by Joe Plus
“Home sweet home,” said Gideon with a smile.
They all exited the car and Gideon led the way. Over the concrete floor they triggered lights, passed bits of bicycle, paint tins, brooms and dustpans, squeezed through a narrow wooden door and entered a red walled passageway with grey stone floor, buttressed on both sides with large and overflowing bookcases. Uneven piles of books, old and new (but mostly old), blocked the passageway and forced the three to follow a zigzag path between eclectic, layered cliffs. Disordered sediments of bindings: Bunyan, Huxley and Spinoza. Colin Wilson caught John's eye, then others that he recognized: Crowley, Eugene Marais, and Blavatsky.
“You like to read,” he said as they negotiated paths of snaking coiled rugs and clearings of floorboard, through small and cluttered rooms littered with chintz, lace veiled side tables, boxes of religious pamphlets, a broken armchair and a sleeping black cat. Finally they entered a large drawing room lit by a single Tiffany lamp stand. A curtained bay window, a mini grand topped with a Persian rug and more piles of books dominated the space. In a corner of the room was a vacuum cleaner, opened with its contents of dust, cigarette butts and ash spewed over the floor. A large bare fireplace boxed by a square, gray-marble mantel shelf topped with an assortment of ornaments, all eclipsed by a large Wedgwood plate and two identical ornate crystal vases on either side. On the opposite wall over the piano was a large oil painting. John looked at it quizzically; a tree on a hill lit by the full Moon. Under the tree sat an old woman, naked with thighs spread apart and knees bent so that the bare souls of her feet pressed together and pointed straight down. A red colored stream appeared from beneath her feet and flowed down the hill. Her white hair hung long with ends stained crimson, and her breasts sagged to her navel. In the foreground at the foot of the hill three men knelt before her, their heads bowed, each holding upright a long, iron tipped javelin.
Everything, the piles of books, the ornaments, the piano, were covered in a thick layer of dust. John restrained a sniff at what he imagined to be contrived shabbiness.
“I do,” said Gideon with an enormously smug grin while taking off his large black coat. “I do like to read.”
“I also collect books,” said John, “though not so many, and not so antiquated as these.”
“Yes, it's an excellent pastime,” said Tele selecting a large, torn, red velvet armchair with gold-leafed frame. “Not creative at all, but as acts of consumption go, strangely fulfilling.”
John felt irritation in his eyes and nose and an itch in his ears. He sneezed loudly. Gideon opened a box of large Heeren van Ruysdael cigars and offered it up to Tele, who took two.
“Have a cigar,” said Gideon.
“Thanks,” said John taking one.
John took off his coat and, directed by Gideon, threw it over a pile of books. Gideon was soon puffing away on his van Ruysdael. John sat on a large chocolate leather armchair with a loose frame and sagging seat. Tele was clipping away at his cigar with a scissor shaped cutter.
“Whiskey, Port, Cognac, Gin?” said Gideon.
“Cognac,” said John.
“A good choice,” said Tele, now puffing for all his worth, “Gideon has some superb cognac. Give me a shot of Leyrat. Give the boy Frapin, he looks like an undiscerning man of infinitely small taste.”
“Frapin is an excellent cognac,” said Gideon.
John, surprised by the insult, smiled and said: “I have superb taste my friend. I come from a family with superlative taste and wealth.”
“Hmff, wealth and taste, mutually exclusive in my experience,” puffed Tele, and he flipped a Ronson table lighter across to John, who – with a fumble - managed to catch it. “Give him a rum and coke. That's all the bugger deserves.”
John restrained a gasp. No doubt Tele was exhibiting further symptoms of Tourette’s. He put the Ronson back on the table and took from his pocket his own cigar lighter.
“Oh,” said Tele, “not good enough are we?”
John shook his head and lit his cigar. Gideon cheerfully turned to a dark wooden cabinet and took out three cognac glasses and two bottles. He poured a shot each into two glasses from one bottle and a shot from the second bottle into the third glass. The latter was given to John.
Tele was at ease now, sipping his cognac and blowing smoke upward into the high yellowed ceiling. The smoke slowly filled the room, dispersed across the ornate plasterwork and filled dirty old cobwebs, spilled down along the walls and curtains to engulf racing Geckos. Though absurd in his Tartan Culottes and blond bob, John noticed that Tele was in familiar surroundings, a home in which he was at ease. Gideon walked to one corner of the room and lit five large candles on long iron sticks. He switched off the tiffany lamp and the candlelight produced a pleasant chiaroscuro effect. John’s eyes performed poorly in such contrast, the sharply lit areas affecting his ability to see detail in form and cast shadows, and he wished for the latest CoT+ eye-op.
“So John tell me, what do you do?” asked Gideon.
Since Gideon already seemed to know who he was, John went straight to the point.
“I work for YouGene labs,” he said. Tele and Gideon gave each other a look; an eyebrow raise, a pause to breathe followed by a deep drag and a slow exhale.
“Yes, you're in the CoT plus,” said Gideon.
“Who isn't nowadays?” said John with feigned puzzlement.
“Well I'm not,” said Tele, and he leaned toward John, “and I bloody well never will be, you can all piss off for all I care, with your cures and your purifications.”
John stood: Time to get the fuck out, he thought.
Chapter 27
Log: 05-20-2044::08:33
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Last night we could barely see a thing it was so black - though we heard a great deal, some shots from our lot, splashes by the river and cries for help. We have scoured the area for bodies and found none. The attacks were by - I don’t know how describe them - those webbed people.
There is plenty of blood about, much of it leading into the bush. Malcolm is stoned, to cope with it all. Off his head, firing into the bush, slapping porters for not pulling their weight. In the false hope it might calm things, appease the attackers, I had returned the rotten foot to its grave while Malcolm slept, carefully replacing the soil. When Malcolm awoke he immediately demanded to see ‘his find’, and soon figured out where it was. He retrieved it and placed it back in the cool box where, as I write, he sits with a rifle on his lap. He keeps ranting about the evils of superstition. I told him it was Herman who returned the body but he won’t listen. Herman’s gone now, so I doubt he would mind taking the blame.
Chapter 28
“Now, now,” said Gideon, “be nice to the guest, the spirit touched him, remember?”
Tele waved his hand and fell back.
“Of course, of course,” he said, “of course and it's good to have someone in our midst with a diametrically opposed outlook. I do apologize.”
Gideon indicated for John to sit back down. John, unsmiling, sat on the edge of the armchair, his back straight, head up.
“And not only are you in the CoT plus, but you work for the old uncle too,” said Gideon.
John smiled, not knowing how much was safe to give away.
“Yes I am a member,” he said.
“Guided by the light of science,” said Gideon.
“We like to think of ourselves as open minded believers, unlike those of other faiths. As you are no doubt aware, we like to question, investigate and maintain open debate. We wish to ensure the Church becomes wiser in its journey. Our aim is simple, to secure the future so that our species becomes stronger and, er, more advanced.”
At the word, advanced, Gideon and Tele each grimaced as if in great pain.
“Of course, your Church seeks the best for us all,” said Gideon, and he gave a cool-it nod to Tele.
Tele leaned against the headrest and clo
sed his eyes, took a deep breath.
“Yes, yes you are right,” he said and he turned to John and smiled, “good to have you with us John, and good to meet a curious, adventurous youngster possessing a spirit of investigation.”
Gideon and Tele leaned across with glasses raised and gave a toast to their new friend John. John sat back onto his seat. He heard a soft padding and heavy breathing from the passage. A large golden-brown Labrador come flopping in.
“Ah Honey, welcome. Please join us. Say hallo to John,” said Gideon.
Honey whined, sat at Gideon's feet and cast gentle eyes toward John. The whole room was now filled with smoke and John's eyes watered, his nose and throat itched. He sneezed loudly.
Tele jerked and spilt cognac onto his blouse. “Christ's bollocks.”
“Bless you,” said Gideon.
“Fuck you,” said Tele.
Honey barely moved but for a small lift of eyelids and whip of the tail. John noticed other artworks strewn around the walls. There was a small painting to the right of the bay windows. It was a copy of Fuseli's The Nightmare. To the left of the bay windows was another less recognizable work, medium sized and gilt wood frame, an open area in a forest where stood a small crowned girl surrounded by large trolls.
“It's a copy of a work by a Swedish artist called John Bauer,” said Gideon. “Trolls and a princess, from the story by a man called, what was his name again?” He frowned and turned to a huge pile of books by his side. He leaned over, rummaged and retrieved a large book. He opened it at its table of contents. “It's from a story by Walter Stenström. A load of rubbish, but typical of the time.”
“It’s useful,” said Tele pointing a small cigar stump, “for telling us something about ourselves.”
“That's true,” said Gideon, “fairy tales tell us more than most people think.”
“Most people don't think,” said Tele.
“They don't reflect,” said Gideon, “they process information on automatic pilot, they think in newspaper headlines. Have another cigar.” The cigar case was lying on the piano keyboard.
“I will indeed,” said Tele, “well, nothing wrong with trusting your sub-conscious. People reflect far too much you know.”
“You are right Tele, quite right,” said Gideon, “but consciousness is a crucial part of what makes us Human, it's our top piece of tech.”
Tele and Gideon laughed and winked.
“Well,” said John, “that’s true by the way. And thanks to our ability to reason and think through problems everything has got better, right? I mean, how will we, like, solve issues like world hunger, ageing, diseases that are hereditary, congenital and contagious, that kinda stuff?”
“Quite,” said Gideon.
Tele lit up his second cigar and coughed, “whumph, whumph, whumph. Yes,” he said, “how will we achieve all that, I wonder. I mean, those are the issues being pursued after all. I can't wait to be cured of my hunchback and ugly visage, fit to return to the Garden of Eden and all that, back to a perfect condition, pure and without corruption. Commonplace, generic, bland and forgettable.”
John sat forward and fidgeted with his glass; alcohol lines ran up and down the inside of the bowl like transparent worms.
“Through science,” he said, “and technology, our lives have improved for the good, right? Everything we have is thanks to pioneers: insightful men and women who made the jump to advance our species.”
Gideon hummed and made eye contact with Tele. Advance our species? they muttered.
John continued, “I don't know how well you understand the teachings of the Church.”
“We are,” said Gideon, “fully aware of the doctrines of your Church, of Uncle Bob.” He blew smoke and watched the cloud disperse and roll. “But I say this; we can plan all we like and nothing will change our destiny, because the plan is hidden and revealed to no one.”
“Good point, and may I add to that,” said Tele, “consciousness and reason, the two things you lot put so much trust in, is of limited use actually. Look at the other animals, they build things, hunt, have sex and have technology too. Take the Termite, absolutely fascinating creature with bugger all brain. Are they conscious? Do they sit back and bemoan their imperfect lives?”
John paused to frame his thoughts. He put down his glass and cupped his hands. “All the troubles in this world, the wars, the battles over limited resources. If we just concentrate our minds, we can make each newborn disease free.”
“Eugenics, god help us,” said Tele.
“Ah come on,” said John, “weed out the heritable defects, eliminate diseases; what’s not to like?”
“You want the unobtainable,” said Gideon, “perfection.”
John continued: “Did you know cryogenics is a reality. Imagine the scenario, we bring back those who were dearest to you so you walk with them again, though they were good as dead,” John took another sip of his Cognac, “in fact, we will not only bring back them back, we will improve them genetically; speed up evolution.”
Gideon stared downwards, his face emerging from the flickering glow like a face from the Cattura di Cristo. He turned to John and said: “There’s a secret will, the collective will of our subconscious that drives us, and there is nothing to stop it. Not you, not scientists, and definitely not Uncle Bob and his techno-bag of party tricks. You people are entranced, a slave of the delusion that we somehow can, and do, control our destiny.”
John wagged his finger and said: “That’s just, that’s just garbage.”
At this John felt a cool breeze against the back of his neck.
“I felt a draught,” said Gideon, and he finished off his cognac.
Chapter 29
Log: 05-20-2044::13:11
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
Mohammed and seven porters are dead. I say seven, but we are guessing, I found their remains in the main tent, like heaps of ground beef. Some have run into the bush and we hear screams, cries for help that go on for ages. The generator is down and the lights are dead. Trish, Malcolm, Johanna, and I are huddled up with two of the remaining porters, young boys of around eighteen or nineteen years of age. I don’t even know their names. I can’t get hold of anyone back at HQ, the lines are fucked. I don’t know whether to remain here in the tent, or make a dash for it – the dinghies are moored close by. Malcolm has a rifle for protection, but he is drunk and utterly useless. I have a pistol, but I don’t know how to use it - I am a scientist, not a bloody soldier. There goes another scream. Is that Natalie? Please, someone come and help us, please.
Log: 05-20-2044::16:01
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
We have a box of ready-meals, a couple of flare guns, a few boxes of ammunition. I still have my pistol. I have got a generator working so we can have some light when it gets dark. We have little water left over since they destroyed our purifier, so it’s chlorine pills from now on; that’s if we can find them among the clutter. I cannot console Trish over Natalie and Johanna. She keeps crying out, what will we say to their parents? What indeed?
Log: 05-20-2044::19:22
Field Trip: Batang Garing
Role: Field Lead
Name: Augusta Green
I managed finally to connect with HQ and talk with Scrunch and other senior managers. They are sending out a rescue team by helicopter. Should arrive tomorrow morning at the earliest. So, we have to stay put. I dare not run to the dinghy and go downstream, but for how long can we survive here? I don’t know what to do. Anna, I keep thinking, what would you do?
Chapter 30
John felt the breeze move along his left hand. From there a tremor commenced, moving up his arm and into his chest. Soon his whole body shook from his core to his extremities. Gideon and Tele looked on smiling; unconcerned. Then the shaking stopped abruptly, and John was overcome by a sense of comfort; of a familiar pre
sence.
The cloud of cigar smoke descended from the ceiling in large billowing wafts and his drowsiness increased. In fact, there seemed to be more cigar smoke coming down than going up. Within the smoke John recognized the faces of bearded men and old squinting women, with thick brows and dense long hair. He held out his empty glass absent-mindedly.
“I'll get,” said Gideon, and he walked through the thickening layer of swirling smoke, beyond the drinks cabinet up to the curtains which parted, and into an open space of cloud and starlight. Gideon took from the air a suspended cut-glass bottle topped with a disc shaped silver stopper. The bottle was filled with a dark green liquid. He walked back to John, unstopped the bottle, and poured what seemed to be an endless stream into John's glass.
“Knock yourself out,” he said.
John raised the glass to his nose and detected a familiar fragrance.
“I certainly will,” he said. He took a large swig, which he found disgusting, and coughed. His body began to loosen up. “Revolting stuff,” he said, “tastes like piss.”
“You are in the world of dreams my lad,” said Tele.
John turned and saw that Tele, still in blond wig and tartan culottes, now had the head of a large brown bear. He was chewing on a long, stringy piece of fresh meat. John laughed.
“Good god Tele, you, you're a bear, ha ha.”
“I am indeed, and Gideon is his old self at last.”