Fethawi Alazar sat on the floor cross legged in the lounge of the sparsely furnished flat. He watched Scooby Doo and Garfield shows one after the other, transfixed by the animated programmes. At five years old and in his first permanent UK residence since fleeing Eritrea with his parents, he thought he had been moved to some futuristic world. In front of him he had a plate with hembesha bread covered with portions of chicken berbere, hilbet (a paste of vegetables and beans) and a yoghurt sauce. He ate slowly so taken was he by the television.
“Eat your food Fethawi, it will make you big and strong,” his Father, Alazar said. Fethawi slowly made an effort to eat some more.
Alazar sipped at his Bun (coffee) and relaxed into his chair. There were few furnishings but the new flat was comfortable and he had found work quickly. He had worked a long day at the supermarket and worked hard, Alazar was tired but safe.
His wife, Feiven, called through from the kitchen, “Would you like more food Alazar?”
“No, no thank you,” he replied, “eat your food Fethawi or I will switch that thing off.”
A knock at the door broke into their peaceful family life. It was not expected.
Feiven called through, “Alazar there is someone at the door.”
“I heard it, relax it will be a neighbour or Ammanuel might be calling round,” Alazar got up from his chair and walked through to the hall, passing the kitchen where his wife was washing up.
“Ammanuel would phone first,” she said.
“Relax,” Alazar said. A second louder knock struck the door just before he could reach it.
Alazar leaned into the door and called through it softly, “Yes, can I help you?”
“David?” came the uncertain reply calling back.
“There is no David here.”
A pause and silence.
The caller spoke again, “This is forty eight Mandela House, isn’t it?”
“Yes, that is correct,” Alazar replied.
Silence again.
“I’m a friend of David Browns, has he moved on?”
Alazar was unsure how to answer, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”
Feiven stood at the entrance to the kitchen, “Who is it Alazar?”
Alazar just held a hand up to request her patience.
The visitor called through again, “Do you know where he has moved to?”
“You say you are a friend, haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what? I’ve been away, is David okay?”
This time Alazar was silent, he spoke slowly, “I am sorry to say but David Brown passed away some weeks ago.”
Silence.
“What happened? That’s terrible, look could I come in please? I’d like to know what happened.”
Alazar politely replied, “I am sorry, it is late, we are new here, I hope you will understand.”
“Yes, yes of course. Thank you.”
Oliver stepped away from forty eight Mandela House and leaned out across the balcony in front. He rested his hands on the lip of the balcony and leaned forward taking in a deep breath. He hardly knew David Brown but news of his death was a shock and a surprise. Oliver had two hundred pounds in his pocket, which he had hoped to reward David with for his help several weeks before. Oliver did not notice the black singed paintwork where he rested his hands.
Oliver had taken the bus to Kennington Park following another session in the laboratory under St Thomas hospital. He had spent the day reviewing his research and making a DVD for Sir Nigel Bell-Smith. He felt guilty for over cooking the status of his connection with Bell-Smith to Mary. Bell-Smith had expressed curiosity through Jack Splinters contact with him. Jack had been vague though and to keep the phone call short Sir Nigel had agreed to view a DVD demonstrating the new technology. However, this was a country mile from the business magnate having actually seen the yet to be made DVD.
Despite his white lie, Oliver felt Mary had come round now more than ever to the possibilities and reality of Tempus Genesis. He had even felt sufficiently confident to shave in the small bathroom off of his laboratory. The sensation of clean smooth skin and itch free face was delightful.
Once Oliver had made a first cut of the DVD he sat back and played it on the laptop, watching it on the widescreen TV. He had opened a bottle of El Bombero red and sipped at his wine, ate crisps and viewed his first demonstration film. With a good slug of wine in him he had laughed loudly as he recalled Minnie’s regression experience and his ungainly climax. Feeling good about the progress he was making and confident in the DVD he had a rush of ‘Bon Ami’ and a compulsion to bestow thanks upon David.
Oliver sat at the rear of the top deck of the bus taking him home. He had stopped at a pub near Kennington Park and drank three pints. It was nearly ten and Oliver felt very drunk. His head lolled as he snoozed in his seat at the back of the empty bus. The journey took Oliver past the Oval, through Stockwell, past Clapham Common and onto Balham. As the bus approached Oliver’s stop, four or five stops before he forced himself awake. He did not want to miss his stop. To keep himself awake he sent a text to Jenny, recording his inebriated state. Oliver then focused on the view outside keeping track of his progress home.
Oliver alighted the number 155 bus approximately five stops after where he should have got off. Having fallen fast asleep again he decided to use a non-bus tactical approach to getting home. Oliver walked considered steps back towards his flat, which he so desperately needed. Oliver realised that the desperation he felt was a very physical one, created by the pressure of a very full bladder. He needed to pee.
Oliver walked across the residential street he was on and quick stepped it towards the corner of Hildreth Street, where the market was regularly held. Oliver needed an alley and he decided one of the ones between shops where the market was held would be ideal. He slipped down the side of the Yang Sam Chinese Takeaway, rapidly undoing his jeans buttons and pulling at his boxers. Oliver leaned on the wall with one hand and had a long and powerful pee. He could not decide which was more satisfying, this pee or the shave he had earlier that evening.
As he looked up and down the alley he noticed in between the deserted market stalls a large emergency electrical generator, surrounded by metal fencing, with thick cables temporarily providing power to the area. Oliver had missed this unusual installation on his way into the alley, preoccupied as he was with his desperation to relive himself. Oliver recalled the blackouts in recent days and he remembered reading on the local Balham blog about the electricity company’s failure to restore power. Even this temporary measure had failed on several occasions. Oliver finished his pee and buttoned up his jeans.
Oliver was doing the last button when he noticed the hum of the generator. He thought it had changed pitch. He studied it, some several feet away from him out on Hildreth Street. Oliver looked at the metal doors that protected the circuits within.
Oliver knew he had been hit by something hard and powerful. As he hung there suspended he tried to orientate himself. He had noticed a blue glow within the generator, a burst of bright light and he had been struck. Oliver could not tell whether he had been electrocuted or not. He felt no burning pain but a crushing grip on his chest and skull. He was enveloped in light making it difficult to work out his situation, though he had some sense he was floating in the air.
Oliver was wrapped in a web of blue tentacles, slithers of thick gooey power that had rapidly stretched from the generator and seized him. It had coiled around him and held him several feet above the ground. He could not move. A single thinner limb of blue energy snaked from the main force up into the air above Oliver’s face. He stared at it for a second, just before it attacked his face and entered his brain through his left nostril. Oliver had no time to scream.
As the blue energy shrouded his brain, making his eyes and skull bulge, he lost all notion of time or space. Oliver could not reach any sense that could tell him he was suspended in the air by an alien web of energy, held there in the alley that ran behind the
Yang Sam Chinese Takeaway.
Oliver felt certain he was dying. All he could feel from the soles of his feet to the centre of his mind was his life force draining out of him. He could not resist as the death he thought this was washed his soul away. No time to reflect, no power to resist, some emotion of desperate loss, then nothing.
32.
Tempus Genesis Page 42