Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  And then she hesitated.

  '…and in that case, may I just ask you one final question? About this accident. Can you just tell me what sort of accident it was? You know, how exactly you picked up these scrapes…'

  'Yes,' responded Renton. 'It was in that bloody air-duct. When I fell down… errh…'

  A very large 'oh shit' fleeted through Renton's mind, and he caught himself, and just in the nick of time.

  '…errh, I mean, errh…in that… errh on that bloody airbed thing… errh when I fell off it… errh when I was trying… errh, you know, one of those funny positions. And errh, well, you know, she was a big girl. And I errh… I caught my back as I slipped off… errh, on this errh… on this metal corset thing. And it was just an accident, you see. Just one of those things.'

  Well, why bother? The best way to avoid telling the truth is to tell people exactly what they want to hear, particularly when the truth might be a little awkward to explain. And it worked. The receptionist was now smiling again, but this time a satisfied smile - and everyone was happy. Patient Tenting had sustained his injuries in the required fashion: through a fun-filled sexual sortie. And he could now be processed along with all the other victims of vice - and without causing any irritating little blip in the clinic's statistics. Heaven forbid an entirely non-sexual medical mishap, and a very distinct and very unwanted blot on this otherwise exclusively passion-sourced practice.

  Yes, there was no escaping it, no escaping that vast ocean of eroticism that slurped round this ship. It was everywhere. There was simply no place to hide.

  Or was there?

  12.

  Renton had been escorted to an examination room by a smartly dressed nurse. There he had been advised to strip to the waist and await the arrival of his appointed clinician. Then the nurse had departed.

  In less than a minute the clinician arrived. It was a Lagooner, a female Lagooner.

  'Hello, Mr Tenting,' she announced quietly. 'My name's Orphenia.'

  Renton was aghast. Here, talking to him, and presumably about to examine him, was one of these Lagooners, one of these strange custodians of this Lollipop liner. It was the last thing he'd expected.

  Like all the other passengers on this ship, Renton knew very little about them. He knew the obvious: that they were rather monk-like in their demeanour and that they were reserved - almost to the point of cataleptic withdrawal. But at the same time, that they ran the most unmonk-like establishment in the cosmos - where the only reserve was an extra packet of condoms in your pocket. And it wasn't as if he didn't want to know more. They were, after all, a complete enigma. It was just that he hadn't had time yet, not with all his detective endeavours and things. And he'd hardly even seen one properly, let alone talked to one. Until now. Until this moment. And now he had exclusive access to one, a lady one, and a lady one who was inviting conversation.

  The shock almost made him remember to respond. He was going to tell this stranger his own name. But then her appearance caught his attention and the moment was lost forever.

  She was slightly built, and she was wearing a long white gown. She had a pale thin face framed in straw-coloured hair, the hair that seemed to be a mandatory requirement for admission into their order. And she had sad watery eyes, the eyes of someone twice her age. And there was something about her skin. It wasn't just pale; it was almost translucent, as though something was missing…

  'Are you all right, Mr Tenting?' enquired Orphenia. 'Do you need to sit down?'

  'Oh errh oh,' stuttered the patient Tenting, 'oh I am sorry. I errh… I errh…'

  'wasn't expecting one of those strange Lagooner things,' she finished for him, 'and a female one at that.'

  'Errh yes, I suppose that's it. And I didn't think that you ever… I mean, I didn't think that you errh…'

  '…that we ever did anything. Anything that ever brought us into contact with our guests. Or that ever involved us in doing any actual work.'

  'Well,' Renton was forced to admit, 'now that you mention it. No, I didn't think you did. I mean that's why you've got all those other people, isn't it? Not, of course, that there's anything wrong with that…'

  Orphenia gave a little laugh. Her translucent skin appeared to brighten from within.

  'Very observant of you, Mr Tenting. And very diplomatic. But we do manage a few things. In fact, we're very good at a couple. Like dealing with scrapes, Mr Tenting. We're no less than expert at mending bodies.'

  She gave another little laugh. And before Renton could respond she started to speak again.

  'So why don't I have a look at that back of yours, and see what's to do.'

  Renton was captivated. She was lovely, this woman. But just as a person who happened to be a female. It was she who was attractive not her body, nor the prospect of its sexual penetration. And here, on this ship, she was a sanctuary. She was a real refuge, and she was offering him shelter. And now she was examining his wounds.

  'Mmm, I think we can deal with these,' she observed. 'Just stay there a second, and I'll get what I need.'

  Renton couldn't see what this was. But very soon he could feel it. It was some sort of liquid. And she was applying it to his back. She was pouring it onto his wounds. And as she poured, she also massaged - around the edges of his wounds, gently and slowly, and using just the tips of her fingers.

  'How are you enjoying the Lollipop, Mr Tenting? Are you finding everything you want?'

  'Gulp,' thought Renton. 'What do I say: "not a great deal and no; I still haven't found my blonde"? No, better just to stick to the credible.'

  'Errh, it's fine thanks. And yes, it's difficult to think there's anything you couldn't find here. I mean, the choice is amazing. It really is.'

  'Mmm,' responded Orphenia, her finger tips still working on his back. 'You know, Mr Tenting, that we can read people's thoughts through our fingers. And we can tell when they're lying.'

  Renton thought a bigger gulp. But then Orphenia spoke again and she was smiling. He couldn't see it but he could hear it in her voice.

  'And, Mr Tenting, what you've just told me is about as convincing as the story about your wounds.

  'Ah well…' started Renton with apparent confidence - but desperately trying to contain a rising panic.

  'It's OK, Mr Tenting. I'm only teasing. You're our guest, remember. You can do as you wish. This is the Lollipop. Nobody is going to question what you do here. Nobody.'

  'I know, but…' began Renton, now not even with a semblance of confidence.

  'I've finished, Mr Tenting. And I think that means our little exchange should finish too. It was only meant to distract you, you know. In case I hurt you. And anyway, we might find out a little too much about each other, might we not? And then we might have a problem. One I won't be able simply to massage away.

  'Oh, and as regards your back… well, that should be OK now. It won't need any dressing or anything like that. And in a day or so you won't even have a mark. I did promise you, didn't I? That we are pretty good at this sort of thing?'

  'Well, thank you. Thank you very much. I'm very grateful. I really am.'

  It was all he could think to say. Although he so much wanted to say more.

  'You're very welcome, Mr Tenting.' And then she hesitated. She was deciding whether to go on and say something else, something a little “dangereux”. Renton could see it in her face. And then she leapt. She looked him right in the eye and she leapt.

  'Don't judge us too harshly, will you? Things are never quite as they seem. And you know that, don't you, Mr Tenting?'

  And with that, the exposé was over. And before Renton could ask her what she meant, she was turning for the door.

  Then as she opened it she turned once again and she delivered her parting shot.

  'Goodbye, Mr Tenting. I hope you enjoy your life.'

  And then she was gone.

  Renton didn't just think a gulp this time; he had a real one, a very big one. Then he had a smaller one for a chaser.

 
Understandable really. He had just met the first person on board the Lollipop with a mind as well as a body, someone who had offered him some intercourse that was purely social, and who had also cured him of his ailments - superbly and mysteriously. And had then gone on to share with him a glimpse of a hidden truth - before leaving him with the most crushing of fond farewells. And all within just a few minutes.

  He felt drained - and inspired - and bemused - and fascinated, deeply deeply fascinated. Here he'd been, chasing after some silly old blonde, when under his nose was one of the biggest mysteries in the universe, and one that had never been solved: the Lagooners. Who were they? Where did they come from? Why did they do what they did? And what did Orphenia mean by that reference to being judged? Was there something else going on on board this ship? And if there was, what the hell could it be?

  An hour after he'd left the clinic, all these thoughts were still whizzing around in his head. They just wouldn't go away. And he desperately wished he could share them with someone, with Madeleine or with Boz. And if it were with Madeleine, if she were here now to share them with, he would share something else with her too: himself. He had never wanted her more than he wanted her at this time. And Orphenia had done that. Not the Lollipop - nor any of what the Lollipop had on offer.

  And so how could they be connected? How could one be the custodian of the other? It really was quite a mystery.

  13.

  Water dripped from every leaf. The downpour had lasted for nearly an hour. But now it was gone and the sky had cleared. Needles of light had arrived; thin bright shafts of sunlight picking out patches of wet forest floor. And painting dark green leaves with blotches of lime. And turning still falling drops into sparkles of gold. Yes, here, far below the forest's crown, it was a special place. And never more so than at this time, at this time of awakening from the gloom of the rain, water and light conspiring to cloak it in charm, to transform it into a glistening tracery of creepers and boughs.

  And sounds were returning: whistles, small chirrups, low booming calls. The forest creatures were emerging from their shelters, shaking dry their coats, straightening out their feathers - and now finding voice once again. It was as if they were rejoicing in the deluge, not just in its passing but also its coming. As if they knew that it was the rain that sustained them, that it was the rain that made this forest a haven for them all.

  A small red-breasted bird leapt into a pool of brightness, its plumage spot-lit by the sun itself. And it started to sing. And it sang a celebration. It sang of its life and it sang of its loves, and it sang of the young it had reared - all here in the forest.

  Or who was to say that it wasn't? This, after all, was a magic kingdom. And magic knows no bounds. It can act as it wants…

  A slow hairy thing was moving down a tree. It was always slow and it was always hairy, because it was a sloth, an animal of the forest that was at one with the forest. It shared its tempo. It shared its unhurried journey through time, through a time with no start and no end. Now it was entirely still, resting - or perhaps remembering, remembering some other descent on some other day. One could never tell. The sloth was also a private creature, as reserved in its manner as it was measured in its pace, and only it knew its mind. Only it knew why its head was now turning - as slow as slow could be - but for some purpose, for some very rational reason. Nothing with actions so deliberate could be acting on a whim.

  Its head stopped. It had reached its appointed place. And now the sloth was looking, staring, peering intently into the tangle of trees. What was it looking for? Was it looking for its friend? Was it expecting to see a fellow sloth descending from another den? Or was it just surveying its home, thanking some sloth-god for what it had granted, for what that god in his wisdom had made for it here on this world? For certainly this place was enchanting. And it was a good place to be. Because it was a protected place, a place watched over by a presence, something that had been here longer than any of the creatures could remember, even those ancient old parrots that squawked overhead. It was the forest patriarch. It was the tree.

  Few things anywhere could have had such grace and, at the same time, such majesty, such elegance of form and such grandness of scale. For this tree was a giant, a towering pylon of a tree that overtopped any other in the forest - and had done for years. It was a construction more than a plant, a massive tapering column of wood girdled with boughs. And boughs that were huge - and with branches to match. And the branches were covered in leaves, millions and millions of leaves. And every one of them was green, every one of them was painted with that most vibrant of colours: the colour of life.

  Yet for all its awe-inspiring size and its monumental proportions, this tree was a thing of beauty. There was beauty in the shape of its leaves, beauty in the white of its flowers and beauty in the swirls of its bark. And there was also beauty in its very form - and no more so than where it had anchored itself to the ground. Here was its ultimate wonder, its ultimate loveliness: its splendidly fine base, its splendidly fine, buttressed base.

  There was not a sculptor alive who could have bettered the sweep of those dramatic drapes, those mighty wings of wood that spread from its trunk. They were exquisite. They were sublime. And they hinted of the tree's true relationship with the soil, something much more than a closeness and something much more than an absolute interdependence. It was their oneness! One couldn't mistake it. The tree flowed into the ground, the ground rose up through those mighty wings and on and up into that mighty trunk. If anyone wanted to witness the essence of life, the essence of creation itself, they need have gone no further than this glade in the forest - and have gazed at this marvel. No wonder that the glade - and the forest - both felt so safe.

  But now the sloth was moving its head again. There was another appointment for its attention. Or possibly it was an unscheduled event, something not on its daily calendar. And now there were other creatures taking note. Howler monkeys were booming to the west. There was a fly-past of parrots all squawking together. And the red-breasted songster had quitted his stage.

  There were crashing sounds. They'd all heard them. And then there were foreign sounds, unnatural sounds, sounds never heard in this forest before. And all the time they were getting closer, closer to the patriarch's estate, to his magic grove, to that grove where he'd lived all these years.

  The sloth's head sank slowly to its chest. It would wait for all this nonsense to recede and then it would probably wait a little longer. It wasn't hungry and it wasn't in a hurry. So why bother to move? What was the point? Paradise was forever. It wouldn't go away. And whether the sloth raised its head in an hour or in a day, nothing would have changed. The tree would see to that. That was why it was there. And so the sloth fell asleep. And even when the monster came into view, it didn't see it and it didn't hear it.

  It was a dirty yellow colour and it was huge. And it looked like some massive bulldozer, but a dozer with no dozer plough. Instead, at its front end, was something quite strange, and this something was double its height. Whatever it was, it must have been nearly sixty feet tall. And there looked to be some sort of giant vertical cylinder at its centre. But one couldn't be sure. It was festooned with creepers and branches, the remains of the plants in its path. And all these remnants were shrouding its form.

  The monster was now stationary. It had stopped about fifty feet from the tree as if trying to remember why it had come, why it had come to this place in the magic kingdom. Then a vast plume of blue smoke belched from its barrel-sized exhaust and it moved itself on. If it was ever in doubt, it had now clearly recalled its purpose. And it began to approach the tree. And as it did so, the metalwork at its front came to life.

  And yes, it was a cylinder at its centre, a huge vertical cylinder. One could now see it clearly. And it was now on the move. It was opening. And it was opening about its vertical axis to form a giant metal claw, the sort of claw which could grasp a concrete pile, or a very stout pole - or maybe a tree. And then there was anothe
r movement. And this was a circular movement - accompanied by a terrible howling whine. It was at the very top of the open cylinder, a spinning disc of gleaming metal. And around its edge, a duller gleam, a fuzzy ring of many teeth…

  And now it was starting at the bottom of the cylinder-claw, another spinning blade. But even larger than the first. And no more than three feet from the ground. And already it was slicing through the undergrowth.

  At just ten feet from the tree, the monster stopped again, and at each end of the claw, the two spinning saws were pulled back - and away from the claw's open grasp. Something awful was about to happen.

  Another plume of evil exhaust and the machine was off again, this time at just a juddering crawl. And then the splayed claw made contact.

  Its surface met the surface of the tree: the skin of one of its giant wings. And somewhere nearby, a troop of monkeys began to wail as if the claw had touched their skin as well.

  The velvet bark of the tree began to tear. Then the wood beneath the bark began to splinter. And then a great piece of the wing snapped and buckled. The assault had begun in earnest.

  The monster had now come to rest. It was pressing hard against the tree. But it wanted more. It wanted to embrace the tree in its claw, hug it in its deadly grip, molest it while it was still a living thing. The claw began to close. And as it did so, the saws began to move. And within seconds they had started their work, their terrible task of killing the tree.

  The top saw made clear air first. The trunk was much narrower here. And, of course, the saw had a helper, an unwilling ally in its sinister task: the tree itself, the glorious superstructure above the incision - and the great weight of this superstructure. So when the cut was deep enough, it went. An ear-splitting crack and the giant of giants was on its way down. The huge mass of its top leant over towards its neighbours and then through them in a dreadful explosion of wood and leaves. It was terrible, an ugly great gash through that fine forest grove. And the tree of all trees was now done.