Lollipop

by David Fletcher

  There was a T-junction ahead. A choice to be made, a toss of a coin.

  'Right is so right, left is best left.'

  So he would take the right. Only he still had this left/right confusion, and so he took the left. But he was lucky. His error proved inspired. For there in the distance he saw a flash of leathered leg, just before it disappeared around another corner.

  And then he was around the corner. And when he was, he did an emergency stop - and then an emergency squat - and his pursuer was with him.

  And then she was flying over him again. It was her speed that did it. As she hit him, she took off and soared above him and beyond him - and then landed with an alarming thud on the corridor's floor - about twelve feet from where he'd crouched. And then she didn't taxi to the terminal. She just laid there, her pretty tail fin of a bum motionless. Indeed, her whole fuselage motionless. She was possibly dead.

  But she wasn't. She groaned. And you needed to be alive to do that. So Renton decided he could leave her. And without further ado, he did just that, free at last from that pesky pervert, and free to continue the pursuit on his own.

  Soon he was sprinting to the next corner, in what was turning out to be the corridor capital of the ship, and a perfect place to lose even the most obvious of blonde bimbos. When the next stretch of corridor opened up before him there wasn't a trace of them. They could have gone anywhere, and Renton knew it.

  He reduced his run to a slow canter. He hadn't quite decided to give up the hunt yet, but at the same time he wasn't quite sure it was worth going on - and certainly not at speed. Possibly he should just nose around a bit, like a detective would. And anyway, he was running out of puff.

  However, there wasn't much of anything around which to nose. There was just this corridor. And then, as he made his way along it, more corridors - first off to his right and then to his left. It was almost hopeless. But Renton pressed on. At least there was a refreshing absence of coupling and cavorting around these parts, no acres of flaunted flesh to distract him from his labours…

  'And hey, look here. It must be a suite of dressing rooms.'

  The corridor had opened out into a large square. And around the sides of the square were about twenty purple doors, each one of them with a gold star at its centre. And there, next to one door, was a costume chest. There was no doubt about it. It was a big plastic fibre container on tiny wheels. And although its top was closed, there were a couple of robes hanging out from under its lid. This was backstage land. Renton was convinced of it. The place where the performers made themselves ready - and where they returned to!

  Could he be that lucky? Could he really have stumbled across the ladies' lair? Could he really be that close to the toothbrush tattoo?

  'Aaaaaaaaaaaah. Aaaaaaaaaaah.'

  'No,' thought Renton, 'I don't believe it.'

  But then he had to. He just knew it was her. She was still after him. She just wouldn't give up. And this time a tactical crouch was not an option. He needed instead a tactical withdrawal.

  The first door with a star at its centre was locked. So too was the second. He had time to try a third or to jump into that chest. Then that would be it. His time would be up and she would be here in the dressing room plaza - and she would see where he was. He had to make a split second decision or he was done for. He'd be raped if he didn't.

  Now Renton's adventures had, in the past, involved his inhabiting a resin tank, a suitcase, the side tank of a milking machine and an oversized hardon sphere. So in reality there was no decision. In the face of a frustrated tactical withdrawal, it had to be a tactical concealment. And a chest full of sumptuous costumes was a rather more attractive proposition than any of his previous containers. So within a couple of seconds he was in. Now all he had to do was wait - and hope - hope that that silly siren of a woman would give up and go.

  She didn't. Not immediately anyway. Renton could hear her. She was trying the dressing room doors just as he had. And like him she was finding them locked. But then he heard her open one. Then there was silence. She'd obviously gone inside. He strained to hear more. Nothing. Then another door opening and some more silence. She was obviously having more luck than he'd had. But, of course, to no avail. As Renton reminded himself; he wasn't in any of those rooms, he was here in this rather cosy den.

  Another door opening. This time very close. More silence.

  Then a door even closer. But this time not silence, but instead some shouting - some women shouting. And then there were the sounds of a scuffle. And after the sounds of a scuffle, a further silence. Then it was time for some swearing - by presumably the same women. And finally the sound of a door closing - and silence again. Renton had been abandoned to aural isolation.

  Had that persistent pursuer found the wrong quarry? Had she walked in on the very group of women that Renton was after? And had they not welcomed her arrival?

  Quite possibly, dear chap. But these were questions that could be better considered from the safety of his cabin. Better there than in what was now a less than cosy-feeling clothes box. Renton just felt exposed. Either dear Miss Limpet would emerge and discover his situation. Or, more likely, those leather-bound bruisers would. He'd now changed his opinion of them entirely. Those noises he'd heard when the door had opened were not very nice. They spoke of a willingness to dish out violence. And even if there was a toothbrush tattoo in the neighbourhood, Renton was quite prepared to defer his appointment with its owner. He would see her when she was without her companions. It would, he thought, be a good deal less scary.

  So he raised his hand to lift the lid of the clothes box, and as he did so he heard the sound of a door opening.

  'Oh sod it,' announced a woman's voice, 'we'll just have to deal with her later. We've got work to do now. So let's make a move.'

  In the next moment they had. Well, at least the costume chest had - with Renton in it. And Renton could only imagine it was being accompanied by the same squad of lovelies who just a short time ago had relieved him of his shadow.

  'Have you got the syringe?' asked a different voice.

  'What do you think?' responded another. 'I'm not some bloody moron. I'm…'

  'Cut it,' interrupted the original woman. 'Just cut it. I've just about had enough…'

  Renton had eased himself up and was now peering through a gap between the lid of the chest and its rim. The two were kept slightly apart here by a couple of carelessly stowed garments, and Renton had a perfect spy hole on the world outside. He could see two of them. They still had their kit on, but there was now a bit more of it - in the shape of tunics, long leather tunics that hung to the floor. They provided the girls with a degree of modesty they'd not previously enjoyed - and they made them look like bloody assassins…

  Just as Renton was considering what a bunch of assassins might want with a wheeled costume chest, one of their number made an announcement. 'There they are, over there,' she said. 'Come on. Let's get this over.'

  It was time to adjourn the consideration. Something was about to happen and he needed to see what it was. He also needed to see to whom. But this was a problem. His spy hole was on the wrong side. Then the chest began to turn and he saw them. They were now just a few feet away: two Lagooners - a woman and a man. They were standing there, their hands behind their backs, and regarding their newly arrived companions with a total lack of interest. Even when two of the quartet walked towards them and raised their arms, they appeared to be quite unconcerned. And when the clubs made contact with their heads, there was just a flicker of surprise in their eyes. Not nearly as much as there was in Renton's. He was so dumbfounded he didn't even realise that the purpose of the chest had now been revealed. Very soon it would be employed to carry off the now unconscious Lagooners. There was no doubt about it. Why else would the leatherettes have dragged it to the scene of their crime?

  Then suddenly he did realise. And almost simultaneously he realised what this might mean for his own situation - and his own current concealment. He
was in a fix.

  Already one of the club-wielders was leaning over the collapsed body of the male Lagooner. She had a syringe in her hand and she was now introducing some of its contents into his neck. Then the rest went into the neck of his female colleague.

  'Come on,' she snapped, 'give me a hand. What the hell are you waiting for?'

  Renton registered the fact that the woman with the syringe wasn't his target blonde. Neither was the other assailant, nor the third who'd now come into view. That just left the fourth one, the one who was raising the lid of the chest. She might still be Renton's sought-after blonde.

  'Shit!' thought Renton, uncharacteristically quickly. 'She's raising the lid!'

  As had happened on numerous occasions before, Renton's body reacted in a way that left its owner not only amazed but downright impressed. It just seemed to have its own self-survival instinct, one that switched in whenever calamity loomed.

  It shot a hand up, punching the lid upwards and backwards, and at the same time it made a passable impression of a jack-in-the-box with a rocket up its arse. Renton simply flew out of the chest. And then he made an announcement. 'Hi girls,' he said, 'I'm the costume fairy and have I got a surprise for you!'

  Then his hand punched again, but this time at the lid-opener's jaw. And contact was made. She fell back on her bum. And as her seat hit the ground, so his fist hit her friend, the one with syringe. And she was down too.

  That was enough. The unassaulted half of the quartet were clearly still in shock. This genie from nowhere had guaranteed that.

  So Renton's body saw its chance. It put its legs into gear. And then it was yards away, speeding off before any of the blondes could even think of pursuit. This manifestation of madness had simply not been on their agenda. And they obviously needed time to absorb it - valuable time, critical time - time enough for Renton's body to absent itself from the scene and to provide its owner with a better than evens chance of avoiding the fate of those Lagooners. And now it was motoring. It was motoring like… well, like a motor!

  During this interesting interval, all that Renton had been able to digest was that the fourth member of the quartet was not Miss Toothbrush. So his little expedition had been a bit of a wild-goose chase. And it was this reference to “chase” in his brain that brought him back into sync with his body.

  'Wow!' he thought. 'That was incredible. That was pure Tickler. That was the bizz.'

  But unfortunately not all the bizz was quite yet done. He could hear them. At least two of them, and maybe three. The leathers were in pursuit. He had to outrun them and then lose them. And that wasn't going to be easy. He suspected he might have upset them - and that they might be eager to seek some revenge…

  A flight of stairs appeared on his right and he leapt down it like a lunatic, almost tripping over as he reached the bottom. And there was another corridor. He sprinted along its length until a second staircase appeared. Down that. Another staircase, this one a narrow one. Then a door. Thank God it was unlocked. Through the door and into a narrow passage. An even narrower passage to the left. Take it. Another door, this one already open. He slammed it shut as he passed through. He was in another corridor and he was near collapsing. His heart was thumping in its chest. He felt it might explode at any moment. He had to stop. He just had to catch his breath. Then he heard it: silence. There were no running sounds. He'd lost his escort. He'd given them the slip. He must have. And sure enough, when he turned to look behind him, there was just an empty space, a space completely bereft of leather boots, shiny helmets and threateningly studded busten-halters.

  However it was a false ending.

  He heard them shouting. Then he heard their footfalls. They were getting closer. They must be just beyond the door, the door that he'd closed behind him. Time to move on. But also time to consider whether he could. He really was pooped. Maybe better to hide. But where to hide? Was there another clothes chest anywhere to hand? No. But there was a door - just over there. And that would do fine.

  He leapt towards it and turned the handle. The door opened and he quickly stepped through. He was now in a room in semi darkness. The only light came from its far end - from what looked like a window onto another room. But this would do. This would do perfectly. He closed the door and stood motionless. He would close his eyes and listen. Listen for sounds which meant grief or relief…

  And there they were, running-feet sounds - now approaching and… no, they weren't stopping. No, they were moving past. And now they were receding. The sounds were moving away, getting less and less all the time. And then nothing again. Blessed silence. He was saved. He was home, home and very dry.

  Well, actually he was very far from home and he was dripping wet with perspiration. But that was good enough. He would stay wherever he was until he felt safe enough to venture out and find his way back to his cabin. His pursuers were bound to give up sooner or later. They clearly had other business to attend to. And then he could emerge safely.

  Meanwhile, he would adopt normal detective procedures. He would examine his immediate surroundings, take note of anything of interest - and then find the most comfortable spot to rest his poor old body, that over-used vessel that had been of so much help to him over the past few frantic minutes. It was no less than it deserved.

  At first glance it looked as though the initial part of these procedures would take no time at all. In the half-light he could see that the room was empty save for a table at its centre and beyond that about a dozen or so stools. There was certainly nothing that promised any comfort for his poor old body. But there was that window up there. And whatever was on the other side of that window was in full light and it deserved an inspection. He moved towards it cautiously. The last thing he wanted was to find he was looking into the eyes of a bevy of blonde-haired amazons…

  He was now almost there and he eased forward very gradually to peer through. But he could see nothing. Then he realised. There was a room on the other side of that window, but it was a double-height room. Its floor must have been on the deck below. And what he was seeing at the moment was its empty clerestory. He needed to get even closer, close enough to be able to look down as well as through.

  He was right. He was in an observation room, the sort they have above operating theatres. And that's what was down there: a medical chop shop with a chopping board at its centre, surrounded by blokes in green gowns and green caps. Oh, and yes, on the chopping board was a torso - with just a right leg. No, sorry, that was a left leg. And anyway, right, left, it hardly matters… Because one of the guys in green has just removed it. He's just sliced through it with some sort of laser-edged carving knife. And now one of the other guys is taking it to the side table where the other bits are: the other leg, the arms, the hands - and the head!

  'Holy shit-hole! Holy shit-hole! Holy shit-hole!'

  Renton slumped to the floor. There were all these visions swirling around in his mind: body parts in jars, floppy inner bits, and the all too recognisable outer bits. And then the fresh forms of the same, the newly cut bits, the bits that were still dripping blood. There was only one thing to do, only one thing that Renton could conceivably do in such circumstances. He fainted. He was out like a light.

  …and soon lost in the dark.

  31.

  Cristalina was cringing inside.

  And Bessie clearly knew it. And she was clearly loving it. In fact, she was having a field day. After all, it wasn't often she was given it on a plate. Not like this. Not ever like this.

  'Ah,' beamed Bessie, 'I've got it. Of course. It was a stowaway. That's what it was, a friggin' stowaway. Some poor bloke who couldn't pay his fare. And he'd gone and stowed himself away, hadn't he? And shit, we must just have overlooked him. We must just have sort of missed him. Because he'd just been lying there, hadn't he? You know. He hadn't bothered to jump up and announce himself. Not like he did this time. And well, I suppose it'd be easy, wouldn't it? You know, not to spot him. Small chap like that. What was it you said
? About six-foot or so? Well, understandable really. Anybody could have made that sort of mistake. Anybody with no fuckin' brain, that is…

  'And that, my dear Cristalina,' reported Bessie, with her voice rising to a shout, 'is what I soddin' well have to deal with. A bunch of fuckin' cowpats with a vacuum between their ears. God 'elp us. Not only are we in the middle of pissin' deep space, we've even managed to find a troupe of twats with a dollop of it in their own fuckin' heads. And don't think I'm excluding you, my dear girl. You, remember, are responsible for that load of dummies. You're supposed to have trained them. They're your elite, remember, your crème de la crème. Well, more like your merde de la merde, if you ask me.'

  Bessie closed her eyes. She was either pausing for effect or waiting for inspiration for a further onslaught. Cristalina couldn't tell. But she thought she'd use the opportunity to make a point. It probably wouldn't work, but she had little more to lose.

  'I think he was deranged - or possibly drugged. But in any event, we'll soon find him. I'm convinced of it.'

  Bessie opened one eye. She looked like a gargoyle.

  'What? What did you say?'

  But before Cristalina could answer, she went on.

  'Deranged? Drugged?'

  She paused.

  'Drivel! Plain effin' drivel! This guy may have announced himself as some fairy godmother or something. But fuckin' hell, can't you see? That was just his way of escaping. And my God, it worked, didn't it? It worked a friggin' treat.

  'No, my girl, this guy's not a madman. He's as sane as you or I. I'd stake my life on it. And he's got a purpose. He was in that bloody box for a reason. And it wasn't to sniff the clothes, I can tell you. We have a problem. Do you understand me, Miss Tight-arse? We have a problem.'

  Cristalina was now seething. Not only had her girls dropped her right in it, but she'd now gone and aided and abetted her own very awkward situation. She'd never really believed their unwelcome guest was a loony, and she didn't really know why she'd offered this as an explanation. Maybe it was to try and deflect Bessie from the conclusion she'd already arrived at herself: that he was an adversary, somebody who in some way had learnt what they were up to. Well, whatever the reason, she'd simply dug herself a deeper hole, and now it was going to be even harder to convince this ugly cow that she could make amends - for what was rather more than a minor misdemeanour. But still she had to try.