“I've never seen you before in my life!” I dived into my own defence with all guns firing, “I don't even know who you are. Why you've helped me. As far as I could care, I am dead. Torn open and kicked down a dusty road by the Ornamentals…”
“STOP IT!” she screamed, “Do not use the sacrilegious word. Only one heroic person I know would ever dare to use that scandalous term for what they are..”
“Mr Whysilage.” I silenced her.
“What is the matter?” I asked after a lengthy period of silent anxiety.
“Don't you think I know that?” she croaked, her words jagged with emotion.
“Don't you think I know what these are?” she spun round suddenly, the pair of canary yellow sunglasses my lover had given me before his sad demise in her hand. “What tortures did he endure to let you remove a pair of his zvektas, Goddammit? No one removes Mr Whysilage's zvektas.”
“We were...” my sentence begun, I suddenly realised this might be a bit difficult for her to hear if I had correctly read the intimate set-up between these two. They obviously had a ‘history’. But she had to know, for the sake of us both.
“Gambling partners?” she rattled on, “Mercenaries in some intergalactic cause? In the same lock-up overnight after some drunken brawl had gotten you both arrested? I know he was a notorious imbiber of poisons legal or not…”
“We were lovers.” three little words; dropped like a ten-ton weight on a pack of squabbling wolves.
“Lovers?” she had neither suspected nor expected that.
“We were lovers. Mr Whysilage and I. We met in a bar. And yes, as a matter of fact, we were drinking partners, but I turned out to be the notorious one. Coughed up some weird thing in a restaurant and it destroyed the place.” I experienced again my new body doing one of its horizontal shrugs.
“Obviously, you don't know anything about who Mr Whysilage was or what he represents to our people.”
“He was my lover, that's all I know. He gave me those crazy yellow sunspecs then died. That's all there is to say..” my throat choked on the emotions regurgitated by the outburst.
I told her the story Mr Whysilage mentioned about getting to a place called Arreney..
“Did he?” she smiled
“He said I was to take the drugs on a beach as the theep, shtheep, sheep were rolling in
and when I got to Arrenay I would see a message in the glasses I was wearing. But of course I never got to the beach, never got a chance to do the drugs thing, never got to Arrenay..”
“I…” the woman began her confession, “...am Arrenay.”
I was stunned.
“You?? I thought Arrenay was a place. Maybe even another planet.”
“I think *beach*, get to the beach, was a bit of wordplay. You know, beach, bitch.”
I exhaled a laugh.
“These drugs?” she continued, hungry for further elucidation.
“It was a small vial of yellow goo; my red suit, top pocket.”
“What red suit?” she asked.
I sighed and shrugged simultaneously, quite a complex action for a beginner; I am proud of my new body's learning potential.
“When can I get out of this horrible contraption?” I asked.
“Soon.” Arrenay smiled, “Tell me more… Did Mr Whysilage tell you what the message might detail? She held the broken yellow sunspecs up to the light and squinted at the lenses, Can’t see any message in them.”
Arrenay was busy studying the zvektas intensely, lost in study. “Ha! Ha! Ha!” she slapped her thigh like a pantomime dame. “They're Polaroids! Of course! Light is polarised, so if I...” she turns them over and replaces them back on my face. “That better?”
My vision was full of three dimensional shapes hewn from gold; glowing objects; jewels flipping from one form to another in a steady rhythm; a horse-head gem becomes a cuboid gem becomes a Jew's face gem becomes an exclamation sign becomes a man tripping over as he is mugged by a block of concrete... All in gold. Twenty four pieces of symbolic jewellery ticking steadily.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Bet I did look stupid with those canary yellow sunspecs upside down on my face like that.
“Jewels.” I gasped.
“Jewels?” Arreney breathed, “What do you mean?”
I told her about the way the shapes shifted a clockwork reconfiguration; the particulars of each symbol; the gold they appear to be made of; but she was none the wiser.
She removed the specs from my face.
“What a sense of humour.” she thought nostalgically of Mr Whysilage and his winning sense of humour in all adversities. As she held the sunspecs up to the light, a single tear ran down her cheek, “But I haven't the foggiest idea what this is all supposed to mean. Still, you made it this far with the goods intact.”
I had woken early, I believe, due to the dawn chorus of birds outside the barred window of my private room.
As soon as I sat up in my bed, I found that during the course of my night's dreaming I had inadvertently wet the bed. I cursed and swore at my bladder's ineptitude. I remembered dreaming I was stood in an odd room filled with rags and scraps of newspaper. The door had no lock on it. And as I urinated into a foam box that was already half-full of piss and floaters a strange woman with glossy black hair came in and watched me from the far end of the room. She was dressed ... erotically, let's say; only the bare minimum of clothing to cover her slender form.
“I used to be able to do that…” she leered as I tried to keep pissing. “My name's Stephanie.” That's probably when I wet the bed.
Squirming about in the dampness, I found the slippers by the bed where I'd left them the night before. They were covered in dust. As I shuffled to the edge of the bed to slip them on it dawned on me ... I don't piss. As I have already made clear, I have neither the male nor the female urinating equipment, none of the essential plumbing. The liquid waste my pathetic, crippled body produces either gets recycled by my body in some unknown way or gets expelled from my system as the postulant yellow boils my back is forever plagued with. A rash that eventually rots any night time clothing I wear or any bed on which I sleep naked.
But this copious wetness was more than anything I'd ever awoken in. I slung back the covers and, sure enough, there was the big round piss patch. It even SMELT of piss; rotten oranges gone bad. I wept openly.
Having played with my intercom switch until I was really bored of listening to static feedback, I got up off my piss-stinking bed and left my private room. For the first time ever - to my knowledge. I just pulled on the handle and the unlocked door sprang open. For a long time I stood at the room’s threshold, wondering if it would actually be safe to venture out into the corridor; it looked like a bomb had hit.
The standard-blue tiles had blackened and folded down from their assigned geometric position on the wall into their partners below. A nuclear nightmare scenario, all black dust and blasted decor. As I staggered numbly down corridor after corridor deserted and dark with the reminiscence of whatever calamity had caused such a fundamental destruction, a tiny tinny sound echoed from deep in D-Block. A sewer rat obediently following this Pied Piper's tuneless dirge, I discovered the culprit on its side in a recreation room I had never 'recreated' in. The place stank of rabbits; that earthy-shag smell of gonads and grass. The spouter of nonsense, the overturned television, was giving a sideways rundown of this year's Budget. Beer had been hit hard again. As had cigarettes (a legal narcotic and carcinogen) and of course, the brain poisoner, petrol.
Yep, the Government was once again showing its deck of ineptitudes finer suits. This can’t be true… The Budget? That is held at the end of March, isn't it? It can't be the end of March. I've not been held hostage in this fucking damp loony asylum for nearly two months already, have I?
FIFTEEN
The first thing Clive Idaho did before leaving Mister Rhisland’s household was ascend the main
supporting wall of the Victorian house, take a right-hander towards the master bedroom and tell Mister Rhisland's bed-ridden mother about the villainesse Lily Veyne and what she and her son were doing and what he was about to feed, indeed had been feeding, her.
Had a jolly, mischievous chuckle to himself as, slithering back to Terra Firma, the old hag could be heard wailing and screaming Mister Rhisland’s Christian name. Such filth as you’d never in all your living days expect to pour forth from the toothless mouth of such a dainty old dear.
Two pairs of footsteps raced up the staircase in Clive Idaho’s opposite direction. This smoke screen should lend him sufficient time to undertake the rest of his coup.
You know, this lurking around unseen inside the solid, man-made world of the architect, the roadbuilder, the city planner was a major revelation. In the sense that Clive Idaho, lithe and slender and athletic-looking when stripped down to his shorts, would be the first to disclaim his physical abilities. The most strenuous exercise he had indulged in, other than compulsive masturbation, was pressing the keys on his computer terminal for hours at a time; programming.
BASIC had been his childhood favourite. Then, in the second form at Secondary School, he had been initiated into the wonder-weaving capabilities of machine code. Beautiful Base Sixteen. Oh, the plots he thought he could weave out of noughts and ones, the spectacular feats he nearly persuaded even his poxy ZX Spectrum to perform.
It had taken him years to come down from that particular trip. Then, when he had just about exhausted his poxy micro's capabilities and had relegated the knackered-in old thing to the cluttered space under his bed, daddy, bless his little Chinese heart, had gone and bought Clive Idaho an Atari ST. 500K of memory. Disc Drive. Modem Ports. Printer Ports. The money Clive Idaho frittered away on what is by today’s standards ancient technology wired together in sweat shops in the Rhonda valley. He tending to it religiously every weekend with new game discs; joysticks; mouse; mouse board. Then came the interactive graphic adventure game packs - five or six discs per pack and a price tag to match.
A well fed number-cruncher if ever there was one.
Until, that is, some bastard stole the lot one weekend when he was at his great-aunt’s sleeping over. To this day, Clive Idaho was convinced his father sold it off to keep his account at the bookies in the red. Spiteful bastard. Life really was a two-faced rotten, conniving cunt.
Snaking over the brow of the hill into Library Street. Crossing the dual carriage way to the police station. It still amazed Clive Idaho how, though he can feel the hot zip of rubber pounding over his slithering tarmac surface, he was never in danger of being squashed. A most amusing entombment in the cosy security of all things inanimate. A physical and spiritual bonding with his surroundings. The disciple becomes the messiah.
And this master of his own environment acquired a confident sneer as he eeled slimily up the incident office’s lime green wall; slipped into the cabinet beside a hard-working officer. A female PC; a negress. Her ebony skin glistening healthily.
“Psst.” the cabinet hissed.
The WPC heard nothing.
“Psst.” the cabinet spat.
Did she really hear that? She looked in Clive’s direction. A cabinet; inanimate; hissing.. She resumed her filing duties.
“0i.” the cabinet exclaimed.
“Jesus.” the WPC skidded back on her wheeled chair. She faked amused laughter, sounded nervous. Grinned, Okay, you guys. to the empty room. No-one revealed him or herself as the culprit of the prank.
“Yeah, very cute, lads.” She resumed her work.
Clive read her nametag aloud, “WPC Mavis Arizona. Can you hear me?”
“That’s it.” the woman shot to her feet, opened the door and shouted down the corridor, “I'll get you bunch of smart arses! In time. You'll see. Mavis Arizona does not forget.”
She shouted down the corridor once more, “Have I been understood? I will not forget! No way, José! Bastards.”
She breathed fury as she resumed her seat by the cabinet; opened one of the metal drawers, looking for a tape machine or whatever the fuck else those childish arsewipes had rigged up in there.
Quite bored watching the WPC’s fruitless disembowelment of the cabinet, Clive said, “I’ll have to tell you something, Mavis. You can't see me. Please, don't panic.”
WPC Arizona rose to her feet, “You’ve gotta be fucking joking.” The telephone rang all of a sudden, bringing a shriek from the ebony officer. She snatched at the handset, “Yes? I’ll put you through. She put down the phone. Do you want to tell me how you're doing that?” she asked the cabinet.
“That's not important right now. You must check the thing in cell 9. I think that will be evidence in itself as to how weird all this is.”
“Cell 9?”
“Cell 9.”
“And what will I find in cell 9?” she was still looking for the tell-tale wire leading to the guys’ den of mischief.
“A.. a thing. A something. I don't know how you'd describe it accurately. Its ... oh, just, please, get the keys. See for yourself. Then I can tell you who did it. Where. When. And why ... at least I think I know why its been done. Please. You must open up cell 9. It's very important!”
WPC Arizona still couldn’t find the concealed speakers, radio mikes, wiring.
“Why do you keep looking up there?” the cabinet asked.
“You can see, can't you?” she asked.
“Of course I can see. I don’t need hidden cameras or anything…”
“Look, this is very clever. Is it lasers?” she strode over to the single curtain in the room and drew it, plunging the incident room into a premature twilight, “I saw this programme on the telly one night about the F... B... I... and how they bounce lasers off your windows to hear what your saying about them.”
“No, dopey.” the cabinet dispelled that theory in a clear tone devoid of curtainly interference, lasers are for surveillance not transmission.
“I think they can be used for transmission, with a strong enough argon maser, you can find the resonant frequency of the glass and…”
“That’s sci-fi.” the cabinet growled.
“Is this some kind of initiation test?” she tried another tack.
“No. Wait. Please. Listen. This is no exercise. This is no drill. This is essential. You've got to trust me. You must be on the side of the good guys. You are on the side of the good guys, I hope.”
“I'm on the side of the good guys, if that means what I think it means.”
“Good.” the cabinet wasn’t really sure why it ‘boomed’ so loud, it wasn’t really sure what ‘being on the good side’ meant to either of them so none was the wiser.
WPC Arizona sat back down beside the chatty cabinet. Took out a biro; ready to jot down particulars.
“What are you doing?” the cabinet exclaims.
“This could be cryptic.”
“What are you talking about? Cryptic? Are you for real? I've told you already this is not a fucking test!”
She was already scribbling, madly.
“Stop, woman. For God’s sake. There are no clues in these words. I am not a crypto-graphic puzzle for you to decipher. How long have you been a policewoman?”
“Sorry.”
“Listen, don’t write anymore. It’s driving me crazy. Put down your pen. Please. Just go to the cellblock. Open up cell 9. You’ll see this isn’t a ... a jape. Please.”
“Okay.” she got to her feet, “I’ll open cell 9, on one condition...”
The phone rang again.
The WPC answered it, “Speaking. Yes, sir. No, sir. I’ll do just that. A practical joke?” she laughed, thinking of how she’d make her colleagues pay for this.
“Right. Sir.” she replaces the handset in its cradle.
“Who was that?” the cabinet demanded.
“I'm not to humour you any longer.”
“Who was that on the phone?”
“My superior. They've traced your signal a
nd they'll be on you in no time, sucker. I’d make a run for it if I were you, sonny. The game's up.”
“Nonsense. This is balls. Who called? Who just called?? I must know.”
“You are dead, boy.”
“Alaska.” the cabinet exclaimed.
WPC Arizona glanced at the cabinet, “No, he called before that. Oh, I guess you are hooked into the phone system as well. I wouldn't like to be in your shoes when they come breaking down your door. They won’t do it right now, of course. Maybe they’ll wait a while. Let you sweat. You will think you see familiar faces in your neighbourhood. You will get crank phone calls at all hours of the night. Disturbing your pattern. One day, that little knock on the door and the click of gun hammers being cocked.”
“Stop it. What are you talking about? The signal stuff, it's a fabrication. I'm here!!” the cabinet screams, “I can't be traced. I can't be found. I can't be followed. I can't be had in any way. I am invincible. Dead real. Solid existence.”
“Whatever you say.” WPC Arizona got back to her paperwork.
“It's Alaska, you jerk. Alaska's controlling you all. You dopes.”
Clive Idaho had had enough of this. And, slamming the cabinet door behind him in his wake, he swam off to find someone of higher rank. Someone who's not already been got at. STUPID BLACK TWAT screaming eerily across the incident room wall as away into the police station Clive Idaho plunged.
Too much valuable time has already been wasted. he muttered to himself, passing absently through a concrete strut and through brick, plaster and paper to the surface of yet another empty lime-green room. Fucking ridiculous colour. he grunted. Moved on to other pastures, so to speak.
“At last.” Clive Idaho found someone in.
“Who are you and what is your rank?” Clive Idaho asked the sole occupant as he munched down on a large French-bread sandwich.
The burly detective choked on his stolen lunch. Spat out the chunk of dough, Flora, ham & pickle and coughed and coughed till he was purple in the face and his eyes are almost bleeding.
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