EQMM, May 2011

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "Do you have any friends?” I asked, feeling a little sorry for him. “Relatives? Visitors?"

  He turned to me. “What for? I keep my own company.” He pointed to the telescope. “I see all the people, all the things they do. I have no desire for their intrusion. It's what makes you and me so similar. We both crave the solitude and the darkness. For you, it's work. For me—personal."

  "What's your name?"

  He waved a hand. “Not necessary. Neither's yours. But, you know, on reflection, I do quite like the Buzz thing."

  "Why do you want me to steal something from you?"

  "Shouldn't the question be what do you want me to steal?"

  I looked briefly round. “Well, Buzz, I'm guessing it won't be the scope. And frankly, I doubt there's anything else in here that would interest the scabbiest gull on the dump."

  "Incorrect,” he replied, standing and making his way slowly through the paper piles to a small, smothered chest of drawers, and bringing out a small ring box. “I brought something back. When I was there."

  I found myself swallowing as he beckoned me over to a small table. No, I told myself, it couldn't be, could it? The rumoured moon rock? Here, in a shabby block of South London flats? And yet, the closer I got to the box, the more I wanted to open it.

  "Is it . . . ?” I asked.

  He nodded, slowly opening the lid to reveal a small grey stone no bigger than the tip of my finger. “Interplanetary contraband. Smuggled just the same way those poor drugs mules do. Mind you, maybe more painfully. You try swallowing a wrapped piece of the moon in a zero-gravity space capsule."

  I smiled at the image. “And they never found out?"

  "The folks at mission control?” He shook his head. “Didn't have a clue. See, after splashdown, each Apollo mission had to spend time in a decompression chamber."

  I nodded, briefly remembering newspaper images of astronauts smiling through thick glass windows.

  "I'd imagine conditions inside were pretty similar to your penal experiences. Three men locked up with just some very crude sanitation facilities. And of course, when you're back here, gravity suddenly exerts itself very forcefully. Those little bits of rock we'd each swallowed suddenly became extremely heavy as they worked their way through."

  I winced slightly.

  "All we had to do was keep swallowing the rocks when they . . . reappeared. That, and pray we could withhold them during the debrief and subsequent release to the waiting world's press. I finally got this fella to myself two days after I'd made it home.” He took the rock out. “Not many of us can say we've had a piece of the universe pass right through us three times. Guess he's made even more of a journey than me. You want to hold it?"

  As an offer, he hadn't sold it that well. “I'll pass. No pun intended."

  He snapped the lid shut, slowly scratched the side of his head. “You're thinking I'm insane, of course. That this is nothing more than some little pebble I picked up from the park."

  "No. I'm thinking you've called me up here to do a job. I simply want to know what it is."

  He slipped the ring box into a pocket, navigated his way back to the window, and began turning wheels on the telescope. I watched as the large white barrel moved slowly to the left, still pointing down towards the darkened town many floors below. Satisfied he'd found the right spot, he beckoned me over. I pressed my eye to the soft rubber eyepiece; saw nothing until he flicked the night-vision switch. A green window glowed. A downstairs room, by the look of it, half-drawn curtains failing to obscure opulent trappings inside. I recognised it immediately, a large house less than fifty yards from the place I'd just relieved of its jewellery. Indeed, I'd been past it several times, had already considered its potential for easy pickings.

  "You chose to ignore this place,” I heard him say. “Why?"

  I kept my eye tight to the rubber, making out more of the room. “The wall-mounted safe. It's just about visible from the street, if you know what you're looking for."

  "A standard three-tumbler dial model,” he said. “Surely not a problem for someone like you? And an indication of lucrative spoils inside?"

  "Not this one,” I said, taking a longer look at the small metal box mounted between two gilt-framed pictures. “Open the door on that sucker and all you'll find is a web camera looking right at you, linked direct to the security company. It's bait. Before you know it, there's a dozen police cars waiting outside.” I stepped back from the scope. “The whole place stinks of wire-traps and alarms. Whatever they've got in there, they want to keep hold of it."

  He nodded.

  "But you're not going to tell me, are you?"

  He shook his head.

  "You just want me to do whatever it is you want."

  Another nod. It was like talking to a mute.

  "You're going to have to try and help me with some words,” I tried. “Even better, an explanation."

  "His name is Saunders."

  "The owner?” I asked.

  "And not just of that house, either,” he replied. “He owns this whole place."

  "The block?"

  "And all its apartments, land, and accesses."

  "These flats, they're all rented?"

  He nodded. “Cheques payable to Mr. Mark Saunders.” He slumped back down in the ruined armchair. “His father's company built the place. Joe Saunders—nice fella. Died last year, left the lot to his son, Mark. His house, its contents, and this block."

  I was beginning to get the picture. “And since then, his son's left the place to rack and ruin?"

  "S'about it."

  "Let me guess,” I said, thinking of the boarded-up doors and windows. “Now he's about to sell? Have the place condemned as a liability, eyesore, whatever; then pocket the loot before the demolition teams arrive?"

  Buzz nodded. “It's part of a so-called urban-renewal scheme. They'll pay him millions to reduce this place to rubble."

  "And you lose your home in the sky?"

  He shuffled through some papers at his feet, threw a letter across at me. “Their latest offer."

  Headed “Dear Occupier,” it was an offer to re-house the old guy in some new housing development. The words “ground-floor retirement apartment” had been angrily underlined—presumably by Buzz himself.

  "I ain't moving,” he said. “Just ain't."

  "But if this place isn't safe . . . ?” My eyes drifted to a paragraph detailing the owner's concerns with the central lifts, how it might be necessary to close them to residents. “It's going to make getting out of here pretty tough. You could be stranded."

  He jabbed a finger. “What are you saying? That I'm too old to manage a few flights of lousy stairs if I need to? Jeez, I walked on the moon!"

  It was getting out of control. “Show me the pictures,” I said.

  "Pictures?"

  "The ones you took of me earlier tonight,” I replied, pointing at the telescope, the only part of the situation that didn't fit my theory that the man was simply a lonely delusionist.

  "Kick those papers out of the way,” he instructed from his chair. “Underneath, there's a printer. Push the red button on the left."

  I knelt, did as he said, watching the linked printer come to life, then begin spitting out a series of shots of me about my earlier business. Green, pin-sharp, night-visioned evidence that I was there; outside and inside. Conclusive.

  He chuckled softly. “I guess your big mistake was to take the hat and scarf off when you got inside. But I think I managed to get your good side."

  "So the job is?” I asked, wondering if there was any way to rid the scope of the pictures. There had to be some sort of memory attached to it, an internal digital camera, perhaps. But where . . . ?

  "Your job,” he said, “is to steal my moon rock, then break into Saunders’ house and place it on the cocktail cabinet at the back of the living room, where I can be sure to see it."

  I frowned. “The reason?"

  "Because,” he explained, as if talking to a sm
all child, “when I get back from my weekly astrological society meeting tomorrow night and discover my apartment has been burgled, I shall be able to point the blame at Saunders."

  "Just because there's a pebble on his cocktail cabinet?"

  "No!” he snapped back. “Because it's the thing he covets the most. The moon rock!"

  "Right,” I announced, mind made up. “I'm going now. I'm sorry you're going to have to move, but—hey, there it is. But let me tell you this, if you think breaking into people's houses and leaving stones in their living rooms makes a jot of difference, then you're very wrong."

  His face began to show panic. “I'll send the pictures to the police! You'll be back in the pen with all the other scum!"

  "Don't you get it?” I tried. “It's over. This building is falling down. It's had its time. They're trying to get you somewhere better, more accessible. You can't fight this sort of stuff with bits of the goddamned moon, Buzz. I'm sorry, but that's the way it is."

  He blinked slowly. “I'll send the photos to the police."

  "No, you won't,” I said.

  "Try me."

  "I don't have to.” I shook my head, walked towards the door.

  "What makes you so sure, thief?"

  I turned, looked at the confused, angry old man sitting in the detritus of his lonely delusions. “Because, Buzz,” I slowly explained, “you'd have to give the police a signed statement. As, indeed, would I, wherein I'd detail exactly what has happened here tonight. There'd most likely be some sort of court case. You'd be called as a witness; forced to swear on a Bible as to your name. Then it'd all come out, wouldn't it, Buzz? That you weren't who you claimed to be? That you were really an odd little bloke who needed a ground-floor flat and help from the social services."

  He stared back, blank.

  "Put it this way, Buzz: You shop me, and we're both going down. . . ."

  * * * *

  I got to do a fair bit of reading in the next eight months, spent so much time reading about space and space travel that the other lags on the wing got to calling me Buzz, a name I was happy with, though I never let on as to precisely why.

  The court case lasted for three days, and to be fair, in a slow news week, attracted a few columns in the tabloids. I guess it was simply the absurdity of it all. I'm not going to tell you his real name, but rest assured he wasn't an astronaut, which came as a bit of a disappointment, in a weird sort of way. His eyes never met mine as he gave evidence, and at no time during the trial did he ever mention any of the crazy moon stuff. He came out as a decent old star-gazing vigilante, photographing misdeeds from up on high—and I came out with eight months.

  Rambling Ian came to visit, told me the case had attracted enough attention to warrant the social services moving in on the old guy and “re-accommodating” him. Apparently a crowd had gathered to see the huge telescope being winched back down the side of the building, clapping and cheering. Buzz, he told me, had simply watched, tears in his eyes.

  A few months later, I made the usual right noises to the panel, and left Her Maj's Pleasure a cosmologically enlightened man. Sure, I was going to be a thief again, always would, we all have to live, don't we? We're all stardust, after all.

  True to form, the Probation set me up in a cosy little dump just south of the river. Three days later, returning from a midnight sortie, I found a note slipped under the doorway: You walked south for four minutes. Turned right, stayed outside number 27 for twelve minutes until the owners returned. You hid in a bush as they went inside. I'm just wondering if you needed a former employee of NASA's mission control to help guide your mission status in a safer and more profitable way? Between us, we could reach for the moon. . . .

  Opening the front door, I scanned the horizon, looking past disused warehouses and over the river towards a distant tower block, its top-floor lights blazing.

  I nodded, bowed—and I swear something winked back.

  Copyright © 2011 by Phil Lovesey

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Fiction: ENGLISH by Leigh Lundin

  Leigh Lundin debuted in EQMM's Department of First Stories in 2006 with the story “Swamped,” and went on to win that year's Readers Award. Since then he's had stories in AHMM ("8 Across” 4/08) and the 2009 MWA anthology The Prosecution Rests ("Quality of Mercy"). He has a Sunday column on the Criminal Brief website: criminalbrief.com.

  "That him?” asked my brother.

  "Yep,” I said, glancing to-ward a slight man standing at the front counter.

  "English,” the junior assistant manager snarled at the hapless customer. “Speak American."

  ” ‘Scuse me a minute,” I said, strolling toward the Tarpit Lanes counter. “Liam, the man wants to play. Give him a lane."

  Liam jutted his wispy goatee. “He don't got English."

  "Neither do you,” I pointed out. “Don't forget the man's change this time."

  The man went next to the shoe counter, removed a loafer, and held it up.

  "No English, no shoes, no service,” said Liam's crony, Hank, turning his back.

  "Rent the man shoes,” I said, “or I'll fit an eleven up your backside."

  Hank glared, but gave the man a pair of eights.

  Instead of putting his street shoes on the shelf with everyone else's, the man carried his with him. Understandable, because last time Liam's crew poured Fryolator grease in them.

  I tagged along to the snack counter where Liam's skanky girlfriend worked.

  "Kaffee,” said the man.

  "English only,” she said, snapping her gum.

  "Lindsay, give the man his coffee, or tomorrow I'll file a complaint with the state's discrimination officer."

  Whether the state had a discrimination officer would have been news to me. She sniffed and slopped coffee in a cup.

  "All the way full, that's right."

  I returned to my game with my brother.

  "Geesh,” he said. “The way business is, you'd think they'd want customers."

  "Especially the way he bowls. You watch."

  "Doesn't look like much. He took out only pin three."

  Tense from the confrontations, I rolled a gutter ball.

  "Keep watching. He's warming up."

  "He picked off the six. What's his name?"

  "Best I can make out, something like Salem."

  Earl and his crew wandered in, ambling up to Ray and me.

  "Hey Ray, Joe. We want to see that new guy."

  "There he is.” I drew a split.

  Ray said, “He got the two and now the four. Damn, he's picking them off one at a time. Why would he do that?"

  "Warm-up exercises,” I said, “like a pianist. Keep watching."

  "What is he, Mexican?"

  "Nobody knows. He doesn't speak Spanish."

  "Port-a-gee,” said Ned. “I bet he speak Brazil."

  "He's not Portuguese,” I said.

  "Turkish,” said Earl. “He's awfully short and dark."

  "Might be Eskimo,” said Ned. “Nobody knows what they look like under Eskimo clothes."

  "Naked,” suggested my brother.

  "Look at that. He's got three left. What's he doing now?"

  "Watch,” I said.

  Salem, or whatever his name was, switched to a two-handed grip and hurled the ball in an odd cycling motion down the boards. The ball skidded down the lane, slowed, and began spinning like a top. It touched the first pin, knocking it aside, kissed the second, toppling it, and embraced the third, before taking a bow into the pinsetter.

  "Wow. What the hell was that!"

  "That's English!"

  "Keep watching,” I said, taking advantage of my brother's distraction.

  Salem picked up his ball, rolled his shoulder, and snaked the ball down the lane.

  "Whoa. Ain't never seen no one bowl an S-curve,” said Ned with reverence.

  "He done that on purpose?” asked Earl. “Leaving the one, ten, and seven?"

  "Yep. Expect the unexpected."
>
  "Why doesn't he just bowl strikes?"

  "It must get boring,” I said. “He can bowl thirty or forty in a row."

  "Look at that,” said my brother. “He took out that one, ten, seven without even trying. Man, why don't we form a team?"

  "I was hoping you'd say that."

  "Everybody down!"

  I heard pops like firecrackers. I pivoted to find two skinny guys waving pistols.

  "Nobody move!” One guy punched the front counter cash register and hauled out bills.

  The sound of a ball and a strike sounded off to my left. Salem was still bowling.

  "Hey, you! Nobody move. That means you!"

  "No English,” said Liam. “He don't speak English."

  "He understand Glock? Hey, moron!” He fired his pistol into the ceiling again.

  I spoke up. “Leave him alone. He's foreign."

  Looking up, Salem smiled, gave a big wave, and picked his ball out of the return. He addressed the ball and skated to the foul line, bowling a perfect strike.

  The gansgta wavered while his buddy emptied the snack bar till and turned toward us. “Everybody, your wallets, watches, and rings. Now! Gimme your bling!” He shot into the ceiling again as the sound of Salem's ball took out another ten.

  So much for my K-Mart watch, but I hated giving up my wallet. I'd cashed my paycheck and the rent was due.

  "The Mex, too."

  "He doesn't understand English,” said my brother. “Cops'll be here any minute."

  They hesitated, but common sense prevailed.

  "Forget him. Let's go."

  I heard Salem's ball come up in the ball return. For some reason, I glanced in his direction and watched him scoop two balls and cradle them in the crook of his left arm. He picked up a third ball, spun toward the robbers, and stepped off into his crouch.

  As the ball flew from his hand, Salem immediately swung a second ball into motion. The first skidded toward the linoleum, bounced at the metal strip, and smashed one of the crooks behind the knee. The boy went down like he'd been tackled.

  The second ball caught the second robber's ankle, causing him to stumble.

  Salem never stopped moving forward. He slung the third ball and scooped up a fourth off a rack.

  "Ray, Earl,” I said, grabbing a ball.