by Bark, Jasper
“Such as?”
“In real life your problems are rarely resolved, you don’t get closure on the situations or relationships that have most impact on your life. Your father never explains why he didn’t say how proud you made him. Your ex-wife never apologies for cheating on you repeatedly. Bad people aren’t punished for their crimes and good people go unrewarded for their virtue. We look to stories to give us the closure and the resolution we so desperately crave, so we can deal with our problems and move on in a way that real life doesn’t allow.”
“But it’s the lack of an ending that kept this story alive, you just said so.”
“But not in a healthy way, not because it’s told and retold. This story exists as an abomination of a story’s natural life. It is an undead tale that has to feed off the blood of its listeners to continue to exist and in doing so it grants its teller an obtuse immortality.”
“It didn’t take me or Sam when we watched it, why is that?”
“Maybe it had other plans for you. Did you watch the footage to the very end?”
“No, I had my eyes closed.”
“That might have saved your life. The story tests you, pushes you beyond the limits of your endurance. It’s waiting for you to weaken, to reach the point you’re no longer insensitive to its atrocities. That’s when you can’t help but identify with the victims and you join them. It takes you as soon as you can’t bear to watch to the bitter end.”
“Because there is no end.”
“Exactly, and there is no end to the victim’s suffering.”
“Why, what happens to them?”
“They become part of the story, they feed it, living through their murder and torture over and over again.”
“Is that what’s happened to Melissa?”
“Melissa?”
“The girl I’m trying to help.”
“I don’t know, there is someone in the story who’s not like the other victims. Tell me, have you seen her outside of the story?”
“Yes, yes I have. I actually cast her in a movie I was making.”
“So she’s manifesting, I thought as much. That would make her a character, not a victim.”
“What’s the difference?”
“She’s more active and important to the course of the story.”
“But how was I able to see her, and touch her?”
“Many people interact with their favourite characters. A child visiting Santa at the mall, for instance, or a fan meeting an actor, or a cosplayer in character. Some characters get a hold on our imaginations and cross over from fiction into the real world.”
“So Melissa got a hold on our imaginations and crossed over into our world, but how? By taking over someone else’s body and making them look like her?”
“There are some mysteries it’s best not to dwell on.”
Jimmy thought about the confused girl he’d seen outside the studio when he’d pursued Melissa. Then he thought about some of the things Melissa might have done, and what could have happened to Sam, and he didn’t want to think about it anymore. The Tailor was probably right.
“How did she get to be a character though?” said Jimmy. “I mean she’s a real person, or she was.”
“All characters are partly based on real people. Authors put real people into their stories all the time.”
“So you think that’s what Isimud did to her?”
The Tailor nodded.
“Vince says Isimud knows I’m looking for him.”
“I don’t much care for Vince, but he’s seldom wrong.”
“How can I get her out of the footage, how can I rescue her?”
“The first thing you need to do is locate Mr Isimud.”
“That’s why I came to you. Do you know where I can find him?”
“Not all things are known to me, but I do have something that will lead you to him.”
The Tailor indicated the covered dummy.
“Can I see it?” said Jimmy. “The robe you made, from the footage.”
The Tailor smiled, pleased with the anticipation he saw on Jimmy’s face. He took hold of the covering with a flourish, then paused. It was a moment of high drama, akin to unveiling a major work of art. Jimmy leaned forward and the Tailor finally revealed his handiwork.
It was impossible to look directly at the robe, because it was hard for the brain to understand what it was seeing. It was an object that had no place in the limited dimensions of Jimmy’s experience.
It was easier to take the robe in by not looking directly at it, or by focusing on a single detail, such as a shot from the footage that played about the hem. The Tailor hadn’t just woven a bunch of shots together and made a static garment, nor did the footage play out over the surface of the robe, like a screen. It seemed that the Tailor had taken the whole experience of watching the footage and made it into a single item of clothing. Everything you saw or felt while viewing the footage was all there simultaneously, in a synaesthetic totality, woven into every strand of the cloth.
“As I said before, this is a purposefully unfinished work,” said the Tailor. “I was not able to finish the cut. I regret this, and apologise, but I am bound by the integrity of the material I work with, and it would not have been possible to create the garment if I had finished it.”
The Tailor indicated a small section at the back where the robe wasn’t hemmed but seemed to trail off, almost into another dimension of space.
“How will this lead me to Mr Isimud?”
“First you put it on, then you go wherever it takes you. It will know exactly how to find him. It is part of his story, so it will always return to him.”
“Part of his story? I thought the footage was the story.”
“This is only the latest incarnation, the visible part of the story if you will, like the tip of an iceberg showing above the water. The rest of the story resides with its teller and the footage will want to join it, so it will take you there.”
“But what happens when I get there? What’s this Mr Isimud going to do? I mean if he trapped Melissa in his story and made her a character, he’s not just going to hand her over is he?”
“Have you ever read a story where that happens?”
“No, but this isn’t a story, it’s actually happening.”
“Are you entirely sure of that?”
“Are you saying I’m hallucinating all of this?”
“No that’s not what I’m saying at all, I’m asking what you know about fiction?”
“You mean if I want to free a character from a story, I have to follow the rules of fiction.”
“And what rules usually apply to fictional rescues from Hell?”
“Wait, you said she was trapped in a story, not Hell.”
“Both Heaven and Hell are stories that we tell ourselves. They’re ways of coping with our mortality and what comes after.”
“I suppose you’re right, that’s why we tell tales about descents into the underworld isn’t it?”
“Yes it is.”
“So if I’m going into the underworld to rescue someone, the rules are that I need to accomplish a task or face an ordeal. Like Eurydice, she was being guarded by the monster Cerberus, Orpheus put it to sleep with his lyre, so she could escape.”
“And what monster is guarding Melissa?
“There isn’t one.”
“Are you sure?”
“Unless you count the story itself. Vince called it a monster. I mean you said it was killing people because it didn’t have an ending and it’s gone and trapped Melissa, but how do you slay a story?”
“How do you slay anything? You give it an ending of course. A fit and proper ending, one that ties up every loose end.”
“That’s easier said than done.”
“Yes it is. There are many ways to finish a story, but only one true way to end it. Every other attempt at finishing is a misstep, a distraction and will not lead to the tale’s proper ending. You must find the one true way to end it and
administer the final cut.”
“I’ve never been good with endings though, that’s why I avoid conclusive ones.”
“You need to find whatever it is that stops you from ending things then.”
“And if I do?”
“You’ll succeed in your quest, your lady will get what she wants.”
“And me?”
“You will also be saved. But be warned, the best stories never follow the rules quite how you’d expect.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
“Can I put it on now? Jimmy said. The Tailor nodded. Jimmy removed his clothes and the Tailor placed the robe around his shoulders.
It didn’t feel like anything he’d ever worn before. The robe wasn’t heavy as such, it just had the grave weight of a terrible tale about tragic events. It didn’t feel like fabric against his skin, it had the substance of stories, as though there was now a barrier of fiction standing between him and the world and Jimmy could rewrite himself endlessly, changing the way he was perceived and how he interacted with everything around him.
The elderly man wheeled out a full length mirror and placed it in front of Jimmy. The robe in the reflection was even more difficult to look at and even busier to the eye.
“Does it really look like that on me?” said Jimmy. “It seems larger and formless, like it’s growing all the time.”
“That’s because stories are only mirrored by other stories,” said the Tailor. “What you’re seeing is every other story in which this story is reflected, including, I might add, your own.”
There seemed to be tiny, shimmering lines radiating from the robe, covering his face, hands and legs, like a heat haze. As each line passed over his face, it was transformed, showing the image of another character who might have his role in the story. This made his face look like a constantly changing, composite picture of characters from throughout history.
“I take it you’re satisfied with your purchase?” said the Tailor.
“Yes,” said Jimmy. “Yes, I think this will do nicely.”
The Tailor nodded to the elderly man who stepped away from the mirror and picked up the briefcase.
Jimmy felt the robe take hold of his imagination and start to bend his thoughts. It was similar to the feeling he got when a script idea grabbed him and he was powerless to do anything but sit down and write, giving himself over to the idea until he had the whole story down. Only this feeling was a hundred times stronger, and a hundred times more obsessive.
The robe had gripped Jimmy, like a story he couldn’t put down, and he let himself be carried along with it. He left the Tailor and the elderly man without a second glance. He was like a writer in thrall to his work, he was going to let the tale take him wherever it wanted to go.
Jimmy sensed something more of the robe though. It was demanding that he choose a role. He was wearing make believe as his mantle, and he had to become a character to do so, to pick out a mask to present to the world. He didn’t need to deliberate over this. He was Dumuzi, in search of his Inanna.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Jimmy marched out of the shop, up the cobbled alley and out onto the high street. He came to a mini cab office, pushed open the glass door and walked into the waiting room. There was cracked linoleum on the floor and faded blue paint on the walls, the skirting board was scuffed. The whole place seemed dirty, run down and neglected. A bored black guy with a big afro sat behind a grimy window that opened onto the despatch office.
“Help you?” the guy said without looking up.
“I’d like a cab please,” said Jimmy. His voice sounded odd to him, as though it were a chorus of voices all speaking in unison. He was many characters speaking at once.
It occurred to Jimmy that he was connecting with the world around him through a filter of myth. People talk about getting immersed in a story, but they have no idea what that really means. Jimmy knew what it meant; he was clothed in a story. Everything he said, and everything he touched turned to fiction.
“Where you going?” said the guy.
“Through the seven gates and into the Underworld.”
“Seven Sisters, that’s in Haringey innit? On the Victoria line.”
“I don’t want the underground, I want the Underworld.”
For the first time the guy looked up and saw Jimmy. He blinked, did a double take, and then his eyes glazed over as though he were falling under the spell of the story in which Jimmy was dressed.
“The Underworld, sorry mate, must’ve misheard you innit. I’ll get someone on it straight away. What’s the name?”
“Dumuzi.”
“Dumb Uzi, is that like a street tag or something?”
“No, I’m a shepherd who married a goddess and became the king of Uruk.”
The guy’s mouth fell open and he got to his feet out of respect. “Well hell, why didn’t you say? We’ve never had royalty in here before.”
The guy picked up his radio receiver. “Dennis, yeah bruv, got one for ya. And get this, he’s a king . . . no a real life king . . . I don’t know somewhere foreign. He wants to go to the Underworld innit . . . nah, mate, I said Underworld . . . yeah Underworld, seriously . . . okay, I’ll send him right out.”
The guy left the office and came into the waiting area. “Here, let me get that door for you.” He pointed to a car across the road. “That silver Toyota right outside, your majesty. Dennis the driver will take care of you.”
Jimmy left the office and saw a short fat guy, in a brown shirt and blue pants, leaning against a silver Toyota. “Dennis?” he said.
“Yeah, so you’re a king right?”
“Yes, of the city of Uruk.”
“That somewhere abroad?”
“It’s in the land of Sumer.”
“Thought so, please have a seat, your highness.”
Dennis held open the passenger door. Jimmy climbed into the front seat while Dennis squeezed himself behind the wheel. He smelled as though he hadn’t had a bath in weeks. “Where to, your highness?” said Dennis.
“Just start driving,” said Jimmy. “I’ll tell you where to go.” Jimmy didn’t actually know where they were going. He was relying on the robe to guide him. It was like an intuition you don’t know you have, until it suddenly kicks in. Jimmy would feel a mental tug in a certain direction and he’d tell Dennis to turn down a street, almost at random, with no pattern he or Dennis could guess at. He was navigating the city beneath the city and there were no maps for that.
Finally they came out of the Blackwall tunnel.
“So,” said Dennis. “This Underworld, it’s a club, yeah?”
“It’s the domain of Erishkigal, Queen of the Underworld.”
“Queen of the Underworld, so it’s a gay club then?”
“She was married to Gugalanna, but he’s dead now.”
“Right, that’s a pity.”
“She eats clay, drinks water, and her sexual appetite is insatiable. When the death god Nergal visited her they copulated for six whole days and when he left, on the seventh, she was still not satisfied.”
“So she likes to party, sounds like my kinda woman.”
They headed up Commercial Street and turned left onto City Road. The route was just beginning to make sense to Jimmy when they took off down a few side streets and came out in a mews just around the back of the Angel.
“Pull up here,” said Jimmy as they approached an underground car park.
Dennis stopped the car. “That’ll be twenty seven pounds thirty five, your highness.”
Jimmy picked a ball point pen off the floor of the cab. “This is my golden sceptre of office,” he said, and as he spoke the shimmering lines that his robe gave off flowed over the pen, changing it into a carved golden rod. “It will cause your crops to flourish, your cattle to multiply and your seed to be ever fruitful in the belly of your woman.”
Dennis’s eyes bugged out of his head. “Can I sell it on eBay?”
“With this sceptre, you can rule eBay.”
&
nbsp; “Shit!”
Jimmy opened the door of the car and started to climb out. Dennis was still staring at the sceptre with awe when his radio crackled into life. “Hey Dennis, when you’re finished with that king I got another ride for you.”
“You can stick that right up your arse.”
“Come again?”
“You heard me, stick it up your arse. I rule eBay now. I’m gonna be fucking rich.”
Jimmy shut the door and headed towards the car park. He’d begun to learn what most politicians, media tycoons and business leaders already knew. People will believe, or do, anything you want them to, so long as you tell them a powerful enough story. Jimmy was wearing that story.
The robe pulled Jimmy towards the staircase in the far corner of the car park. He went down seven flights of dank concrete steps that smelled of urine.
At the bottom of the seventh flight was a steel door with a covered window set into it. Jimmy banged on the door. The window cover slid back and a shaven-headed man looked out at him.
“What?” he said.
“I’m here to see Mr Isimud,” Jimmy said.
“Fuck off, he ain’t seeing no-one.”
The window began to slide shut. Jimmy reached over and stopped it with his hand. “Tell him I have ascended from my throne dressed in my shining ‘me-garments.’”
The eyes of the man behind the window glazed over as the story got to work on him. “Why didn’t you say, mate. Hold up a minute.”
Jimmy heard the sound of bolts being pulled back and the door creaked open. The guy, who was wearing a grey tracksuit and white trainers, motioned for him to come inside. There was a dark corridor beyond the door that ended in a small vestibule.
Inside the vestibule, a bald bloke with a thick moustache sat behind a desk lit by a dim lamp. To the right of him were a set of steps that led down into darkness.
“Members only, mate,” said the bloke. “It’s sixty quid for membership and another thirty for entry, but after that you can come back as many times as you like during the week. Week after that, it’s another thirty quid. Plus you gotta sign the register and show your membership card every time.”