Man of RuinEpisode One_Extra Special Pre-Release Edition

by Oliver Franks

  “Right, happy now?” I zipped up and turned to James.

  His face was white, like the bedsheets of a nun. He was staring down at the pond.

  “Jesus Davey…” he muttered, his voice full of reverence.

  I turned and saw what had so impressed him. The water where I had peed now had a golden, oily layer to it, interlaced with thousands of tiny, fluffy, shiny little crystals reflecting light from the cloudy sky. More than that, there were a series of thin brown objects floating in amongst it like corks.

  With a weight in the bottom of my stomach, I realised that these were fish. Dead fish. Fish killed by the poisonous power of my urine. If we were drunk, it would have been funny, but in the sober light of an autumn day, it felt like the coming of the apocalypse.

  Chapter 5

  For what felt like ages I stood staring in horror at the litter of dead fishes floating before me. Their skins had been decimated, bones exposed, eyes popped, scales flaking off, turned a grimy brown. The smell was overpowering, a funk of burning and rotting flesh. It made me gag, but I was so shocked by what I had done I couldn’t even manage to puke. I was stuck to the spot, fascinated, terrified. Was this it? My future? Doomed to witness repeated destructions of my own making, again and again, simply by performing the most natural and unavoidable of bodily functions?

  “Davey,” I felt the slap of James’s hand on my shoulder. “This is amazing.”

  “What?” I said. “No it’s bloody well not.”

  He laughed to himself. “Don’t be so serious, it’s only fish.”

  I shook my head.

  “Look, Davey, I can see you’re upset, not thinking straight at all, and that’s understandable. But listen,” he leaned in close and whispered, “this could be your ticket, you know.”

  I ripped his hand from my shoulder and turned to face him square on.

  “What d’you mean?”

  The corner of his lips curled suggestively.

  “Well, you’ve got something special, you know,” he said. “Something no one else’s got. Just got to figure out how to use it to our advantage.”

  I wrinkled my nose, sceptical to say the least.

  “Oh Davey, you’re so naive! You could do whatever you wanted with this!”

  “All I want is to be able to take a piss without destroying something or hurting someone… or killing something.”

  “Come on now Davey, you could do a lot better than that. Just think about it. People would pay good money to see you mangle another climbing frame.”

  I heard the words but for a moment I couldn’t really believe he was saying them. Seeing his earnest face, no longer smug, genuinely trying to entice me, trying to sell me his big idea. I felt as if I should either collapse onto the ground in a ball of tears, or leg it as far as my legs could take me, Forest Gump style.

  “Jesus, you’re serious aren’t you?” I said, understanding why he had been so keen to get involved. “What, you want me to be some kind of freak show?”

  “Not a freak show Davey,” he protested. “Well, sort of, I guess. Just use your imagination would you!”

  I put my hands in my pockets, waiting to see what his imagination would come up with.

  “Alright,” he said, waving his arms, “how about Britain’s Got Talent?”

  “Oh yeah sure!” I laughed. “I’m sure everyone would love to see me take a pee on live TV!”

  “They wouldn’t have to see your—”

  “See my member? No they wouldn’t,‘cos I’d never bloody do that!”

  “Well, why not! You could make millions.”

  I laughed again, so dismissively it was bound to wind him up.

  “I never had you down as an idiot James, but who do you suppose is going to pay me millions to wee on stuff? Doesn’t sound like the most lucrative activity does it!”

  “You just need to be creative is all I’m saying!”

  We were both shouting and suddenly there came this moment. There we were, staring sternly at the other, breathing hard, almost ready to get physical.

  “OK, how about this then Davey,” he said, rehashing his hushed tone.

  I raised a hand to shut him down—

  “No,” he talked over me, “hear me out—”

  “Why don’t I just bloody leave right now,” I muttered to myself. “Find myself a desert island and piss into the sand—”

  “Robbery.”

  He said the word, just that single word. My mouth fell open. All I could do was look at him in disbelief.

  “I’m serious! With pee like that you could break into Fort Knox.”

  “For Christ’s sake, that’s it.”

  And I turned and walked away. I could sense his searing disappointment with me, but he didn’t follow, and I didn’t give a shit.

  *****

  By now the morning had grown into midday. The cloud-cover was thick and grey, and there was a strong chill in the wind. I trudged across the park, the grass crunchy and icy underfoot. The world was not what it once had been for me, not any more. This was a Saturday morning, I should have been pigging out at home in my flat, blasting my way through a PS4 session, or binging box-sets, or wanking, or doing whatever I fancied to relax on my weekend. I should have been thinking vaguely of the shower I was going to take at some undetermined point of my own choosing, of the meal I would have later that afternoon, maybe a burger, or a KFC, or both, then maybe a stroll to the pub, a few beers, or maybe go to the cinema. Or maybe both. Maybe all of that and more. Maybe some popcorn and a milkshake from that place I love where you can ask them to put anything the hell you like in there - Mars Bar, Snickers, Maltesers, one of each, four of each, it didn’t matter, in that place the customer was always right and this was the weekend, after a long week of work. I deserved to indulge.

  I thought vaguely of my parents and what they were doing over in Kent. Garden related, it would definitely be. I dismissed that thought as quickly as it had come, for I despised my parents and they hardly cared for me, especially since I had quit Uni, started talking “like someone from the estates”, broke up with Alice and buggered off here to Crawley. What would they think of my current predicament? Being that they, like my neighbours, were broadly representative of the UK’s Daily Mail reading population, I found it strangely warming to think that they would probably advocate having me put down. At the very least, I would make a great scare story and a lesson for all young people out there to eat your greens, get some exercise, settle down and vote Tory.

  My mind full of such nonsense, I reached the concrete path that laced around Hope Park. On the other side were parked cars, road, the town, the wider world that didn’t seem to have any place for me any more. At least, not the appropriate toilet facilities. What should I do? Where should I go? I had no clue at all.

  Spotting a bench nearby, I walked to it, vaguely hoping to figure something out.

  I plonked my behind down and shoved my hands into my pocket.

  So, now what?

  *****

  I considered my options.

  First point, really important, was to keep things simple. I needed to wee. I would always need to wee. Yet I couldn’t go around destroying toilets everywhere I went. Parks were an obvious option, yet one that was still fraught with danger. What if I was seen? What if I had another accident with a tree, or some other unforeseen difficulty should arise? What if, say, I peed on a spot where a Second World War bomb lay beneath? It sounded ridiculous, but it was possible.

  Nowhere was safe for me, nowhere where there were people and things. There were bad places, and less bad places. For now at least my life was going to have to be a constant selection of safe-to-pee spots. I would spend my days slinking from spot to spot, always one eye over my shoulder, always the fear that this pee could be my last. It was a sphincter of a fate but one I just had to get to grips with.

  Next question. Should I go home, back to the flat? I imagined the landlord and my neighbours waiting for me there. I knew I could pul
l off a lie or two but it seemed impossible to explain what had happened without a string of absolute whoppers, all of which would easily get found out. For one thing, I hadn’t been to Guildford, never had been, and had no friends there whatsoever. They’d soon discover there’d been no break-in or anything like that. The whole incident could probably pass as a great mystery, perhaps dismissed as some kind of ‘freak accident’, if it wasn’t for my neighbours. To them, it would be obvious that somehow, through some crazy, laddish stunt, I had caused the destruction of my toilet. I could hear them saying the words, “typical, he isn’t even man enough to admit it.”

  They’d be partly right, at least. Bottom line, nothing good would come from the mess I’d made of my toilet, and I could see no advantage to going back and facing things, aside from sleeping in my bed, and having access to my stuff. That was important. Really. I couldn’t just wander the streets.

  The more I thought about it, the more I grew angry. The whole thing was just one big pile of poo that had been dropped in my lap. Was I the doer of great wrong in all this? Of any wrong? Why did I have to struggle and suffer now? Was it my fault my wee had gone radioactive? Had I intentionally destroyed anything?

  I considered that last point. In the pub the night before, it had been accidental. But later, in the playground, that was pure drunken antics, there was really no calling for that. I deserved a get out of jail card for what happened in my flat, since at that point I was still so hungover I could barely remember my name, let alone the previous night. But at the hospital? Could I have avoided that? I suppose I could have, somehow. Only it was impossible to locate the exit and I’d really needed to pee! The whole thing just wasn’t fair!

  This fretting was getting me nowhere, so I attempted to paint a more forgiving picture of my case. Something absolutely unbelievable was happening to me, happening somewhere no less problematic than right there in my underpants. It impinged on essential daily needs that other people barely gave a second thought to. Yes, I had been a fool, but wasn’t that understandable? Wasn’t I under a great deal of stress and strain? Wasn’t I going through some kind of metamorphosis that no man had ever gone through before? People can be forgiven for acting mental when pushed up against a wall. And I was pushed up hard. Very hard. My balls were almost literally in a vice.

  Then it struck me. I had to get help. Professional help. How could I ever expect to solve this on my own!

  I stood up, shaking the worry from my face.

  This was a physical problem. An anatomical problem. What I needed was a doctor. Why hadn’t I thought of that before?

  Chapter 6

  As I stood in the lift on my way up to the doctors office, it occurred to me that I could have said something to the doctor when I was in the emergency room. Come clean. What was happening was an emergency after all. At least to me. Though I wasn’t dying, and what was happening didn’t seem to be threatening my life. At least, I didn’t think I was dying, but what if, actually, I was? Who was to say, with that super corrosive acid pee running around my bladder. Who was to say——

  The lift opened upon the sparse reception room. I stepped out and tapped my name into the touch screen to await my turn. One or two frail and glum looking old people were seated, as well as a mother with a small girl on her lap. I sat two seats down from the mother, on an otherwise uninhabited row of chairs. The mother ignored me but the child fixed a stare on me with large, cautious eyes. I smiled and gave her a wave, then watched as her bottom lip quivered, her eyes moistened, and she descended into a bout of loud crying.

  Spot on, I thought.

  *****

  The pinging of my name on the speakers jolted me from my depression. I had almost gotten used to the wailing of the child which had continued for the past ten minutes or so.

  I stood and was immediately filled with an urgent dread. Hang on a minute, I thought, what am I actually going to tell this doctor? How can I possibly explain what’s happening without sounding like a complete joker? This was an urgent question to which I had no good answer.

  “David Smith?” said the receptionist, glaring at me. “Doctor York is waiting for you.”

  “Yes, of course,” I said, removing the finger of contemplation I had pressed to a corner of my lips.

  Consumed with apprehension, I proceeded down the corridor to the door of Dr York’s office. I crossed my fingers and hoped she would not have me committed. The toilets in those places may have been suicide proof, but as far as I knew they were still constructed from old fashioned porcelain.

  *****

  Doctor York was a bored looking, smartly dressed woman with straight brown hair cut in a neat line at her neck. She greeted me curtly, with an overly fake smile and a distinct air of hurriedness, and invited me to sit down on the small chair she had arranged to one side of her computer clad desk.

  “Now, what seems to be the problem?” she said.

  The exact series of words I had been dreading.

  I took a deep breath. On the spur of the moment, I decided to go all in.

  “I’ve been peeing acid. Well, I think it’s acid. It’s really strong, like enough to bring down trees. Anything it touches is destroyed. And there’s this smell. It doesn’t matter what it is - wood, metal, water—”

  “Alright, I’ve heard enough.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She had cut me off abruptly, raising her voice, reminding me of how the head mistress had spoken to me after I’d started one of my famous ink fights in the school canteen.

  “You can leave now, I’m not interested in playing your games.”

  She moved to look at some papers, ignoring me sitting there, waiting for me to leave.

  “I’m serious,” I said.

  “Of course you are. Now get out.”

  She returned to the shuffling of papers. Her lack of interest in even questioning me a little bit wound me up big time. That was plain rude. Plus, what if I had been a genuine psychiatric case, in need of care? What if I did need committing? It just didn’t seem like professional treatment.

  “Look,” I said. “I can give you a demonstration if you like. I’d rather not though, for your sake. I don’t want to ruin this place.”

  She stared at me blankly, clearly bored and frustrated. When I didn’t flinch, she let out a deep sigh.

  “Alright,” she said, irritation flowing through her.

  She stood up and went over to some shelves. When she had found what she was looking for she walked back, holding out a large beaker for me to take.

  “What’s that?” I said, looking at it.

  “Go on then,” she said. “Show me. You can use this.”

  “Look, I told you, my urine has turned into acid and it—”

  “This beaker is chemical resistant. Look, I really don’t appreciate the time you are wasting here, if you insist on showing me your urine then do so using this. If not, get out.”

  I stared at the beaker, biting my bottom lip. It looked like an ordinary beaker to me. I didn’t care what it was made from, I was absolutely certain it would be melted to mush in milliseconds.

  Ah well, I thought, taking it from her. She was going to be in for a nasty surprise.

  “I’ll do it over here, if you don’t mind.”

  I walked over to the other side of the room, unzipped, then hesitated.

  “Can’t we do this outside?” I said meekly. “In the park maybe?”

  She just glared at me.

  “Alright,” I said. “But I won’t be held responsible for any damage caused to your office.”

  “Just get on with it,” she said, shaking her head.

  Fine, I thought. Have it your way.

  I placed the beaker on a bare section of the carpeted floor by the wall, just below the window. I hung over it, low, so as to ensure I could pee directly into it, just in case, in some crazy turn of events, it did actually hold my wee. I wasn’t bursting like before, but it didn’t take long for me locate a beaker’s worth hiding awa
y somewhere in my bladder. It dripped out at first but quickly became what I would describe as a light tinkle.

  The results were instantaneous. The beaker popped and melted, and the wee flowed out from the gashes it was creation. As it trickled over the carpet, the fibres became blackened and smoky, as if they had been set ablaze by an unseen fire. The floor cracked, then the wall. Soon plaster was flaking away where the floor met the paintwork, revealing brick work that was itself then carved away like sand. In moments the bricks above began caving down. A section of the window slipped and smashing down onto the ground outside.