by Martin Dukes
“We may as well have some dosh whilst we’re at it,” said Paulo, eyeing the notes greedily. “It’s only standin’ around doing nothing.”
“What the hell are you going to do with cash?” Kelly asked him, reasonably enough, loading cans into Alex’s rucksack. “There’s nowhere you can spend it.”
“Well, you never know,” said Paulo, looking from face to face. “What if we get dumped back in courgette Reality. ‘Be a bit carrot handy then wouldn’t it? Go on big ears, break out the cash.”
Alex, the size of whose ears had been remarked upon too many times since entering 'Sticia, felt a fresh pang of resentment.
“Uh, uh,” he said, shaking his head decisively. “I draw the line at cash.”
“You’ll draw the cauliflower line where I turnip say you will,” said Paulo, his mood swinging abruptly from cheerfulness to menace. He loomed over Alex in a way Alex found extremely intimidating.
“Better humour him,” said Kelly with a nervous smile. “He’s like a little boy really. He has to have his own way.”
Paulo’s eyes continued to bore into Alex’s. Reluctantly he reached into the till and broke free a handful of ten pound notes.
“And the rest,” said Paulo, holding out a big grimy hand.
Alex felt sick and bitter as the three of them made their way back towards the Hall. The Paulo situation had turned sour with alarming rapidity. Paulo struck him as being all too similar to the appalling Gary Payne, but whereas he and Gary were parted at the end of each school day Alex’s connection with Paulo had a worrying feel of permanence to it. Up until this point he had told himself that he would replace any minor thefts from Statica if he ever got back into Reality. Now though he was a genuine, actual thief of the sort you read about in the court pages of the Cardenbridge Chronicle. Paulo, who fell very clearly into the category of the minor criminals and ne’r do wells mentioned in those pages, had made him into a criminal. The shame of it. What would his mum say? The experience of reaching into the till and feeling the solid mass of notes nestle into his palm was seared into his consciousness like physical trauma. This was serious stuff. He could go to prison or something. And it was all Paulo’s fault. A poison gout of hatred leapt within his breast as Paulo nuzzled his face into Kelly’s neck. They were up in front, arm in arm, lurching about laughing and giggling as they walked amongst the Statical traffic on the road. Alex, burdened by two carrier bags, glared resentfully at Paulo’s back.
“We’ re made,” he overheard Paulo, say to Kelly. “We’re potato made. Now we’ve got Big Ears back there the whole of this onion place is ours. Peas! We don’t even need cabbage Ganymede any more. He can stuff his broccoli manna up his aubergine!”
They paused, whilst Paulo gave Kelly a cigarette. Alex, who had strong feelings about smoking, felt his throat tighten with annoyance. He felt the irrational urge to rush up and knock it out of her mouth, stub it out in Paulo’s eye. His body, recognising the futility of this, advised caution. That way lay a certain thumping. Choking down a sudden tide of bitterness in his throat, he trudged after them. He was Paulo’s dream come true. That was the worst of it. He was Paulo’s meal ticket for evermore by the look of things. And Alex wasn’t going to stand for it. Because if Paulo needed Alex, well Alex certainly didn’t need Paulo.
He might have put up with it for Kelly’s sake, but she was clearly besotted with the big oaf and as they sat around in Lord Maynard’s green drawing room, eating sandwiches and drinking beer, Alex felt like the world’s biggest gooseberry. At last they slept, wrapped in sleeping bags that Alex had found for them in an outhouse, Kelly nestled against Paulo, his hand entwined in her hair. Alex surveyed this miserably from the other side of the room, across a carpet strewn with beer cans and packaging. The realisation came to him that he wasn’t going to be able to stand it. He was going to have to get out of there. At last, having made this decision, he crawled from his sleeping bag and made stealthily for the door. He wasn’t stealthy enough. Paulo opened one eye and then was suddenly awake, glaring suspiciously at Alex.
“Oy! Where you going?” he demanded.
“Er, nowhere,” said Alex awkwardly.
There was a moment, as Paulo freed himself from his sleeping bag and came towards him, when Alex could have fled. After all, the door was Statical. As soon as Alex closed the door behind him, Paulo would be securely imprisoned. But so would Kelly, and it was this thought that made him hesitate. It was as though Paulo read his mind. He slipped between Alex and the door.
“That’s right, mate,” said Paulo firmly. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
“What’s goin’ on Paulo?” asked Kelly sleepily.
“Nothin’” said Paulo, his pale eyes holding Alex’s. “I think our pal here was thinkin’ of takin’ a walk. Is that right Alex?” He seized the front of Alex’s sweatshirt and pulled him close so that Alex could feel his breath on his face in a manner that again reminded him disagreeably of Ganymede.
“Only you might get lost, my friend. And I can’t risk that appenin’ coz you are my courgette meal ticket.” He nodded to Kelly. “Kell! Get the rucksack. There’s some tie wraps in there. Bring ‘em over ‘ere will ya!”
Alex had wondered why Paulo had wanted tie wraps from the Hall’s workshop. Now he knew. Suddenly, a blade glinted before him as Paulo pulled a flick knife from his pocket. He found himself forced to kneel on the floor and bend forward, his arms held behind him whilst Paulo secured his wrists together with the narrow plastic strips. His ankles received the same treatment. Alex was soon completely helpless, cursing and wriggling, whilst Paulo looked on dispassionately. Kelly had protested almost as much as Alex had. Not that it made any difference.
“We can’t take any risks,” Paulo told her. “It breaks me up havin’ to do this, yeah? But we’ll be chives if he does a runner, won’t we? You don’t think I’d do it unless I ‘ad to?”
“Sorry, mate,” he said, stooping down next to Alex. “You left me with no choice.”
There was apparently genuine regret in Paulo’s voice. Alex told him what he thought of him, mentioning no vegetables.
“Yeah, well,” said Paulo. “I guess you owe me that. Ordinarily I’d break your scrawny little neck, but you know, ladies present, an’ all.” He laughed.
“We’ll have those off you first thing tomorrow,” Kelly told Alex softly. “I’m sorry about this. He gets desperate. You don’t know what it’s been like for him.”
Alex didn’t care what it had been like for Paulo. He only cared about getting free of the tie wraps, which were digging into his flesh painfully by the time Wednesday morning dawned. Paulo snipped them off for him with a pair of pliers, and Alex rubbed his wrists ruefully. Still, Paulo was taking no chances by day either. He tied a length of rope around Alex’s middle and made it clear that he, Paulo, was always going to be on the other end of it. Paulo’s regrets and apologies made not a jot of difference to Alex. There was no getting away from the fact that Alex was a prisoner. Alex could not meet Kelly’s eyes. She tried to be pleasant to him but he felt bitter and humiliated. It was as much as he could do to speak to her. She squeezed his hand sympathetically when Paulo wasn’t looking.
“I’m not having this,” Alex muttered to her.
“I know,” she said. “It’s not right. We’ll sort something out.”
Paulo had in mind a visit to the Fountain Inn, up at Dorston. There was a skittle alley there. By tenth manatee Alex found himself obliged to play skittles with Kelly and Paulo. This was a little awkward at first. Statical objects, brought by Alex into ‘Sticia when he picked them up, had a habit of becoming Statical again if they were set down in their original places. Alex got round this by marking them with chalk so that they were never stood back in their original Statical places. Feeling gloomy about things in general, he didn’t get much out of the game. The same could not be said of Paulo and Kelly, who were whooping with delight at the unaccustomed entertainment. Skittles leapt and span as the heavy wooden balls cr
acked amongst them. Alex had a few goes for the look of the thing, but all the time he was thinking of escape.
“Tonight,” Kelly whispered to him, as Paulo set up the skittles ready for her turn.
She was as good as her word. Whilst Paulo snored contentedly, full of cider and nicotine, Kelly slipped across to where Alex lay, with Paulo’s pliers in her hand. She nudged Alex gently awake and then inexpertly snipped at the tie wraps securing his wrists and ankles. Alex winced at the pain as she accidentally nipped his flesh, but the loud snap of the bonds breaking bothered him more. They both remained stock still for a moment, Alex lying on his side, Kelly crouched behind him. Paulo continued to sleep.
“I’m really sorry about this,” she whispered. “He’s not a bad lad. Honest he isn’t….You’d better make a dash for it. Leave the doors open will you so’s we can get out and.. I tell you what…Could you break out a load of food at the post office and put it where we can get at it?”
“What are you going to do?” he asked her, turning so he could meet her eyes, through a curtain of dark hair.
“I don’t know,” she said with a shrug. “Stay with Paulo, I guess.”
Alex had views on that, but he kept them to himself for now. He struggled to his feet, stiff limbs protesting. For a moment they stood close. There was an awkward pause during which various impulses competed for control of his bodily movements. Before any of these could get anything done, she kissed him briefly on the lips and then put her finger there, taking it away to point at the door. Alex went, the soft pressure of her lips on his own still vivid in his memory.
Chapter Eleven
By dawn he was miles away, heading for Henry’s house on the outskirts of Scourton. Mindful of the risk of pursuit he kept to the fields wherever possible and crossed roads cautiously, having first observed them carefully from behind walls or hedges. He had done as Kelly asked at the post office, and now all he wanted to do was put as much distance as possible between himself and the horrible Paulo.
“Tough on the snarks though”, he thought. Still, he’d left enough food, beer and cigarettes to keep Paulo going for at least a week. With a bit of luck he’d smoke or drink himself to death.
Alex had come to the grim realisation that he was truly alone at last. He could never return to the bosom of the 'Stician community. He would more than likely never see any of his friends again. He would be obliged to live as a lonely fugitive, a hermit, until Reality reclaimed him once more. And God only knew how long that would be. Nor did it seem likely he would ever see Kelly again. Alex felt thoroughly miserable as he picked his way across a field parallel to the Ambersley road. In the distance, as he descended Ridge Hill he could see the blue grey bulk of Winderley Edge. He was close to Henry’s house now, in the dip by Scourton Mill.
Bizarrely, Winderley Edge shimmered as he strode onward. He felt a sudden dizziness and a shortness of breath. Gasping, he realised that Winderley Edge had vanished, even as he continued to pace. In its place was another hill, clad in trees, a white painted pub close to the summit. Alex’s momentary disorientation abated as he realised he was looking at the hill he had just walked down. Disorientation was replaced by confusion. He stopped, gathering his breath. Then he turned slowly to face Winderley Edge once more.
“Okay, so I must have come to the edge of the Sector,” he told himself. “Guess I can’t go any further.”
He tried nevertheless, stepping out cautiously towards the Edge. Once more the air shimmered, his stomach lurched and he found himself walking in the opposite direction.
“So that’s where my world ends,” he said, shaking his head.
By this time he was very much in need of somewhere to sleep. Retracing his steps he satisfied this need by breaking into a house in Ardingshall and slept until well into the new day. When he awoke, he judged that the day was already far advanced, although of course he had no way of telling for sure. One of the more slender dugongs passed overhead, which he thought might be the fifteenth, but he couldn’t be certain. Alex had no scruples about interfering with Statica now. He helped himself from what proved to be a disappointingly stocked fridge and picked at a chicken drumstick, whilst looking cautiously out of the front window. A faint tremor beneath his feet made him pause mid-mouthful and cross to look up and down the street. It was as though there had been a minor earthquake. He had a good view of the village’s high street from here, and net curtains shielded him from detection. It was likely, he supposed that the good citizens of 'Sticia would be out looking for him. However, since there were less than a hundred of them, with a something like a hundred square miles to cover, the chances were he would be able to evade capture. Accordingly, Alex was surprised to see a stranger, a man apparently busily engaged in doing something to the ground in the garden of the house opposite. He was wearing a sober grey business suit and had ill cut dark hair. From this distance Alex could see no more. He was strangely fascinated by the man. He thought he knew everyone in 'Sticia by now, at least by sight, and this man was definitely someone he had never seen before. Alex finished the drumstick and disposed of it tidily in the pedal bin under the kitchen sink. Then he opened a packet of chocolate biscuits and returned to the front window. The stranger was still there.
After a while, responding more to blind instinct, than to sound reasoning, Alex stepped out into the street and approached the stranger. There was no one else around. 'Sticia, as usual, was eerily silent, so Alex could clearly hear the man mutter to himself as he thrust a long stick into a hole in the ground, occasionally pulling it out again and studying it carefully. He was so absorbed in this task that Alex was able to approach quite close to him.
“Hello,” said Alex at last.
The man swivelled in alarm. He fumbled in his pocket and drew out an object which he appeared to manipulate with his fingers. Instantly the man was transformed into an angel. He was a good head taller, dressed in what Alex supposed might be described as ‘shimmering raiment’, with a brilliant halo and magnificent, dove soft wings, half folded behind him. The angel’s glow, bathed the lawn around him.
“Hail, mortal,” the angel said, in a deep, mellow voice.
Before Alex could more than make a start on feeling awestruck, there was what looked very much like interference on the television and the angel disappeared once more. The man in the suit remained, stabbing frantically at the object in his hand. The angel reappeared briefly once more, sparked, distorted itself into a humorously short squat angel and then shrank to a bright dot. This too vanished.
“Bother,” said the man, throwing the object on the lawn in front of it. “I just can’t get the hang of this.” He kicked at it ineffectually. “I don’t know why I couldn’t have held on to the Mark Fourteen.”
“It’s alright,” said Alex. “You don’t have to do that for me.”
“Well, thanks,” said the man ruefully. “I suppose the cat’s out of the bag anyway.”
“Who are you anyway?” asked Alex, who was pretty certain he wasn’t looking at an ordinary 'Stician by now.
“Oh, I’m sorry. The name’s Malcolm,” said the stranger, stepping towards Alex with hand outstretched. “I suppose you’d call me an Angel, despite the embarrassingly dodgy special effects. “ He laughed, rather nervously as they shook hands. Had he been an ordinary mortal Alex would have said he was in his early twenties. His face was angelic enough, even without special effects but it sat beneath a haircut straight from hell. His suit looked slightly too big for him.
“I never shook hands with an Angel before,” said Alex, feeling pleased at how well he was taking things. It was as though he had lost the capacity to be shocked. “What’s that?”
This question referred to the object that Malcolm was retrieving from the ground. It looked like a polished stone in the shape of a more than usually stylish TV remote. But there were no buttons, or any other features for that matter, on its smooth grey surface.
“This? Oh, it’s a molecular transponder,” said Malcolm, givin
g it a rub. “Piece of junk, too.”
“What’s it do?” asked Alex.
“Lots of things,” said the angel. “I was using it to locate anomalies.”
“Ah,” said Alex, nodding sagely, and then, “to locate what?”
“Anomalies. Faults and disturbances in the fabric of this sector of Intersticia. There are lots around here, caused by folks messing about with Statica, usually. Sometimes we call them ‘spikes’. You know, they’re like sudden spikes in a waveform.”
Alex felt a twinge of anxiety.
“I can’t seem to get a steady reading,” explained Malcolm, showing Alex the long rod he had been pushing into the ground. “There’s a minor anomaly near here but it keeps fluctuating. I shall have to try a few other places and see if I can triangulate on it.”
Alex, mindful of the drumstick and the chocolate biscuits, had an idea about the source of the anomalies. He was suddenly conscious of the half-eaten biscuit in his left hand. As though reading his thoughts Malcolm noticed it at the same time.
“Oh,” he said, looking at Alex’s hand.
“Yes,” said Alex, taking a bite off it. “It’s me I’m afraid. Is it a problem?”
“It could be,” said Malcolm, slipping his transponder into an inside pocket of his suit. “That’s what we’re here to investigate. You see, if there are too many spikes in a sector, you get instabilities, and if you get too many instabilities…. .well…. you know…” he made an ominous cutting movement with his fingers under his chin. “We could lose the interstice.”
“Huh?” Alex took another bite.
“The interstice,” repeated Malcolm patiently, he gestured vaguely with his hand. “All this. The place where we are. There’s talk of folding it.”
“What…like destroying it?”
“Uh, huh.”
Now Alex began to see why Ganymede was so keen to keep folks from interfering with Statica. His jaw dropped, his mouthful of biscuit half chewed.