be surprised how much you could make from a bookcase with the right kind of stuff in it. Some people are crazy, like, and would happily pay hundreds for a lump of pulp. I used to be one of them. Then I saw through it. My bookcases were anchoring me to my old life. My wife’s smart enough to figure out how to make the most out of those blocks of paper and ink. She used to be an eBay ninja, before they made it near impossible to make a few quid without cutting a whole bunch of different thems in on the score.
So that was the wife and kids taken care of financially, until I could figure out how to bring the whole crew along on my adventure.
It’s a work in progress, awakening, you know? A whole new game with different rules. But I’m smart. I’ll learn them.
Unfortunately, as a trailblazer, it’s a bit of a trial and error endeavour. Heavy on the error.
But I’m only halfway through my thirties. Plenty of time. Even taking away the stretch I spend in here out of the life expectancy equation, there’ll be plenty left over. I’m sure of it.
As sure as I was that moving to England was the best thing for me. But I didn’t want to just fly over to London. For a start, they’d probably mistake me for homeless in that place. And I wasn’t homeless. I’d picked up a one-man pop-up tent on the way to the ferry. As a Northern Irish fellah, I figured I’d get along well with the Brits from up north. And there are all those funky accents to enjoy. I could get there via bonnie Scotland. The ferry to West Haggis-Land is more fun than a plane and the security is low. And I couldn’t risk losing the big bag of weed I’d picked up after buying the tent.
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