The Book That THEY Do Not Want You To Read, Part 1

by Andy Ritchie

  I guess, under different circumstances (i.e. not scared shitless, racked by pain, being pursued by people intent on killing me, etc), the idea of crashing through a padlocked metal gate at speed in a high-powered car would be immensely exciting. Sadly, not today.

  ‘Do you have any idea where we are?’ I asked.

  ‘I soon will,’ Tukaal replied with an altogether out-of-place grin across his face. He was loving this, I was sure, the excitement, the adventure, the chance to beat up on people and steal cars. He was absolutely loving it.

  In front of me, in the middle of the dashboard, a display screen had come alive as the satellite navigation system kicked in. There were a few moments of delay as the satellites were acquired but then our position was displayed on a map. Amazingly, we were actually not far from the village of Mobberley, near Knutsford.

  ‘We’ll head back into Manchester,’ Tukaal said coolly as we approached the end of the long single-track road on which we had been driving.

  ‘Calculating route.’

  The strong, slightly dominatrix sounding female voice of the satnav made me jump.

  ‘In one hundred yards, turn left.’

  A part of me wanted to ask how he’d managed to programme the satnav with a destination when he hadn’t even touched it, but, all of a sudden, I found that I simply couldn’t be bothered. The adrenaline rush that had kept my tired, aching body functioning during our escape had finally run its course and all the pain and the fatigue that had been held at bay now washed over me like a giant tsunami. My eyelids felt immensely heavy, my limbs also, and once the windscreen wipers began to move rhythmically from side to side, I literally felt myself slipping away...

  In the very last moments of wakefulness, I saw the clock on the illuminated dashboard. It was 11.07.

  I’m not sure how long it took us to get to Manchester as the journey was a blurry half-sleep interspersed with vivid moments of sudden wakefulness, mostly brought on by the blaring horns and flashing headlights of other road users as Tukaal drove the car at speed, but always in control, into the rain-soaked urban sprawl. On at least two occasions I saw him dash through red traffic lights. On another couple of occasions I was conscious of the double flash of excited speed cameras.

  Then, just as we entered West Didsbury on the A5103, an unnerving thought hit me.

  ‘Won’t they be able to track this car? I mean, it’s an expensive one so won’t it have that, what is it, Lo-Jack thing?’

  ‘It does,’ Tukaal confirmed, ‘but I’ve de-activated it. They won’t be able to track us using that. But they will almost certainly know where we are from all the cameras in the city that I assume they are monitoring right now. We need to be ready to run.’

  Not more running, I thought wearily to myself. I’m so sick of running...

  As we entered the city centre proper and drove along the A665, the satnav lady became silent. Tukaal knew we were close to where he wanted to be and no longer needed her guidance.

  We turned onto Shudehill, then left into Thomas Street. After about 100 yards, Tukaal turned left again and then right into Edge Street, whereupon he brought the car to a skidding halt outside a place called Akbar Trimmings. Even in my slightly dazed frame of mind I could see that Tukaal had chosen the place to abandon the car carefully, for we were in one of the streets close to Manchester city centre which are quieter than those more normally frequented by late night revellers on account that they look a little bit too dark and forbidding. It was also a street that was likely to be devoid of CCTV cameras watching our every move.

  As we got out, I noticed that Tukaal had left his door ajar and the engine running. I guess he was hoping that, late on a Monday night (I was assuming it was Monday night; after all, I could have been unconscious in that cell for days...!), there may be a good chance that an expensive car, left abandoned with its door open and its engine running on a city centre street, may present the beer-drinking, drug-taking, joy-riding fraternity of this fair city with an opportunity for some fun that they simply couldn’t refuse...which would undoubtedly be a bonus for us, as there was then a chance that Mendelssohn and his goons, should they spot the car on one of the zillions of cameras in the city, would be chasing shadows for the rest of the night instead of chasing us.

  And so, car now abandoned, we found ourselves on foot, running (if that was what you could call my breathless, shuffling gait!) through what seemed like a maze of streets until we reached Stevenson Square and made our way up a dark alley called Spear Street. About half-way up this alley was the entrance to an even darker alley, interestingly named ‘Back Spear St’, where two sturdy gates (which I assumed would normally bar access to this place) were conveniently ajar. So, breathless and ridiculously tired, I followed Tukaal into the darkness and leaned heavily against one of the large industrial wheelie bins. Tukaal just stood there, not even looking out of breath. Bastard.

  After a few moments, he put his hand on my shoulder and asked me how I was holding up.

  I wearily replied, with true British stoicism (which is a really good word!):

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  Which, of course, was bollocks.

  What I really should have said was:

  ‘How the fuck do you think I feel? In the last 24 hours I’ve lost my home and my car, I’ve caused panic and mayhem in Debenhams, I’ve seen an alien get knocked flat by a bus, I’ve been injected with stuff...twice, I’ve been black-bagged by thugs, I’ve been tortured, I’ve escaped from a prison cell and I’m currently standing in a shitty alleyway, in the rain, pissed wet through, tired as fuck and scared out of my tiny fucking mind!’

  But I didn’t.

  Why?

  I simply didn’t have the strength for a rant...not at that moment. My brain only had the capacity to think about one thing at a time, and the only thing I needed to think about was staying with Tukaal and staying alive. Rants and accusations and recriminations could...and would...come later.

  For now, I was content to put a brave face on things and follow Tukaal’s plan.

  I was, of course, assuming that Tukaal had a plan, that he had the next few steps of our journey to safety already mapped out in his mind.

  I was wrong.

  ‘I’m not quite sure what we should do next,’ he said.

  I groaned inwardly (at least I think it was inwardly...I hope it was inwardly).

  ‘I came back to the city,’ he continued, ‘because I concluded that this was a good place to ‘lay-low’ for a while.’

  I slumped to the wet floor. I wasn’t sure whether I’d slumped into anything unpleasant but, frankly, I didn’t really care.

  It’s hard to describe how utterly and completely exhausted I was. I’ve been tired before; in fact, there are times when I had considered myself to be truly exhausted. But those times were nothing like this, nothing at all. At this time, even breathing was an effort, thinking was almost impossible, and standing was simply out of the question. Even staying alive had become borderline because part of me (a part we all have, I guess) simply wanted to give up, simply wanted to say ‘That’s it, I’ve had enough, I can’t be arsed with this anymore, so if it’s easier to curl up in a ball and float away, then that’s what I suggest I do.’

  Loathsome me.

  Hateful me.

  It’s hard to believe that, after all that I’d been through, all the pain, all the suffering, all the fear and terror, that part of me was willing just to lay down and give up, accept what it perceived to be the inevitable and simply surrender.

  I despised that part of me, felt revulsion at the thought that something so weak and so pathetic could exist inside of me, and I angrily told it to ‘Fuck off and die!’

  And with that rejection of weakness, and a deep, shuddering breath, I suddenly found new resolve. Somehow, that momentary glimpse at the spineless, defeatist side of me, had done something to galvanise my spirit. I felt re-energised and determined, tired not of the pain and the fatigue I felt, but tired of being such
a wimp and a pussy. Tired of not being in control.

  Ever since Tukaal and I had spotted THEM in Sainsbury’s car park, everything I had done had been dictated either by Tukaal, or by circumstance. I had, in effect, relinquished control of my life to others, sometimes willingly, sometimes not. I had weakly followed the path of least resistance, never leading, only ever following, never pre-empting, only ever reacting. At no time had I ever been remotely able, or willing, to shape my own destiny.

  Well, I had grown tired of having the course of my life steered by someone else. It was time to show some balls.

  ‘I need to get my stuff.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  Tukaal had been deep in thought and my sudden words had startled him.

  ‘From the car. I need to get my stuff from the car.’ As I spoke, I clambered unsteadily to my feet. ‘There are things in that duffel bag that I want.’

  Tukaal was staring at me, his expression full of concern.

  ‘What you need, Jeth, is a place to rest. I could get some money and we could find a place to...’

  ‘No!’

  The venom in my voice surprised even me.

  ‘I want my duffel bag from the car. It’s got things in it which I have to have.’

  I didn’t really expect Tukaal to understand, but I’d realised that, after 42 years on this planet, all that I had to show for it was sat in a blue duffel bag in the boot of a stolen Peugeot 206 on a car park near Manchester Victoria station. That was it...oh and the sodden clothes on my back which were stained with blood, sweat, tears, urine, general muck and dirt and whatever it was that I slumped into in the alley a little earlier on, but I don’t think they really counted. No, all I had in the world was in that duffel bag and it was because I had so little now that those few possessions, those very personal possessions, suddenly meant so very much.

  That was why I needed to go and get them.

  I’m not sure whether it was my tone of voice, my demeanour or the fact that I had demonstrated my determination and resolve by standing up straight with only the merest hint of unsteadiness, but Tukaal seemed to quickly realise that my mind was made up.

  ‘You do realise that THEY may already have found the car, that THEY may already have taken both your bag and my case and that THEY may be lying in wait on the off-chance that we go back there.’

  I nodded...and for the first time in God-knows-how-long, I felt a smile creep onto my face. Although it felt awkward, it was welcome.

  Why the smile?

  Well, whilst Tukaal had been speaking, I’d hatched a plan.

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but when you talk to people you can, if you want, be very...persuasive, can’t you?’

  Tukaal’s eyes narrowed, but his thoughts were betrayed by the barest hint of a smile on his own lips.

  ‘You see, it’s something I noticed when we were talking in the car on Friday, just after you arrived...there’s something you can do with your voice, isn’t there, you can draw people in, make them more...what’s the word...amenable. You used it on the waiter at Sukhis, and then again on that shop assistant in Sainsburys. Am I right?’

  The smile on Tukaal’s lips had grown more pronounced and his narrowed eyes now had a mischievous sparkle to them.

  ‘It’s called Subliminal Vocal Persuasion Technique. It’s a combination of tone of voice, timbre, volume, the choice of words and how they are strung together, all built around a normally imperceptible message carried on the faintest of melodic undertones. Throw in a bit of subtle body language as well and you have SVPT. All Ambassadors like me have the capability. It’s very useful when you are involved in interplanetary negotiations, often helps to get the more difficult issues resolved.’

  He winked knowingly. He needed more practice at that, though.

  ‘It’s interesting,’ he continued, ‘but I did try it on you as you were driving us back to your home, when we were talking about cricket, photography and the weather. I wanted to get you to invite me to stay at your home, save me the hassle of going to a hotel. You reacted to it, seemed to fight against it. It’s unusual that. Most people would not even notice that it was happening. It suggests you’ve got a strong mind.’

  ‘Good job for you that I’m a nice guy and invited you to stay anyway, isn’t it?’

  He lowered his head graciously.

  Then I returned to my plan.

  ‘What I suggest we do is this: We find a bunch of local youths up for a bit of fun and you use your Jedi-mind-trick-shit to get them to break into the car instead of us.’

  I was tremendously pleased with the idea, and with the fact that my rather confused and befuddled mind had managed to come up with such a brilliantly simple plan in spite of itself.

  ‘There’s just one flaw,’ Tukaal said, his face now frowning.

  ‘What’s that?’ I asked, feeling as if my bubble was about to be well and truly popped.

  ‘The SVPT, or Jedi-mind-trick-shit as you so colourfully referred to it as, is not mind control. It is about persuasion, the technique of subtly implanting ideas and suggestions into someone else’s mind and then nurturing them until they think they are their own. It is about enhancing the benefits of what is said and at the same time dissolving away the problems or the excuses. If we were to use it on a group of young men, we would need to offer them something for their time, something which makes it worth their while.’

  ‘And that something would be...?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Cash. If I could offer them cash then that would be the way in, the foundation on which to build the persuasion.’

  Now it was my turn to be bubble-burster extraordinaire.

  ‘That’s all very well,’ I said, ‘but I don’t have any cash and I suspect you don’t have any either.’

  That twinkle of mischief had returned to his eye.

  ‘Yes, but I have the means to get some. All I need is to find a cash machine.’

  Now re-invigorated with purpose, we moved out of the alley and back into Stevenson Square. I figured that we were most likely to find a cash machine at Piccadilly. Where we would find a gang of youths who would be willing to break into a car for us and not choose instead to give us a good kicking because they thought we looked like a couple of tramps was another thing...actually, I looked like a tramp. Tukaal, on the other hand, looked as he always did, casually elegant in his suit, a suit which, in marked contrast to my own clothes, was remarkably unsoiled.

  ‘How come your suit is so clean and uncreased?’

  We were now heading down Oldham Street.

  ‘It’s woven from the fleece of a large, swamp-dwelling herbivore called a Cranat that lives on a planet called Junasus M, a few light years beyond a planetary nebula that I think your astronomers call IC4776, in the constellation of Sagittarius. As a result of where it lives, its fleece has developed incredible properties for repelling water, dirt, blood, mucus secretions, anything really. The fleece is naturally impregnated with an enzyme that eliminates odours. When it is fashioned into garments like this, it demonstrates an amazing ability to resist creasing. It’s soft on the skin, flexible, incredibly hard-wearing...’

  ‘All right,’ I interrupted grumpily, ‘It’s a brilliant suit...no need to rub it in!’

  Tukaal smiled broadly as we approached Piccadilly, where, as I had suspected, we spotted a Yorkshire Bank cash machine. We began to hurry towards it, but then I noticed that, immediately behind the dispenser, there was a pole with a security camera on it.

  ‘There’s a camera,’ I said, pointing.

  ‘I know,’ Tukaal replied, looking around. ‘It’s likely that every machine will have a camera of some sort watching it. It’s just a risk we are going to have to take.’

  With that, we headed towards the dispenser from where a young man had just finished withdrawing cash.

  ‘I assume you’re going to use one of those nanite pod capsules, are you?’

  Tukaal shook his head.

  ‘I’m afraid I no longer have any
of those,’ he replied. ‘When it became apparent that I was going to be captured, I instructed the remaining capsules to...

  ‘...please don’t tell me you told them to ‘self-destruct’?’

  ‘I’m afraid I did,’ Tukaal replied. ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, I guess not.’

  Tukaal looked at me quizzically, perhaps because he could detect a sour note in my voice.

  Why was there such a note?

  Because, quite bizarrely, I was genuinely disappointed that the classic ‘evidence-of-the-existence-of-aliens-that-conveniently-self-destructs’ cliché, much beloved of science-fiction writers everywhere (remember ‘The Invaders’?) appeared to have gate-crashed this party.

  In a way, I would have been so much happier if Tukaal had said that he had eaten the nanite pods or flushed them down a lavatory or used them as a suppository, anything except the crude and unimaginative plot mechanism that is convenient self-destruction. That sort of thing happens in the world of fiction, a lazy emergency exit for an author who’s painted himself into an awkward corner.

  It simply doesn’t happen here, in the world of fact.

  ‘And that iPod nano thing you had, the one that detected the bugs and the cameras. Did you make that self-destruct as well?’

  ‘Actually, no,’ Tukaal replied. ‘I threw that down a drain before I tackled the men taking the Researcher away.’

  I smiled.

  Now that was more like it.

  Crappy cliché avoided.

  Believability restored.

  Anyway, this discussion and my subsequent mindless musings had not answered my original question: How, without his nanite pods and, as far as I knew, without a cash-card, was Tukaal going to get money out of a cash machine?

  ‘So how are you going to get money out of this cash machine?’

  We had arrived.

  ‘The same way I got Mendelssohn’s car going,’ Tukaal replied, ‘I’m going to use nanites.’

  ‘But you just said you don’t have any. You said you’d destroyed them.’