by Martin Dukes
It still made no sense the next day, which dawned exactly, precisely, tediously as it always did. Unlike his new friend David Hemmings, Alex had begun to find this depressing. He longed to look along the garden from his bedroom window and find it shrouded in soft, dripping rain, or to see sharp morning shadows etched by slanting sunlight across the lawn. Nor was he looking forward to what the day held in prospect. There was the Gathering to be faced up to, the Major’s promised showdown with Ganymede and the disagreeable thought of having to see Stacey and Sarah.
Will, though was full of grim excitement. “I wonder what’s going to happen?” he said, as they made their way towards the park. “I can’t see Major Trubshaw doing any good with it. I bet he gets himself banged up in the House of Correction and we all get reduced rations for a week. I wish I hadn’t signed now. I should have known it was a bad idea. What made you sign?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time,” said Alex gloomily. “Anyway it looked like nearly everyone else had signed. I wish I could rub it out now, though.”
“Me too.” Will slapped his own head ironically as they passed through the park gates and hurried on down past the war memorial.
The Gathering begun pretty much as it did last time, with Ganymede blowing his big horn and peering about him disapprovingly into the little crowd of 'Sticians. Alex squirmed when it seemed momentarily that Ganymede had singled him out for particular attention, but this attention was soon called elsewhere. The atmosphere was tense. There was an air of expectancy amongst the little knots of ‘Sticians that had been entirely absent in previous meetings and the low murmur of conversation died away instantly with the fading note of the horn. A profound silence settled over ‘Sticia as Ganymede surveyed the upturned faces of his subjects. Even he must have been aware that there was something was amiss in this long, long pause, pregnant with anticipation. Suddenly, breaking the spell, there came the sound of someone clearing their throat and Major Trubshaw pushed through to the front of the crowd, the white sheets of his petition held high in front of him. There was a perceptible intake of breath from all around as the Major strode up the steps and thrust the petition at Ganymede. It was as though he were holding a loaded pistol at Ganymede’s midriff, or brandishing a samurai sword.
“On behalf of the people of Intersticia, I should like to present to you this petition,” said the Major loudly, so that everyone could hear. Suddenly, it was absolutely silent in the park once more. All eyes were fixed on Ganymede and the Major. Unnoticed, a dugong moved evenly overhead. “We have compiled a list of reasonable requests,” continued the Major, laying particular stress on the word “we”. “They are requests that any reasonable person should deem acceptable in the difficult circumstances we all find ourselves in. These are extraordinary circumstances and we believe it is incumbent on all of us to behave in a responsible and humane manner. All of us,” he added, looking hard at Ganymede in case his meaning should not be clear.
For a long moment nothing happened. It was as though Ganymede and the Major had joined the ranks of the stiffs in the park. Ganymede simply stared incredulously at the Major, and at the petition, as though he were indeed threatened by a loaded pistol or an unexploded bomb. Then he transferred his attention to the crowd, sweeping his laser beam glare across the assembled faces, so that everyone shuffled back a little. “So..Betray me, would you, you traitors?” his eyes seemed to say. At length, he snatched the petition from the Major’s grasp and began to read it. His face remained an impassive mask as his eyes scanned the inflammatory document. At length he lowered the petition and fixed the Major with a stare of unheard of intensity. The Major’s face took on a new richness and intensity of colour, but he did not flinch.
“So,” said Ganymede, sweeping his gaze about the crowd now. “The people are unhappy are they?” His tone was one of biting sarcasm. “They think that I am unfair.” He singled out Roger Bradley in the crowd. “You, Mr Bradley. Do you think that I have dealt with you unreasonably?... Do you?”
Roger looked as though he might faint at any moment. In contrast with the Major’s, his own complexion had suddenly become deathly pale.
“Well?... Do you?... Your signature appears on this…..this…document.”
Ganymede spat out this last word with particular venom. “So I must assume you do. Unless the Major here has forged it. Has he? Has he forged your signature, Roger?”
Roger grimaced, his lips moved, but he made no sound. Ganymede laughed, a bitter laugh and shook his head as though suddenly wearied by his subjects’ ingratitude .
“Let me see,” he said, glancing again at the offending petition. “You require more variety in your diet. You would like to be consulted when work tasks are allocated. Ha!” He turned on the author of the petition and abruptly snapped his grubby, tramp’s fingers right in front of the Major’s nose. “I suppose you’d like the occasional gin and tonic,”
To Alex’s astonishment, a thought bubble, exactly like those he had seen in comic strips, sprang into being above the Major’s head. Words, clearly legible, appeared in the middle of it.
“Yes. A G and T would be very nice, since you mention it,” said this message.
A little murmur, and a shuffling of feet in the crowd, showed that everyone else could read it too.
“I see,” said Ganymede, with a sly smile over the Major’s shoulder. He took Major Trubshaw’s arm and turned him to face the people of 'Sticia. “Is this some kind of coup? Do you wish to usurp my position and set yourself up in my place?”
“No. Of course not,” said the Major, loudly and indignantly. “I merely wish to argue for an improvement in our living conditions.”
But hardly anyone heard what he had said. They were too busy reading his thought bubble.
“I’m damn sure I’d do a better job than you, you scruffy piece of garbage,” they read.
“Aha,” said Ganymede. “And these people, whom you claim to represent; whose signatures you have persuaded them to append to this document….Let us consider them. What exactly are your thoughts regarding your supporters…like well, Roger Bradley for example,”
He turned the Major towards where Roger stood at the back of the crowd.
“I hardly see how this is relevant,” protested Major Trubshaw.
“Weakling, easy enough to twist his arm. That’s why I started with him,” appeared in the Major’s thought bubble.
There were gasps of horror in the crowd and a few sniggers. Faces turned towards Roger, who was suddenly looking hard at his feet.
“And what about my good friend Mrs Patterson?”
“ Senile old bat.”
“Stacey Tucker?”
“Hideous, fat little tart.”
By now, the reactions of the crowd had alerted the Major to the fact that something was amiss. His face displayed a variety of emotions ranging from anger, through mystification to panic. This last emotion came to the forefront when Ganymede mentioned Margaret Owen’s name. Margaret was in pretty good shape for her age, and must have been something of a ‘looker’ in her youth, as Alex had concluded as soon as he clapped eyes on her. What appeared in the Major’s thought bubble showed that he thought so too. More than that, it showed that the Major had a very particular interest in her, expressed in terms that caused a great hoot of scandalised shock and amusement to rise up from the crowd. Margaret buried her face in her hands.
The Major, aware now that something was seriously wrong, glanced upward and caught sight of his thought bubble.”
“Oh my God!” he said.
“Oh my God!” It read.
More thoughts; panicky, terrified, regretful ones began to appear in his bubble, although the Major himself seemed incapable of coherent speech. He wagged his finger at Ganymede. Murderous thoughts appeared. He shook his head, desperately. A stream of profanities appeared. With a last furious glare at his tormentor the Major plunged off the platform and hurried away towards the war memorial, the laughter of his fellows ringing in h
is ears.
Ganymede did not laugh. He only smiled a slow, wry smile and tore the petition into tiny pieces.
“Well. I don’t think we’ll be needing this again,” he said. He crossed to the rail and leant on it thoughtfully, scanning the little crowd as though considering the future of an unwanted litter of kittens.
“Still,” he said. “If anyone else feels like sharing their thoughts with us; let no one say that I don’t encourage free speech.”
Now he laughed, a deep ironic laugh, as the fragments of Major Trubshaw’s petition fluttered to the hard ‘Stician earth.
After all this, the ordinary business of the day, the allocation of tasks, the distribution of manna took place, and seemed dull indeed. To his surprise and consternation, Alex’s name was not called until the very end. Kelly could see that Alex was worried by this.
“I wouldn’t go panicking about it,” she told him. “He calls people up in any old order. Don’t go getting yourself all in a tizz.”
But Alex read into it something very sinister indeed. Kelly, Tanya and Will had already had their audiences when Alex finally received his summons. They lounged on the grass, nibbling manna whilst Alex mounted the steps, troubled by a deep sense of foreboding.
“We’ll wait for you,” said Kelly. “Don’t worry.”
Ganymede looked somewhat tired. He had had a very busy day by now, of course, and his triumphant encounter with Major Trubshaw must have taken a toll of him. There was fatigue in the set of his shoulders as Alex cautiously approached him in the bandstand.
“Well, Mr Trueman,” said Ganymede in an ominously soft voice. “We save the best ‘til last, you see. And what have you got to tell me?” The quiet menace in this had a marked destabilising effect on Alex’s knees, which began to tremble uncontrollably. Ganymede had to know. Stacey must have dobbed him in about the sweets and chocolate. Suddenly dry in the mouth, Alex found himself incapable of speech. He was aware that guilt must be written in every line of his face and body.
Ganymede began to circle him, stroking his beard thoughtfully whilst subjecting his victim to the closest of scrutiny. It was as though he was being scanned by some incredible machine that could see inside every atom of his being. Alex could do nothing but wait, as the long, slow seconds trickled past. He tried to squeeze all thoughts from the forefront of his mind, to make of it a blank page. “Hmmm,” said Ganymede after a while. “I had hoped that you would have made a clean breast of it, of your own volition.” He stroked his beard pensively. “You are aware that it is absolutely forbidden to interfere with Statica?”
Alex nodded miserably.
“And yet I understand that you have done so. Occasionally we come across individuals who have the power to translate objects from Statica to Intersticia. It appears that you are one such individual. Intelligence has reached me that you have a sweet tooth, that you have interfered significantly with Statical objects in one of the shops in town.” Ganymede pursed his lips and nodded grimly. “I have to say I am disappointed with you.”
This came as something of a relief to Alex. Ganymede’s disappointment, he felt he could live with; Ganymede incandescent with rage was a very different issue. There seemed no point in denying his crimes now.
“I’m sorry,” he said, making a mental note to find some way of hitting back at Stacey at the earliest possible opportunity.
“You admit it then?” said Ganymede.
Alex nodded miserably.
“Then it remains only to punish you. You will be confined to the House of Correction for the coming week and placed on half rations, so that you will come to a better appreciation of the taste and quality of manna. During this time you will speak to no one. My servants will guard you.” He turned his glare upon Alex now, restored to something of its normal intensity.
“I must warn you that there are very good reasons why we should not interfere with Statica. It is no eccentric foible of my own that causes me to impose this punishment upon you.” He sniffed, looking outward suddenly over the park, which was almost empty by now. “Still, I doubt you have done serious harm on this occasion,” and then, turning his terrifying gaze back upon Alex once more. “Nevertheless, be warned that any further offence will be dealt with very severely indeed. I hope I make myself entirely clear.”
Alex found himself offering more apologies and pledges of future good behaviour, whilst Morlock and Minion appeared at his side. Behind Ganymede a procession of Snarks began to emerge from a shrub and crossed the parade behind the war memorial. Ganymede, turned, following Alex’s gaze.
“Hmm. Snarks,” said Ganymede. “You would do well to admire them, to take them as your models. They are perfect beings, as old as the earth, as wise as the stars, perfect philosophical beings, whose only aim and purpose in life is to reflect upon the meaning of that existence. Noble creatures indeed. Each one of them is worth a hundred of us.” He pursed his lips, seemingly affected by the immensity of the contrast between the Snarks and the boy before him.
“Goodbye, Alex,” said Ganymede. “Spend your week well. Consider the Snark. Reflect upon your behaviour and rebuild your character.”
Morlock raised a long and bony arm, indicating the distant aviary and the green shed behind it. With a heavy heart and eyes rimmed with unshed tears, Alex set off for the House of Correction.
“Where’s Alex being taken?” he heard Kelly ask Ganymede behind him.
“I think you know,” Ganymede told her. “But do you know nothing of his offences? Has he not confided in you? He is a thief. I take it he has not shared his ill-gotten gains with you then.”
The rest of this exchange was lost to Alex as Morlock ushered him past the laurel hedges in front of the bowling green. He felt more miserable and ashamed than he had ever felt in his life.
Chapter Eight
The House of Correction was a large green painted shed. Conveniently, a council workman was in the act of cleaning it out. He was leaning on a broom outside, smoking a cigarette. Whilst doing this he was considering through narrowed eyes a huge arrangement of lawnmowers, plastic sacks, rolls of roofing material and other assorted equipment. The interior of the shed, having just been swept, was entirely empty, except for a length of hose coiled loosely on a hook and a few plastic pots and trays on the shelf beneath the dusty, spider webbed window. There was no furniture of any description. Shutters at the windows made it gloomy within, but there were gaps between the planks here and there and thin strips of sunlight slanted through the darkness. A pile of 'Stician blankets lay in one dusty corner, all that could be considered furniture. Alex mounted the steps and glanced around his prison as Morlock closed the door behind him. He heard a key rattle in the lock and a bolt pushed across. Finally there were a few little clicks as a padlock was secured in place. Ganymede certainly wasn’t taking any chances. Alex sat down on the blankets. It was growing dark outside. He lay for a long time and stared at the ceiling as the shadows lengthened and slender 'Stician moonlight crept into the House of Correction.
Ganymede would have been disappointed had he known that Alex’s first preoccupation upon being locked up was not a consideration of the faults in his character but the likelihood of escape. The shed was a very old one and in many places the planks from which it was constructed had cracked or shrunk away from each other. On every side, by pressing his eye to the cracks, Alex could discern narrow strips of the shed’s surroundings. In front he could see the bowling green, upon which various stiffs in white flannels were caught in the gentle movements of that game. Through a knot hole in the door Alex could admire the zebra finches in the aviary, a small child in a buggy pointing, her mother with tissue poised to wipe her nose. To the rear and on the other short side there was only the uneven foliage of laurels and rhododendrons. The walls and roof seemed sturdily enough constructed, but Alex soon discovered a weakness in the floor of his prison. In the corner furthest from the door and the windows was a loose board. And on the window sill, covered by a plastic seed tray, was
a rusty screwdriver.
He told himself that he was uniquely qualified in 'Sticia to do this as he worked at levering up the loose board. The wood was old and splintered easily, breaking away from the one rusty nail that secured it to the joist. Alex’s greatest problem was seeing what he was doing. The steady slivers of moonlight were hardly enough to challenge the darkness, and he worked partly by feel, at one point driving the screwdriver point painfully into his thumb.
“Damn!” he grumbled, holding the afflicted part up in a moonbeam to survey the damage, and then cautiously sucking the wound.
Nevertheless, after what felt like an hour or so, Alex had succeeded in working the board loose. At length, he worked both hands underneath it and a determined pull freed its further end from where it was held under the bottom plank of the wall. Exhausted but triumphant, Alex slumped against the wall, the precious board laid carefully aside. For a long while he concentrated hard on controlling his breathing and on listening. He had been making a lot of noise. Outside, 'Sticia by night remained as silent as it always was. Alex relaxed. After a while he peered down into the hole he had made in the floor. It was inky black down there. He could see nothing. He thrust down his arm and cautiously extended his fingertips until they found hard earth and a few dry twigs. There was a considerable space under the shed, enough for a person to crawl beneath it, he supposed. It must be raised on concrete piles. Still, it was small consolation that Alex’s arm could escape from prison. Unless he could rip up another couple of boards the rest of him remained securely confined. And the other boards were rock solid. After a while Alex gave up. He was stuck there. He carefully replaced the loose board.