Okay, make that 20 days. Nothing written for twenty days. How rubbish is that? Sadly, after a promising start, life just got in the way. But, hey, I have some of a novel written and a firm foundation to build on. Orpheus will get finished some time.
But, for you lovely people who goaded me on, I will just explain how the rest of the book goes.
When we last heard from them, Oliver and Nella had just clashed and landed back in her world. What then follows is a nightmarish ride through the underground system of Nella's world, culminating in a visit to the offices of the Higher Demon known as The Other.
In case, you hadn't guessed, Nella's world is a parallel to ours. The physical laws are different, the definition of life and death is different. Basically, in Nella's world of fire and brimstone, you are constantly recycled. Eternal damnation, you might call it. As you know, there are 'holes' between her world and ours and it is through these holes that people from our Earth have glimpsed a vision of what they take to be Hell. Consequently, much of our diabolic imagery is drawn from these glimpses.
Oliver and Nella become embroiled in a revolution; an attempt by The Other and those loyal to him to overthrow the Great Beast. During the course of it all, Nella and Oliver fall in love (of course). For Nella, it is the most extraordinary sensation as love simply does not exist in her world.
After a series of wild adventures, they make it back to Oliver's world and all seems to go well until Nella becomes ill. Day after day she fades away. Eventually, the star-crossed lovers learn why. Oliver and Nella are the same person; different aspects of the same being and they cannot exist together. Nature will not allow them to stay in proximity. In a last heart-breaking scene, Nella has to return to her own world.
As she arrives back, we get to look deep inside her where a sperm is about to fertilise an egg ...
And, suddenly, the walls that separate the multiversere collapse ...
Sunday, 30 November 2008
Saturday, 15 November 2008
Intermission #3
Panic.
I haven't written anything new for five whole days. I just haven't had the time. And tomorrow, I travel to Sheffield for two days of talks and I just know that I won't get the time to write there either. I'm going to lose a week's writing.
Damn and spit.
I haven't written anything new for five whole days. I just haven't had the time. And tomorrow, I travel to Sheffield for two days of talks and I just know that I won't get the time to write there either. I'm going to lose a week's writing.
Damn and spit.
Monday, 10 November 2008
Chapter Nineteen
Four …
Three …
Nella prepared herself. The train came to a sickening, grinding halt. Hundreds of grey, bored, broken faces stared in on her from the crowded platform outside. The doors began to open.
Nella took a deep breath. The air before her suddenly seemed to thicken as if suddenly freezing. An opening, strange and mouth-like appeared in the air before her. Beyond the glistening lips of the aperture, she could see a sign – a blue bar on a red circle, decorated with strange white heiroglyphs. O.X.F.O.R.D.C.I.R.C.U.S. The glyphs were meaningless to her. She sprang forward towards the opening just as a familiar face appeared in front of the sign.
“No!”
With a dull thud, the man collided with her, knocking the air from her lungs and throwing her backwards onto the floor of the train carriage. Nella shook her head and looked up into the confused red face of the man she knew as Oliver.
"Oh no!" she cried. "Oliver! What have you done?"
Penitents and proles stared down at the two figures and began to scream.
Three …
Nella prepared herself. The train came to a sickening, grinding halt. Hundreds of grey, bored, broken faces stared in on her from the crowded platform outside. The doors began to open.
Nella took a deep breath. The air before her suddenly seemed to thicken as if suddenly freezing. An opening, strange and mouth-like appeared in the air before her. Beyond the glistening lips of the aperture, she could see a sign – a blue bar on a red circle, decorated with strange white heiroglyphs. O.X.F.O.R.D.C.I.R.C.U.S. The glyphs were meaningless to her. She sprang forward towards the opening just as a familiar face appeared in front of the sign.
“No!”
With a dull thud, the man collided with her, knocking the air from her lungs and throwing her backwards onto the floor of the train carriage. Nella shook her head and looked up into the confused red face of the man she knew as Oliver.
"Oh no!" she cried. "Oliver! What have you done?"
Penitents and proles stared down at the two figures and began to scream.
Chapter Eighteen
Oliver glanced at his watch. Where was she?
Suddenly, at the far end of the corridor, he spotted two large figures approaching. He wiped the sweat for his eyes. Was it them? The clothes looked similar. He wished he’d taken mor etime to remember exactly what the Consalvez brothers had looked like. He wasn’t stopping to find out now. A warm wind was roaring up the tracks, which meant that a train was coming into the station. He turned and fed onto the platform.
The Central Line train arrived with a noisy clatter. Oliver ran alongside the train, hoping to get as much distance between himself and the brothers as he could. The doors began to slide open and he ran towards the nearest. As he was just feet away, the air before him seemed to get suddenly warmer and a strange red glow enveloped him.
And then, there She was in front of him, jumping towards him at equal speed and with no chance of them avoiding a collision.
Suddenly, at the far end of the corridor, he spotted two large figures approaching. He wiped the sweat for his eyes. Was it them? The clothes looked similar. He wished he’d taken mor etime to remember exactly what the Consalvez brothers had looked like. He wasn’t stopping to find out now. A warm wind was roaring up the tracks, which meant that a train was coming into the station. He turned and fed onto the platform.
The Central Line train arrived with a noisy clatter. Oliver ran alongside the train, hoping to get as much distance between himself and the brothers as he could. The doors began to slide open and he ran towards the nearest. As he was just feet away, the air before him seemed to get suddenly warmer and a strange red glow enveloped him.
And then, there She was in front of him, jumping towards him at equal speed and with no chance of them avoiding a collision.
Chapter Seventeen
Nella glanced at her watch. In just fifteen seconds the doors would open and she had to be ready to jump.
Fourteen ...
Thirteen ...
Twelve …
Fourteen ...
Thirteen ...
Twelve …
Chapter Sixteen
Oliver walked cautiously down the stairs at Oxford Circus station. His heart hammered in his chest and his breathing was heavy and laboured. He knew that if the brothers saw him now, he wouldn’t stand a chance. He was knackered. There was no way he’d be able to run any further.
He crept a little further down and scanned the ticket hall. There appeared to be no sign of the two big scary men who wanted to whittle him like a walking stick. His confidence began to return and his pulse stopped hammering in his forehead. Slowly, carefully, he made his way to the ticket barriers and passed through. He then travelled down the escalator at a more sedate pace than he had just 20 minutes before and shimmied through the tunnels towards the Central Line platform, ever wary for a glimpse of his stalkers. Arriving at his busking pitch he was disappointed to see that the violinist wasn’t there. This also presented him with a problem.
The last thing he wanted to do was hang around in a wide corridor where he would be easily spotted. The obvious course of action was to try to conceal himself in such a way that he had a good escape route and could see the busking pitch. The nearby westbound Central Line platform was the obvious answer so he walked out of the corridor and jammed himself in close beside a chocolate vending machine in an attempt to look inconspicuous. Every so often, he glanced back at the pitch. His heart began to beat faster again but for a very different reason.
He crept a little further down and scanned the ticket hall. There appeared to be no sign of the two big scary men who wanted to whittle him like a walking stick. His confidence began to return and his pulse stopped hammering in his forehead. Slowly, carefully, he made his way to the ticket barriers and passed through. He then travelled down the escalator at a more sedate pace than he had just 20 minutes before and shimmied through the tunnels towards the Central Line platform, ever wary for a glimpse of his stalkers. Arriving at his busking pitch he was disappointed to see that the violinist wasn’t there. This also presented him with a problem.
The last thing he wanted to do was hang around in a wide corridor where he would be easily spotted. The obvious course of action was to try to conceal himself in such a way that he had a good escape route and could see the busking pitch. The nearby westbound Central Line platform was the obvious answer so he walked out of the corridor and jammed himself in close beside a chocolate vending machine in an attempt to look inconspicuous. Every so often, he glanced back at the pitch. His heart began to beat faster again but for a very different reason.
Chapter Fifteen
Nella was still hungry. She’d had several minor scrapes with Tube beasts – mostly homunculi and fat flesh beetles – but they’d been quick and clever and her mind hadn’t really been on her task. In the end, she’d squeezed a medusan for its bittersweet milk and had made do with that. Now sheathing her knife, she made her way back to the platform.
The Tubular Railway had been built at the turn of the Hexannium* by the Seneschal Byleth, the greatest engineer in the world. He’d designed the whole system to be the most uncomfortable, hateful, impractical and unreliable transport system imaginable. From what Nella had seen of other worlds, this was common practice universally.
Firstly, Byleth had summoned Crom Cruach – the bloodied and bent one – and had allowed the creature to tunnel under the city. The Great Worm had gone about its business, creating tunnels without order, rhyme or reason. This had formed the basis of the design. Then Byleth had appeased his Lord and Master by using armies of penitents to cut five straight tunnels to join all of the worm’s excavations to each other. These five lines formed the Great Pentagram that kept The Master’s power strong and gave the Tube Map its distinctive design. The five lines – the Damnation, Tetraskelion, Purgatory, Inferno and Perdition Lines – met at various transport hubs, most notably at Charnel House, Limepit, Mausoleum, Fylfot and Charon’s Cross stations. Here, business was briskest, footfall was greatest and fatalities were off the scale.
The Purgatory Line passed through Mausoleum and it was here that Nella had to wait for her opportunity. According to Laplace, the rift would appear at precisely 10.33am and would exist for just thirteen seconds. She had to be on the right carriage of the right train at precisely the right time.
The train screamed into the station and Nella climbed aboard without incident.
*Short for Hexakosioihexekontahexannium – a period of 666 years.
The Tubular Railway had been built at the turn of the Hexannium* by the Seneschal Byleth, the greatest engineer in the world. He’d designed the whole system to be the most uncomfortable, hateful, impractical and unreliable transport system imaginable. From what Nella had seen of other worlds, this was common practice universally.
Firstly, Byleth had summoned Crom Cruach – the bloodied and bent one – and had allowed the creature to tunnel under the city. The Great Worm had gone about its business, creating tunnels without order, rhyme or reason. This had formed the basis of the design. Then Byleth had appeased his Lord and Master by using armies of penitents to cut five straight tunnels to join all of the worm’s excavations to each other. These five lines formed the Great Pentagram that kept The Master’s power strong and gave the Tube Map its distinctive design. The five lines – the Damnation, Tetraskelion, Purgatory, Inferno and Perdition Lines – met at various transport hubs, most notably at Charnel House, Limepit, Mausoleum, Fylfot and Charon’s Cross stations. Here, business was briskest, footfall was greatest and fatalities were off the scale.
The Purgatory Line passed through Mausoleum and it was here that Nella had to wait for her opportunity. According to Laplace, the rift would appear at precisely 10.33am and would exist for just thirteen seconds. She had to be on the right carriage of the right train at precisely the right time.
The train screamed into the station and Nella climbed aboard without incident.
*Short for Hexakosioihexekontahexannium – a period of 666 years.
Chapter Fourteen
“Wanker”, said Horhan. “Hoggin’ the booth and he didn’t even get his picture took.”
“I thought he’d get the message”, said Naz. “I was givin’ him the evils proper large. He looked like he was shittin’ a brick. Did you see him run?”
Naz laughed.
“Yeah. Like he thought we was gonna do him or somethin’!” said Horhan, laughing. “So, where we goin’ once we got our photos took?”
“I thought we’d check out the babes in Leicester Square”, said Naz. “And Parv says he’ll be knocking off in about ten minutes. ”
“Wicked”, said Horhan. "Why we gettin' our photos took anyway?"
"We need 'em for that club membership card, innit. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. Wicked."
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
“Wicked.”
“I thought he’d get the message”, said Naz. “I was givin’ him the evils proper large. He looked like he was shittin’ a brick. Did you see him run?”
Naz laughed.
“Yeah. Like he thought we was gonna do him or somethin’!” said Horhan, laughing. “So, where we goin’ once we got our photos took?”
“I thought we’d check out the babes in Leicester Square”, said Naz. “And Parv says he’ll be knocking off in about ten minutes. ”
“Wicked”, said Horhan. "Why we gettin' our photos took anyway?"
"We need 'em for that club membership card, innit. Remember?"
"Oh yeah. Wicked."
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
“Wicked.”
Chapter Thirteen
Oliver blew into his cupped hands in an effort to check his breath again. Did that actually work? Or were you just smelling your own hands? Just as a precaution, he chewed another extra strong mint – the coffee had left a nasty taste in his mouth. He checked his reflection in the little mirror inside of a nearby photo booth. Not bad, he thought. A little shorter than he’d like to be. A little heavier too. He sighed. He was just a short, chubby bag of disappointments really. But at least he still had a decent head of hair. Ha! That was something that Barry the Brain couldn’t boast of. He’d lost his quite early in life. Although, being Barry, he’d turned his male pattern baldness into sexy chic with a close crop. Oliver tousled his own mousy, wax-laden hair, trying for a look that he’d seen on a shampoo commercial at breakfast time. He failed but the result wasn’t bad. It was then that he noticed the two large men also reflected in the mirror. They were dark-haired and swarthy and were milling around by the ticket barriers apparently discussing an item in the newspaper. Occasionally, one or other of them shot a glance in his direction. This would then generate heated discussion.
Oliver’s stomach dropped as if he’d just begun travelling in a rapidly descending lift. He stared at the two men reflected in the mirror and suddenly felt very, very nervous. I send my brothers for to cut you. That’s what the mysterious Maria’s postcard had said. Brothers, plural. Like these two men. Did they look similar, like brothers? Yes they did. Spanish? Could be.
“Shit”, he said.
He wondered what the hell he should do. Nothing in his experience – save far too many spy and gangster movies – had prepared him for a situation like this. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he was being really, really stupid about this. How would Maria’s brothers know where he would be at this time? Unless they’d been following him, that is.
“Shit,” he said again.
One of the men once again glanced over to him. This time, the man shook his head with obvious disdain. There could be no mistaking it now. It was them. Maria Consalvez’s brothers. And they were here to do him some serious mischief with their knives. The realisation pushed Oliver into an agony of indecision. Logic dictated that he march straight up to the authorities and demand protection. But there wasn’t a Mole in sight. And what could they do anyway? And he was hardly flavour of the month with the British Transport Police even if there was one of their constables around, which there wasn’t. No, this was something he was going to have to do on his own.
He took a deep breath and stepped out of the booth. He swung his guitar onto his back and ducked his arms through the carry straps all in one swift movement. One of the two men pointed at him and they started to advance towards him. Oliver broke into a sprint, dashing through the busy crowds and leaping over the turnstiles in one quick fluid motion. Or it would have been fluid if his foot hadn’t caught on the gate and sent him sprawling onto the floor. He nose smacked into the hard tiles. Behind him, someone shouted but fear lent him wings and he was immediately up and running again, wiping his now bleeding nose on the back of his hand. He all but jumped onto the Victoria Line escalator and landed four steps down. He ran down the remainder of the moving stairs and ducked swiftly into a tunnel. He arrived at a concourse that offered travel on two lines – the Bakerloo or the Victoria Line. Frankly, he didn’t want to use either as the violinist would later be performing at this station. But he needed to throw the Consalvez Brothers off the scent so he jumped onto the southbound Bakerloo Line train. He would ride one stop to Piccadilly Circus, get off and then walk back up to Oxford Circus. If luck was on his side, the brothers would be gone by then. His commonsense told him that he should actually stay away from Oxford Street altogether. But then how could he hope to meet Her again? He would have to risk it.
Oliver’s stomach dropped as if he’d just begun travelling in a rapidly descending lift. He stared at the two men reflected in the mirror and suddenly felt very, very nervous. I send my brothers for to cut you. That’s what the mysterious Maria’s postcard had said. Brothers, plural. Like these two men. Did they look similar, like brothers? Yes they did. Spanish? Could be.
“Shit”, he said.
He wondered what the hell he should do. Nothing in his experience – save far too many spy and gangster movies – had prepared him for a situation like this. For a moment, the thought crossed his mind that he was being really, really stupid about this. How would Maria’s brothers know where he would be at this time? Unless they’d been following him, that is.
“Shit,” he said again.
One of the men once again glanced over to him. This time, the man shook his head with obvious disdain. There could be no mistaking it now. It was them. Maria Consalvez’s brothers. And they were here to do him some serious mischief with their knives. The realisation pushed Oliver into an agony of indecision. Logic dictated that he march straight up to the authorities and demand protection. But there wasn’t a Mole in sight. And what could they do anyway? And he was hardly flavour of the month with the British Transport Police even if there was one of their constables around, which there wasn’t. No, this was something he was going to have to do on his own.
He took a deep breath and stepped out of the booth. He swung his guitar onto his back and ducked his arms through the carry straps all in one swift movement. One of the two men pointed at him and they started to advance towards him. Oliver broke into a sprint, dashing through the busy crowds and leaping over the turnstiles in one quick fluid motion. Or it would have been fluid if his foot hadn’t caught on the gate and sent him sprawling onto the floor. He nose smacked into the hard tiles. Behind him, someone shouted but fear lent him wings and he was immediately up and running again, wiping his now bleeding nose on the back of his hand. He all but jumped onto the Victoria Line escalator and landed four steps down. He ran down the remainder of the moving stairs and ducked swiftly into a tunnel. He arrived at a concourse that offered travel on two lines – the Bakerloo or the Victoria Line. Frankly, he didn’t want to use either as the violinist would later be performing at this station. But he needed to throw the Consalvez Brothers off the scent so he jumped onto the southbound Bakerloo Line train. He would ride one stop to Piccadilly Circus, get off and then walk back up to Oxford Circus. If luck was on his side, the brothers would be gone by then. His commonsense told him that he should actually stay away from Oxford Street altogether. But then how could he hope to meet Her again? He would have to risk it.
Intermission #2
Phew! A week (and a bit) in and I've now reached the 10,000 word mark. With only 20 days left, I have no idea whether I can make it past 50,000 but I'll give it a damned good try. I'll probably get at least one more chapter finished today as I have most of today free ... but it's back to the real world of work tomorrow and snatching minutes in the evenings, on trains and between meetings.
According to the NaNoWriMo organisers, I should have reached 15,000 by now so I'm 33% behind schedule.
I'd better buck my ideas up, hadn't I?
According to the NaNoWriMo organisers, I should have reached 15,000 by now so I'm 33% behind schedule.
I'd better buck my ideas up, hadn't I?
Chapter Twelve
A group of commuters had decided to make more room in the carriage by stamping on a group of penitents. As each paper-dry body was crushed to dust, the carriage became slightly less cramped and Nella was able to breathe more freely, albeit having to cough occasionally as the dusty air caught at the back of her throat. She idly kicked aside an eyeball that had come to rest against her shoe and promised herself that she would never again let herself get so close to being caught. It was only because of the earwigger’s act of charity that she had escaped at all.
The earwigger had once been a prole like her. What had it done to deserve such a fate? Nella shuddered. She knew that the punishment for her own acts of deviancy would be just as extreme, if not more so. Her crimes were great and she would be made a public example of. And in a city where you could be sawn in half from skull to groin simply for littering, it was certain that the Dukes of Injustice would be very imaginative with her punishment. At the very least, she would be forced to live the life of a penitent; as pitiful as the creatures she’d just seen destroyed before her eyes. Not that they were dead of course. No one died in her world.
Whatever ghastly things were done to your body, your consciousness remained, blowing around on the sulphurous breezes, screaming silently from the walls or ground like dirt into the floor of a train. Occasionally, a disembodied soul would manage to pull together a new body from what it found around itself - spare limbs, dirt, trash, technology – and would become a Scavenger, the very lowest form of life on the planet. Nella promised herself that she would never let that happen to her. The Dukes’ mantra had been drummed into her since birth: Conformity is the only freedom. But Nella knew that she would never be able to conform. Rebellion was in her blood, as it was in the blood of hundreds of thousands of other proles who risked their lives daily for their petty foibles, pastimes and passions: like the earwigger that had allowed her to escape; like Laplace - even higher demons as powerful as her found it impossible to completely conform. Therefore, Nella’s only choice was to be as circumspect as possible and do all that she could to avoid capture. Today’s adventure would not put her particularly at risk of capture by the LAPD, but it did involve serious risk of injury. And on a world where medicine and pain-relief were illegal, such risks were magnified a thousand-fold.
The train rolled into Mausoleum station and Nella squeezed through the crowds and onto the platform. She had a five minute walk ahead of her to get from the Damnation Line platform to the Purgatory Line. Or a ten minute walk with these sorts of rush hour crowds. She had plenty of time in hand so she decided to find herself some breakfast. Reaching inside her coat, she produced a long, curved and serrated blade and stalked into a side tunnel in search of prey.
The earwigger had once been a prole like her. What had it done to deserve such a fate? Nella shuddered. She knew that the punishment for her own acts of deviancy would be just as extreme, if not more so. Her crimes were great and she would be made a public example of. And in a city where you could be sawn in half from skull to groin simply for littering, it was certain that the Dukes of Injustice would be very imaginative with her punishment. At the very least, she would be forced to live the life of a penitent; as pitiful as the creatures she’d just seen destroyed before her eyes. Not that they were dead of course. No one died in her world.
Whatever ghastly things were done to your body, your consciousness remained, blowing around on the sulphurous breezes, screaming silently from the walls or ground like dirt into the floor of a train. Occasionally, a disembodied soul would manage to pull together a new body from what it found around itself - spare limbs, dirt, trash, technology – and would become a Scavenger, the very lowest form of life on the planet. Nella promised herself that she would never let that happen to her. The Dukes’ mantra had been drummed into her since birth: Conformity is the only freedom. But Nella knew that she would never be able to conform. Rebellion was in her blood, as it was in the blood of hundreds of thousands of other proles who risked their lives daily for their petty foibles, pastimes and passions: like the earwigger that had allowed her to escape; like Laplace - even higher demons as powerful as her found it impossible to completely conform. Therefore, Nella’s only choice was to be as circumspect as possible and do all that she could to avoid capture. Today’s adventure would not put her particularly at risk of capture by the LAPD, but it did involve serious risk of injury. And on a world where medicine and pain-relief were illegal, such risks were magnified a thousand-fold.
The train rolled into Mausoleum station and Nella squeezed through the crowds and onto the platform. She had a five minute walk ahead of her to get from the Damnation Line platform to the Purgatory Line. Or a ten minute walk with these sorts of rush hour crowds. She had plenty of time in hand so she decided to find herself some breakfast. Reaching inside her coat, she produced a long, curved and serrated blade and stalked into a side tunnel in search of prey.
Chapter Eleven
“How many eggs do you want with your sausage and bacon?”
“I am not even going to dignify that with an answer,” said Oliver, wolfing down the last of his muesli. He knew that eating quickly would cause him heartburn later in the day but She was worth it.
“You’re up early”, said his mother. “Wet the bed did you?”
“Hardly”, said Oliver. “And before you say another word I don’t want to hear any references to moistness or damp patches.”
“You spoil all my fun.”
“You’re a sick woman mother. I’m off. I’ll see you later.”
And with that he was out of the door and rushing towards the train station. Today was special. Today was important. Today he had no time for Barry the Brain.
“Hello Ollie.”
“Hello Barry.”
Barry Tittelson lived at the end of the street and had always lived at the end of the street; the big house at the end of the street that he’d inherited from his parents and which made Oliver’s mother’s terraced house look like a hovel. To make matters worse, Professor Barry Tittelson was rich – on account of having invented a type of mouthwash that cured hangovers – and could afford to live almost anywhere. Despite this, he remained resolutely ensconced at The Willows, Shapcott Road where, he claimed, he was ‘staying true to his roots’. It simply meant that Oliver had to acknowledge Barry’s success, when compared to his own, every single day. As if this were not enough, Barry was good looking, witty, intelligent, sensitive, caring, healthy and superbly fit. His wife was pretty and a great homemaker. His children were well-behaved and studious. He owned the deeds to his own house while Oliver still lived at home with his mother. Barry Tittelson was an unshakeable optimist and seemed to be terminally happy. All in all, you couldn’t hope to meet a nicer, more inspiring fellow.
Oliver hated him. Or, at least, felt that he ought to. If anything what he felt was envy. He and Barry had been best friends at school. They’d done everything together, all of the usual boyish pranks and japes. They dipped the ponds for tadpoles. They built rope swings. They climbed trees and scrumped apples. But even then, the differences between the two boys were developing. Barry would identify individual pond beetle species and learn their Latin names. Oliver was content to guffaw at the quagmire of randy humping toads. Barry would take his apples home and make a crumble for his parents. Oliver stuffed them into the exhaust pipes of his teachers’ cars and howled at the resulting backfires. Before long, it was evident that Barry was destined to ride the A Stream to Oxford or Cambridge while Oliver’s immediate future smelled conspicuously of pickles. And so, they had drifted further and further apart while retaining some tiny spark of friendship that allowed them to still speak civilly.
“Lovely weather isn’t it?” said Barry as he watered his perfect garden. It was an affectation of course. He had a gardener.
“Great”, said Oliver.
“Great.”
“Lovely.”
“Lovely, yes.”
Sometimes a conversation like this could go on for minutes.
“So how’s your mum?” asked Barry.
“She’s fine”, said Oliver. He glanced at his watch. There was no fear of him being late for his hopeful rendezvous as, in his enthusiasm to meet the violinist, he was at least an hour and a half too early, but Perfect Barry was a distraction he’d have preferred to do without. Oliver and Barry had known each other their whole lives. There hadn’t been a single minute in all that time when Oliver hadn’t felt inferior.
“Great. Nice lady.”
“Yes indeed.”
“And Oleg?”
“From what I hear he’s outstanding”, said Oliver.
“Super.”
“Yes. Well. Invented anything recently?”
“Not really”, said Barry. “To be honest, I’ve been spending most of my time looking at trying to unravel the origins of the universe.”
Oliver studied his old friend’s face. There was no hint of patronising. He was quite serious.
“Origins of the universe, eh? Well, that’s a pretty big job.”
“You’re telling me”, said Barry. “I shan’t crack it in my lifetime I expect! Still, if my researches can help people after me, that’s making a contribution at least. How are things with you?”
“Ah, must rush”, said Oliver, indelicately. “Places to go, people to see. You know how it is.”
“I thought your mum said that you were between jobs”, said Barry. He would never have been so impolite as to say unemployed.
“I’m working as a street musician”, said Oliver.
“Oh, a busker”, said Barry. Somehow, he managed to imbue the word ‘busker’ with an undertone of ‘loser’. Or that’s how it seemed to Oliver anyway. “Well, you’d better cut along. Nice to have a conversation with you.”
“Yes, we must try it one day”, said Oliver, smiling.
“Oh … Ha! Ha! Very good!” said Barry and he returned to tending his perfectly symmetrical magnolias.
“Bastard”, said Oliver, under his breath. But nothing that Barry could say or do could upset him today. He bought himself a strong coffee, boarded the train at Harrow on the Hill and began his journey into London.
“I am not even going to dignify that with an answer,” said Oliver, wolfing down the last of his muesli. He knew that eating quickly would cause him heartburn later in the day but She was worth it.
“You’re up early”, said his mother. “Wet the bed did you?”
“Hardly”, said Oliver. “And before you say another word I don’t want to hear any references to moistness or damp patches.”
“You spoil all my fun.”
“You’re a sick woman mother. I’m off. I’ll see you later.”
And with that he was out of the door and rushing towards the train station. Today was special. Today was important. Today he had no time for Barry the Brain.
“Hello Ollie.”
“Hello Barry.”
Barry Tittelson lived at the end of the street and had always lived at the end of the street; the big house at the end of the street that he’d inherited from his parents and which made Oliver’s mother’s terraced house look like a hovel. To make matters worse, Professor Barry Tittelson was rich – on account of having invented a type of mouthwash that cured hangovers – and could afford to live almost anywhere. Despite this, he remained resolutely ensconced at The Willows, Shapcott Road where, he claimed, he was ‘staying true to his roots’. It simply meant that Oliver had to acknowledge Barry’s success, when compared to his own, every single day. As if this were not enough, Barry was good looking, witty, intelligent, sensitive, caring, healthy and superbly fit. His wife was pretty and a great homemaker. His children were well-behaved and studious. He owned the deeds to his own house while Oliver still lived at home with his mother. Barry Tittelson was an unshakeable optimist and seemed to be terminally happy. All in all, you couldn’t hope to meet a nicer, more inspiring fellow.
Oliver hated him. Or, at least, felt that he ought to. If anything what he felt was envy. He and Barry had been best friends at school. They’d done everything together, all of the usual boyish pranks and japes. They dipped the ponds for tadpoles. They built rope swings. They climbed trees and scrumped apples. But even then, the differences between the two boys were developing. Barry would identify individual pond beetle species and learn their Latin names. Oliver was content to guffaw at the quagmire of randy humping toads. Barry would take his apples home and make a crumble for his parents. Oliver stuffed them into the exhaust pipes of his teachers’ cars and howled at the resulting backfires. Before long, it was evident that Barry was destined to ride the A Stream to Oxford or Cambridge while Oliver’s immediate future smelled conspicuously of pickles. And so, they had drifted further and further apart while retaining some tiny spark of friendship that allowed them to still speak civilly.
“Lovely weather isn’t it?” said Barry as he watered his perfect garden. It was an affectation of course. He had a gardener.
“Great”, said Oliver.
“Great.”
“Lovely.”
“Lovely, yes.”
Sometimes a conversation like this could go on for minutes.
“So how’s your mum?” asked Barry.
“She’s fine”, said Oliver. He glanced at his watch. There was no fear of him being late for his hopeful rendezvous as, in his enthusiasm to meet the violinist, he was at least an hour and a half too early, but Perfect Barry was a distraction he’d have preferred to do without. Oliver and Barry had known each other their whole lives. There hadn’t been a single minute in all that time when Oliver hadn’t felt inferior.
“Great. Nice lady.”
“Yes indeed.”
“And Oleg?”
“From what I hear he’s outstanding”, said Oliver.
“Super.”
“Yes. Well. Invented anything recently?”
“Not really”, said Barry. “To be honest, I’ve been spending most of my time looking at trying to unravel the origins of the universe.”
Oliver studied his old friend’s face. There was no hint of patronising. He was quite serious.
“Origins of the universe, eh? Well, that’s a pretty big job.”
“You’re telling me”, said Barry. “I shan’t crack it in my lifetime I expect! Still, if my researches can help people after me, that’s making a contribution at least. How are things with you?”
“Ah, must rush”, said Oliver, indelicately. “Places to go, people to see. You know how it is.”
“I thought your mum said that you were between jobs”, said Barry. He would never have been so impolite as to say unemployed.
“I’m working as a street musician”, said Oliver.
“Oh, a busker”, said Barry. Somehow, he managed to imbue the word ‘busker’ with an undertone of ‘loser’. Or that’s how it seemed to Oliver anyway. “Well, you’d better cut along. Nice to have a conversation with you.”
“Yes, we must try it one day”, said Oliver, smiling.
“Oh … Ha! Ha! Very good!” said Barry and he returned to tending his perfectly symmetrical magnolias.
“Bastard”, said Oliver, under his breath. But nothing that Barry could say or do could upset him today. He bought himself a strong coffee, boarded the train at Harrow on the Hill and began his journey into London.
Chapter Ten
The pole-dancing businessman sat alone on the platform at Baker Street, as he had done for over six hours. He glanced at his curiously large wristwatch. The last train was due out at any minute. As soon as it had gone on its way to Uxbridge, the guards would be looking to lock the station up for the night. The businessman licked his lips. Then he licked his eyebrows.
The last train came clattering to a halt, collecting its paltry cargo of late night drunks and then was on its way again. The businessman looked towards the dark and gaping mouth of the train tunnel, his heart beating once every few minutes in anticipation. Shadows began to flit across the graffiti-laden walls of the tunnel. He looked left, then right and, grinning from ear to ear, he jumped from his seat and far out onto the rail tracks. So high was the jump that he seemed to float in the air for an impossible length of time. Certainly it was long enough for him to tear away his clothing and land naked and pink and wearing just his socks. With a deft flick of a dirty fingernail, they too were soon off and he stalked towards the Tube tunnel barking a litany of strange, alien words.
From within the tunnels, his call was answered.
The last train came clattering to a halt, collecting its paltry cargo of late night drunks and then was on its way again. The businessman looked towards the dark and gaping mouth of the train tunnel, his heart beating once every few minutes in anticipation. Shadows began to flit across the graffiti-laden walls of the tunnel. He looked left, then right and, grinning from ear to ear, he jumped from his seat and far out onto the rail tracks. So high was the jump that he seemed to float in the air for an impossible length of time. Certainly it was long enough for him to tear away his clothing and land naked and pink and wearing just his socks. With a deft flick of a dirty fingernail, they too were soon off and he stalked towards the Tube tunnel barking a litany of strange, alien words.
From within the tunnels, his call was answered.
Sunday, 9 November 2008
Chapter Nine
It was a bodge fix but it would have to do. Nella snipped off the excess twine and examined her handiwork. Sewing was not her forte and the dreadful hash she’d made of repairing the handle looked amateur and tatty. But it was strong and it would allow the violin case to be carried again. She took it into the midden and locked the door behind her. Standing on the toilet seat, she reached up and pushed a roofing tile to one side. Placing the violin on a rafter, she replaced the tile, climbed down and, by force of habit, yanked on the cistern chain. The cloudy water in the toilet flushed noisily away and, echoing through the pipes came a distant squeal of annoyance. Sewer demons were the lowest of the low and they loved to tell you how they felt about that.
Reya was sulking. She sat in front of the longoculator, arms folded, mouth clamped shut like a razor cut, and watching some dire soap opera.
“I’m just popping out”, said Nella. “Anything I need to get from the vendors?”
“Just some bloody common sense”, growled Reya.
Nella sighed and left the apartment.
The furnace heat of early evening hit her like an oven door being opened in her face as she exited the building. There was never any night here in Greatwen, no readily distinguishable cycle of hours. Before her first visit to the other world, Nella had had no concept of night and day. In her world it stayed just as hot, just as bright all of the time. The only way to tell the passage of days was by the tolling of the doom bells and the behaviour of the scavengers. Somehow they seemed more attuned to the passing of time than proles were and even now were scuttling towards their retreats and bolt holes before the Night Terrors emerged. At least that's what Nella called them now. Before, it had just seemed that these particular demons worked shifts.
She had a destination in mind but had no idea how to get there. She simply walked absent-mindedly through the streets as if she was hoping that it would come to her. And, as always, it did. She rounded a corner and there, before her, was the Bone Palace. It was a curious building that looked, to all intents and purposes, as if it had been built entirely from bones lashed together. Even more curious was the fact that no matter which way you turned your head, even if you stood with your back to it, the building always remained within your peripheral vision. It was as if once it had been seen, it refused to be ignored. The grand entrance was formed from the immense jaws of some dead leviathan. Nella stepped through, batting aside an unusually brave scavenger, and made her way towards the centre of the palace.
The demon Laplace never locked her door. There was no need. She exuded enough menace to frighten away all but the most persistent callers. And besides, she was not without methods of defending herself. Her entire, enormous bloated body was covered with tight little boils and blisters any of which she could burst at will, showering her victim in a necrotoxin that caused their flesh to rot before their unfortunate eyes. She had long, poisonous claws too and huge incisors that could shear through muscle and bone. As Nella entered Laplace’s lair, stepping over a semi-dissolved pizza delivery boy, the demon was stirring a pot on the stove. Whatever she was cooking was objecting to its treatment and was hissing and cursing. Every so often a small red hand would appear over the lip of the casserole and Laplace would rap it sharply with a long spoon.
“Good evening Ms Revilo”, said Laplace without turning. She did, quite literally, have eyes in the back of her head.
“Hello Laplace”, said Nella.
“Would you care to join me for dinner?” said the demon. “But not as dinner, you may be reassured.”
“Thanks but I’ve already eaten”, said Nella. “Do you have any news for me?”
Laplace delivered a hard, sharp blow with the spoon and the noises from the thing in the pot died away. She placed a lid on the casserole and slowly turned, dragging her immense warty body around to face her visitor. She smiled. It was not a nice smile. There were far too many teeth for starters and many of them were actually too long for her mouth to accommodate. Consequently, Laplace could never quite close her blubbery boil-festooned lips and she drooled quite uncontrollably. The slick of spittle helped her to slide her ponderous bulk around the Bone Palace.
“You have a gift for me of course”, said Laplace.
“Of course”, said Nella. She reached into a pocket and produced a small card package with a clear bubble of plastic on the front. Inside was a tiny outfit; a short white dress and high-heeled shoes. Laplace opened one of her bulging yellow eyes so wide that it nearly popped out of its socket.
“It is divine”, she gurgled. “But the panties are missing.”
“It’s the Lindsay Lohan special edition”, said Nella.
Laplace nodded in approval, gobbets of dribble falling onto her flabby belly and breasts. She slid herself over to the skeletal carcase of a long-dead manticore and opened the ribcage. It squealed open on dry hinges revealing a hidden cupboard full of Barbie™ dolls and outfits; the demon’s hidden, illegal treasure trove. She hung the new outfit on a hook next to a red-haired doll and closed the door.
“Glad you like it”, said Nella. “Now … can you …”
“Yes”, said Laplace. She closed several of her eyes and hunched down upon her haunches. She gave a great sigh that filled the room with the smell of damp wallpaper wrapped around rotting fish. She clenched her fists and her long, un-groomed claws emerged messily through the backs of her hands. She held them up to the light and peered through the bleeding holes.
“I see them …” she said. “Gaping wounds upon the flesh of this world. I see them.”
“Are any suitable for me?” asked Nella.
Laplace sighed again.
“There are but two in the vicinity of Greatwen”, she said. “One of them lies deep within the earth. The other is at Mausoleum.”
“Mausoleum is perfect”, said Nella. “That’s very close to where I want to be.”
“There is a problem”, said Laplace.
“Problem?”
“How badly do you want this?”
“As badly as you want the ultra-rare Barbie™ Amy Winehouse sober edition.”
“That badly?” said Laplace. “He must be something special.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Nella.
Laplace smiled.“I know the location of every atom in the universe”, the demon said. “By comparison, you are easier to read than the numbers on a tumbrel.”
Reya was sulking. She sat in front of the longoculator, arms folded, mouth clamped shut like a razor cut, and watching some dire soap opera.
“I’m just popping out”, said Nella. “Anything I need to get from the vendors?”
“Just some bloody common sense”, growled Reya.
Nella sighed and left the apartment.
The furnace heat of early evening hit her like an oven door being opened in her face as she exited the building. There was never any night here in Greatwen, no readily distinguishable cycle of hours. Before her first visit to the other world, Nella had had no concept of night and day. In her world it stayed just as hot, just as bright all of the time. The only way to tell the passage of days was by the tolling of the doom bells and the behaviour of the scavengers. Somehow they seemed more attuned to the passing of time than proles were and even now were scuttling towards their retreats and bolt holes before the Night Terrors emerged. At least that's what Nella called them now. Before, it had just seemed that these particular demons worked shifts.
She had a destination in mind but had no idea how to get there. She simply walked absent-mindedly through the streets as if she was hoping that it would come to her. And, as always, it did. She rounded a corner and there, before her, was the Bone Palace. It was a curious building that looked, to all intents and purposes, as if it had been built entirely from bones lashed together. Even more curious was the fact that no matter which way you turned your head, even if you stood with your back to it, the building always remained within your peripheral vision. It was as if once it had been seen, it refused to be ignored. The grand entrance was formed from the immense jaws of some dead leviathan. Nella stepped through, batting aside an unusually brave scavenger, and made her way towards the centre of the palace.
The demon Laplace never locked her door. There was no need. She exuded enough menace to frighten away all but the most persistent callers. And besides, she was not without methods of defending herself. Her entire, enormous bloated body was covered with tight little boils and blisters any of which she could burst at will, showering her victim in a necrotoxin that caused their flesh to rot before their unfortunate eyes. She had long, poisonous claws too and huge incisors that could shear through muscle and bone. As Nella entered Laplace’s lair, stepping over a semi-dissolved pizza delivery boy, the demon was stirring a pot on the stove. Whatever she was cooking was objecting to its treatment and was hissing and cursing. Every so often a small red hand would appear over the lip of the casserole and Laplace would rap it sharply with a long spoon.
“Good evening Ms Revilo”, said Laplace without turning. She did, quite literally, have eyes in the back of her head.
“Hello Laplace”, said Nella.
“Would you care to join me for dinner?” said the demon. “But not as dinner, you may be reassured.”
“Thanks but I’ve already eaten”, said Nella. “Do you have any news for me?”
Laplace delivered a hard, sharp blow with the spoon and the noises from the thing in the pot died away. She placed a lid on the casserole and slowly turned, dragging her immense warty body around to face her visitor. She smiled. It was not a nice smile. There were far too many teeth for starters and many of them were actually too long for her mouth to accommodate. Consequently, Laplace could never quite close her blubbery boil-festooned lips and she drooled quite uncontrollably. The slick of spittle helped her to slide her ponderous bulk around the Bone Palace.
“You have a gift for me of course”, said Laplace.
“Of course”, said Nella. She reached into a pocket and produced a small card package with a clear bubble of plastic on the front. Inside was a tiny outfit; a short white dress and high-heeled shoes. Laplace opened one of her bulging yellow eyes so wide that it nearly popped out of its socket.
“It is divine”, she gurgled. “But the panties are missing.”
“It’s the Lindsay Lohan special edition”, said Nella.
Laplace nodded in approval, gobbets of dribble falling onto her flabby belly and breasts. She slid herself over to the skeletal carcase of a long-dead manticore and opened the ribcage. It squealed open on dry hinges revealing a hidden cupboard full of Barbie™ dolls and outfits; the demon’s hidden, illegal treasure trove. She hung the new outfit on a hook next to a red-haired doll and closed the door.
“Glad you like it”, said Nella. “Now … can you …”
“Yes”, said Laplace. She closed several of her eyes and hunched down upon her haunches. She gave a great sigh that filled the room with the smell of damp wallpaper wrapped around rotting fish. She clenched her fists and her long, un-groomed claws emerged messily through the backs of her hands. She held them up to the light and peered through the bleeding holes.
“I see them …” she said. “Gaping wounds upon the flesh of this world. I see them.”
“Are any suitable for me?” asked Nella.
Laplace sighed again.
“There are but two in the vicinity of Greatwen”, she said. “One of them lies deep within the earth. The other is at Mausoleum.”
“Mausoleum is perfect”, said Nella. “That’s very close to where I want to be.”
“There is a problem”, said Laplace.
“Problem?”
“How badly do you want this?”
“As badly as you want the ultra-rare Barbie™ Amy Winehouse sober edition.”
“That badly?” said Laplace. “He must be something special.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” said Nella.
Laplace smiled.“I know the location of every atom in the universe”, the demon said. “By comparison, you are easier to read than the numbers on a tumbrel.”
Saturday, 8 November 2008
Chapter Eight
“You should have be more careful like me”, said Oleg, pounding his chest like a bull gorilla in rut. “Wear rubber Johnny … like a man!”
“Were you not listening?” said Oliver. “It wasn’t me. I’ve never been to Ibiza. I’ve never even met the woman let alone slept with her.”
“Angry woman is bad thing”, said Oleg. “Angry woman with baby … very bad thing. That’s why I wear rubber Johnny so your mother does not get with baby.”
“Dear god …”
“So why this woman write you?”
“I have no idea”, said Oliver. “All I can think of is that someone gave her my name.”
“And address”, said Oleg.
“That’s a good point”, said Oliver. “So whoever did this knows me well enough to know my address. My god … identity theft. Someone has been pretending to be me!”
“Bastard guy”, said Oleg.
“Bastard guy indeed”, said Oliver.
“You check credit card”, said Oleg. “I bet he run up bills in your name too.”
“I don’t have a credit card”, said Oliver. “And I earn a pittance. If this identity thief thinks he’s going to wheedle any money out of me, he’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“Then you no worry.”
“Yeah … except … I’d ignore the whole business if it wasn’t for this last bit … that stuff about her brothers cutting me. I wonder how real a threat that actually is?”
“You not worry. Oleg protect you”, said the burly Moldovan, punching his own chest again. “I cut many times.”
Oleg lifted his shirt to show several large, purple leaf-shaped scars.
“Bloody hell. What happened?”
“I not sell sister to Romanians.”
“Good for you, Oleg.”
“I sell to Russians. They pay in US dollar!”
Oliver looked stunned by this revelation.
“Ha! I make joke with you!” said Oleg. “I have no sister! Ha!”
He lumbered into the kitchen to make a coffee and, not for the first time, Oliver wished that Oleg would wear some trousers. He looked again at the words on the postcard. I send my brothers for to cut you. He wondered if he was reading it correctly but, try as he might, he could find no ambiguity. He sighed and put the card back on the mantelpiece. Who would do such a thing to him? And why? He hadn’t upset anyone. Except a few Fionas. But even an angry Fiona was unlikely to have impregnated anyone, even in a fit of pique with a turkey baster, just to stitch him up. Oleg returned with two cups of dangerously strong coffee and sat down opposite. To Oliver’s discomfort, one of his testicles had escaped from the frayed seam of his faded underwear.
“Tell more of girl with violin”, he said.
“I don’t really know what to tell you”, said Oliver. “I don’t even know her name.”
“But you would like to make jiggy with her?”
“Yes … well”, said Oliver. “It’s not as simple as that. It’s … confusing.”
“Why?”
“It’s confusing because even though I’ve only just met her, and know nothing about her, and may possibly never see her again … I think that I could spend the rest of my life with her.”
Oleg scratched his inner thigh, casually using his thumb to hook the errant gland back inside his pants.
“You love this girl?”
“I don’t see how I can. I don’t even know her”, said Oliver. “Unless there really is such a thing as love at first sight.”
“For me and your mother was same thing”, said Oleg.
“Love at first sight?”
“As soon as I see her bend over naked I know I love her.”
“Bloody hell …”
“Were you not listening?” said Oliver. “It wasn’t me. I’ve never been to Ibiza. I’ve never even met the woman let alone slept with her.”
“Angry woman is bad thing”, said Oleg. “Angry woman with baby … very bad thing. That’s why I wear rubber Johnny so your mother does not get with baby.”
“Dear god …”
“So why this woman write you?”
“I have no idea”, said Oliver. “All I can think of is that someone gave her my name.”
“And address”, said Oleg.
“That’s a good point”, said Oliver. “So whoever did this knows me well enough to know my address. My god … identity theft. Someone has been pretending to be me!”
“Bastard guy”, said Oleg.
“Bastard guy indeed”, said Oliver.
“You check credit card”, said Oleg. “I bet he run up bills in your name too.”
“I don’t have a credit card”, said Oliver. “And I earn a pittance. If this identity thief thinks he’s going to wheedle any money out of me, he’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“Then you no worry.”
“Yeah … except … I’d ignore the whole business if it wasn’t for this last bit … that stuff about her brothers cutting me. I wonder how real a threat that actually is?”
“You not worry. Oleg protect you”, said the burly Moldovan, punching his own chest again. “I cut many times.”
Oleg lifted his shirt to show several large, purple leaf-shaped scars.
“Bloody hell. What happened?”
“I not sell sister to Romanians.”
“Good for you, Oleg.”
“I sell to Russians. They pay in US dollar!”
Oliver looked stunned by this revelation.
“Ha! I make joke with you!” said Oleg. “I have no sister! Ha!”
He lumbered into the kitchen to make a coffee and, not for the first time, Oliver wished that Oleg would wear some trousers. He looked again at the words on the postcard. I send my brothers for to cut you. He wondered if he was reading it correctly but, try as he might, he could find no ambiguity. He sighed and put the card back on the mantelpiece. Who would do such a thing to him? And why? He hadn’t upset anyone. Except a few Fionas. But even an angry Fiona was unlikely to have impregnated anyone, even in a fit of pique with a turkey baster, just to stitch him up. Oleg returned with two cups of dangerously strong coffee and sat down opposite. To Oliver’s discomfort, one of his testicles had escaped from the frayed seam of his faded underwear.
“Tell more of girl with violin”, he said.
“I don’t really know what to tell you”, said Oliver. “I don’t even know her name.”
“But you would like to make jiggy with her?”
“Yes … well”, said Oliver. “It’s not as simple as that. It’s … confusing.”
“Why?”
“It’s confusing because even though I’ve only just met her, and know nothing about her, and may possibly never see her again … I think that I could spend the rest of my life with her.”
Oleg scratched his inner thigh, casually using his thumb to hook the errant gland back inside his pants.
“You love this girl?”
“I don’t see how I can. I don’t even know her”, said Oliver. “Unless there really is such a thing as love at first sight.”
“For me and your mother was same thing”, said Oleg.
“Love at first sight?”
“As soon as I see her bend over naked I know I love her.”
“Bloody hell …”
Wednesday, 5 November 2008
Chapter Seven
“I met a man today”, said Nella.
Reya looked up from the chopping board and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“A man? What sort of man?”
“A nice man”, said Nella, smiling.
Her housemate looked worriedly around.
“Keep your voice down Nella … walls have ears you know.”
She pointed to the wall nearest the door where, indeed, there was a large fleshy ear growing.
“I thought you were going to see someone about that?”
“I did”, said Reya. “Seneschal Legassa’s office sent down one of his lieutenants, a ghastly wannabe called Forneus. He spent 20 minutes looking at the ear and thirty minutes at my arse. In the end he declared that we’d have to leave it and see what it grew into.”
“You mean we have to live with that thing growing out of our wall?”
“Worse than that”, said Reya, “We have to watch it get bigger. Forneus reckoned that the head will emerge within a fortnight. Now, about this man …”
“Not a lot to tell really”, said Nella. “He was just … you know …”
“What? Handsome? Tall? Athletic? Hung like Behemoth?”
“Reya!”
“What then? He was good looking at least, right?”
“Well, actually no”, said Nella. “Not really. He was just … I can’t really explain it. We just sort of … connected.”
“Connected?”
“Yeah … it’s really weird. It was like I was immediately comfortable with him. As if I’d known him all my life.”
“Now that is weird”, said Reya. “And on the cusp of being very, very illegal. So where’d you meet him? At work?”
“No …”
“Where then?”
“On the Underground. He was … well, I just sort of bumped into him and we talked.”
Reya returned to the chopping board and sighed a deep sigh.
“Listen … this may be out or order, but I’m your best friend Nella and I care about you.”
“I know you do. What’s up?”
“You are”, said Reya. “You’re smiling and happy and joyous and giggly. If you’re not careful you’ll get picked up by the Pleasure Seekers.”
Nella frowned and nodded.
“You’re right of course.”
“Happiness is an offence. Pleasure is an offence. Everything’s a fucking offence”, said Reya. “So just be careful. Are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully”, said Nella.
“So what’s his name?”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver? That’s unusual”, said Reya. “Where’s he from?”
“He’s … he’s not from round here.”
Reya caught the stutter in her friend’s speech and looked up, straight into Nella’s eyes. Nella held the gaze for as long as she could but then looked away.
“You silly bitch! You’ve been over there again haven’t you?!” snapped Reya.
“Look, I know that …”
Reya crossed the room and grabbed Nella by the shoulders, shaking her head up and once again staring into her eyes.
“Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out where you’ve been? They’ll skin you alive, Nella. They’ll tear your skin off in great sheets and bathe you in hot vinegar! What is wrong with you? Do you want to be a Penitent?”
“Of course not!” said Nella, “But you haven’t seen it over there Reya! It’s so … free! I can play and the people there love to listen!”
“But it’s just a false happiness!” said Reya. “Conformity is the only freedom, you know that.”
“Is it? Is it really?” said Nella. “From what I see over there, freedom is the only freedom. They have art and music and poetry and love. Is that really so bad?”
“All I know is that everyone who goes over there eventually gets caught”, said Reya. “And I don’t want you to be the next. Promise me you won’t go again.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Please Nella, promise me.”
“I can’t.”
Reya scowled and returned to the chopping board. The small food beast had used the distraction to pick the lock of the small guillotine and was just tiptoing away when Reya returned. With a sigh of resignation, it walked back to the device, laid its head in the wooden collar and locked it back in place. It raised a thumb and smiled a long-suffering smile. Reya pressed the button and the blade fell with a noisy choonk.
Nella walked over and hugged her best friend. Reya shrugged it off.
“I’ll be careful”, she said. “I’m always careful.”
Reya looked up from the chopping board and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
“A man? What sort of man?”
“A nice man”, said Nella, smiling.
Her housemate looked worriedly around.
“Keep your voice down Nella … walls have ears you know.”
She pointed to the wall nearest the door where, indeed, there was a large fleshy ear growing.
“I thought you were going to see someone about that?”
“I did”, said Reya. “Seneschal Legassa’s office sent down one of his lieutenants, a ghastly wannabe called Forneus. He spent 20 minutes looking at the ear and thirty minutes at my arse. In the end he declared that we’d have to leave it and see what it grew into.”
“You mean we have to live with that thing growing out of our wall?”
“Worse than that”, said Reya, “We have to watch it get bigger. Forneus reckoned that the head will emerge within a fortnight. Now, about this man …”
“Not a lot to tell really”, said Nella. “He was just … you know …”
“What? Handsome? Tall? Athletic? Hung like Behemoth?”
“Reya!”
“What then? He was good looking at least, right?”
“Well, actually no”, said Nella. “Not really. He was just … I can’t really explain it. We just sort of … connected.”
“Connected?”
“Yeah … it’s really weird. It was like I was immediately comfortable with him. As if I’d known him all my life.”
“Now that is weird”, said Reya. “And on the cusp of being very, very illegal. So where’d you meet him? At work?”
“No …”
“Where then?”
“On the Underground. He was … well, I just sort of bumped into him and we talked.”
Reya returned to the chopping board and sighed a deep sigh.
“Listen … this may be out or order, but I’m your best friend Nella and I care about you.”
“I know you do. What’s up?”
“You are”, said Reya. “You’re smiling and happy and joyous and giggly. If you’re not careful you’ll get picked up by the Pleasure Seekers.”
Nella frowned and nodded.
“You’re right of course.”
“Happiness is an offence. Pleasure is an offence. Everything’s a fucking offence”, said Reya. “So just be careful. Are you seeing him again?”
“Tomorrow, hopefully”, said Nella.
“So what’s his name?”
“Oliver.”
“Oliver? That’s unusual”, said Reya. “Where’s he from?”
“He’s … he’s not from round here.”
Reya caught the stutter in her friend’s speech and looked up, straight into Nella’s eyes. Nella held the gaze for as long as she could but then looked away.
“You silly bitch! You’ve been over there again haven’t you?!” snapped Reya.
“Look, I know that …”
Reya crossed the room and grabbed Nella by the shoulders, shaking her head up and once again staring into her eyes.
“Do you have any idea what they’ll do to you if they find out where you’ve been? They’ll skin you alive, Nella. They’ll tear your skin off in great sheets and bathe you in hot vinegar! What is wrong with you? Do you want to be a Penitent?”
“Of course not!” said Nella, “But you haven’t seen it over there Reya! It’s so … free! I can play and the people there love to listen!”
“But it’s just a false happiness!” said Reya. “Conformity is the only freedom, you know that.”
“Is it? Is it really?” said Nella. “From what I see over there, freedom is the only freedom. They have art and music and poetry and love. Is that really so bad?”
“All I know is that everyone who goes over there eventually gets caught”, said Reya. “And I don’t want you to be the next. Promise me you won’t go again.”
“I can’t do that.”
“Please Nella, promise me.”
“I can’t.”
Reya scowled and returned to the chopping board. The small food beast had used the distraction to pick the lock of the small guillotine and was just tiptoing away when Reya returned. With a sigh of resignation, it walked back to the device, laid its head in the wooden collar and locked it back in place. It raised a thumb and smiled a long-suffering smile. Reya pressed the button and the blade fell with a noisy choonk.
Nella walked over and hugged her best friend. Reya shrugged it off.
“I’ll be careful”, she said. “I’m always careful.”
Chapter Six
The London Underground system had never been designed for the vast numbers of people who now used it and the added pressure of the tourist season and congestion charges for road users had driven even more people to travel on the Tube. Oliver’s carriage was packed as full as a can of beans and as cramped as cattle trucks used to be before ethical farming. No one in government seemed to be concerned with the ethical treatment of commuters, he mused, but that was probably because no MP would ever sink so low as to use the Tube.
It had been an average day in many respects. A paltry £11 in £1 coins was jangling heavily in his pockets. He’d had to hide from the Moles a couple of times. He’d sold a CD of four of his songs to a stoned American tourist. And there had been Her. The lady with the violin whose name he didn’t know. He tried to imagine what her name could be but his brain, for reasons best known to itself, kept returning to the name Fiona. One thing was sure; if he ever really did choose to employ a ranking system of some sort, this Fiona - Fiona (Violin)? Fiona (Vamp)? Fiona (Potential girlfriend)? – this Fiona would be top of the league. Fiona One. Fiona A+. Fiona Prime.
His eyes suddenly lighted on a fellow commuter. He was tall and angular and dressed in an immaculate pin-striped suit. In almost every other way he looked completely normal. Except that he was pole dancing. Between the opposing sets of doors in the carriage, there was an open area where those people who hadn’t got a seat would stand and, in the centre of this space was a floor to ceiling pole for commuters to hang onto. The man in the suit was rubbing himself up and down the pole in a lascivious manner. Despite the number of people in the carriage, a large space had cleared around him. The commuters were doing what commuters always did when faced with the bizarre, the unwanted and the unpredictable; they ignored it, moved as far away as possible or hid behind their newspapers. But Oliver continued to watch, simply because the businessman was watching him back. Despite his various gyrations, the man’s gaze had never wavered. Oliver felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. The overhead speakers suddenly announced that the train was about to depart and the man deftly executed a rapid 180 degree turn and hooked one knee high around the pole. He threw his head back and shook what was left of his hair before sliding down the pole, licking the length of it with his tongue. He laughed like a madman and then jumped off the train just as the doors were closing. Several passengers applauded. As the train rolled out from Baker Street station, the man bowed, pointed at Oliver and winked. Oliver made the universal hand signal for ‘lunatic’ in return.
The train emerged from the tunnel into daylight. From here on, the Metropolitan Line tracks were above ground all the way to Harrow on the Hill. Not that Oliver had much interest in a view he’d seen a thousand times or more. What he wanted to see more of was … why hadn’t she given him her name? It was so frustrating. What if she didn’t turn up tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next? How would he find her again? And it was then that he realised that he was fretting about finding a woman he barely knew. Clearly, there could only be one possible reason for this unusual behaviour. For the first time in his life, Oliver realised what love might feel like. A huge grin broke out on his face, scaring the Indian lady opposite. When the grin failed to go away, she moved herself away, squeezing through the crowd of sweating commuters. But even though his face began to ache, Oliver couldn’t stop grinning. He grinned as the train stopped at Finchley Road. He grinned at Wembley Park. He grinned at Preston Road and Northwick Park. When he arrived at Harrow on the Hill, he was still grinning as he made his way off the train and out of the station.
The late afternoon sun shone fiercely on his back as he walked up the road towards home. The warmth reminded him about the mysterious postcard he’d received that morning. How had this Maria woman got his address? And why did she think he’d been to Ibiza? He didn’t go to places like Ibiza. Or Kavos or Ayia Napa or Faliraki. That just wasn’t him at all. And those few dysfunctional people he called friends didn’t go to places like that either. They went to places like Glastonbury, Legoland and the Cambridge Folk Festival; sensible British places where the people spoke English, the beer was good and the food didn’t make your kidneys ache. It was all very odd. But, for the moment, he didn’t care. He had met Fiona Prime. And, if he was lucky, in just 16 or so hours, he’d be meeting her again. The thought filled him with a warmth he’d never felt before. By comparison, the sun on his back felt insignificant and unimpressive.
It had been an average day in many respects. A paltry £11 in £1 coins was jangling heavily in his pockets. He’d had to hide from the Moles a couple of times. He’d sold a CD of four of his songs to a stoned American tourist. And there had been Her. The lady with the violin whose name he didn’t know. He tried to imagine what her name could be but his brain, for reasons best known to itself, kept returning to the name Fiona. One thing was sure; if he ever really did choose to employ a ranking system of some sort, this Fiona - Fiona (Violin)? Fiona (Vamp)? Fiona (Potential girlfriend)? – this Fiona would be top of the league. Fiona One. Fiona A+. Fiona Prime.
His eyes suddenly lighted on a fellow commuter. He was tall and angular and dressed in an immaculate pin-striped suit. In almost every other way he looked completely normal. Except that he was pole dancing. Between the opposing sets of doors in the carriage, there was an open area where those people who hadn’t got a seat would stand and, in the centre of this space was a floor to ceiling pole for commuters to hang onto. The man in the suit was rubbing himself up and down the pole in a lascivious manner. Despite the number of people in the carriage, a large space had cleared around him. The commuters were doing what commuters always did when faced with the bizarre, the unwanted and the unpredictable; they ignored it, moved as far away as possible or hid behind their newspapers. But Oliver continued to watch, simply because the businessman was watching him back. Despite his various gyrations, the man’s gaze had never wavered. Oliver felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle with a mix of embarrassment and annoyance. The overhead speakers suddenly announced that the train was about to depart and the man deftly executed a rapid 180 degree turn and hooked one knee high around the pole. He threw his head back and shook what was left of his hair before sliding down the pole, licking the length of it with his tongue. He laughed like a madman and then jumped off the train just as the doors were closing. Several passengers applauded. As the train rolled out from Baker Street station, the man bowed, pointed at Oliver and winked. Oliver made the universal hand signal for ‘lunatic’ in return.
The train emerged from the tunnel into daylight. From here on, the Metropolitan Line tracks were above ground all the way to Harrow on the Hill. Not that Oliver had much interest in a view he’d seen a thousand times or more. What he wanted to see more of was … why hadn’t she given him her name? It was so frustrating. What if she didn’t turn up tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next? How would he find her again? And it was then that he realised that he was fretting about finding a woman he barely knew. Clearly, there could only be one possible reason for this unusual behaviour. For the first time in his life, Oliver realised what love might feel like. A huge grin broke out on his face, scaring the Indian lady opposite. When the grin failed to go away, she moved herself away, squeezing through the crowd of sweating commuters. But even though his face began to ache, Oliver couldn’t stop grinning. He grinned as the train stopped at Finchley Road. He grinned at Wembley Park. He grinned at Preston Road and Northwick Park. When he arrived at Harrow on the Hill, he was still grinning as he made his way off the train and out of the station.
The late afternoon sun shone fiercely on his back as he walked up the road towards home. The warmth reminded him about the mysterious postcard he’d received that morning. How had this Maria woman got his address? And why did she think he’d been to Ibiza? He didn’t go to places like Ibiza. Or Kavos or Ayia Napa or Faliraki. That just wasn’t him at all. And those few dysfunctional people he called friends didn’t go to places like that either. They went to places like Glastonbury, Legoland and the Cambridge Folk Festival; sensible British places where the people spoke English, the beer was good and the food didn’t make your kidneys ache. It was all very odd. But, for the moment, he didn’t care. He had met Fiona Prime. And, if he was lucky, in just 16 or so hours, he’d be meeting her again. The thought filled him with a warmth he’d never felt before. By comparison, the sun on his back felt insignificant and unimpressive.
Monday, 3 November 2008
Intermission
Phew! That's the first three days done and 5,115 words in the can.
If I'm being truly honest, the first three chapters were pretty much written before I started NaNoWriMo. All I had to do was bash them into shape. But that's sort-of justified as I didn't start writing proper until yesterday - November 2nd - when I got Chapters 1-3 sorted and then wrote Chapter 4.
Chapter 4 was great fun. I've had the 'Fiona' idea kicking around for a while. It's based on a story I was once told by a guy who, by sheer fluke (or a perverse personnel department), worked in an office with six women, all called Deborah. Nightmare. Thankfully, he didn't have quite the trouble Oliver does.
I scrabbled Chapter 5 - another short one - together today during a lunch hour and two lengthy train journeys. It's proving to be a real challenge in time management.
I've pretty much thought through how the next couple of chapters will work and will start writing tomorrow with a view to posting at least one of them on Wednesday evening.
So, how are you getting along?
If I'm being truly honest, the first three chapters were pretty much written before I started NaNoWriMo. All I had to do was bash them into shape. But that's sort-of justified as I didn't start writing proper until yesterday - November 2nd - when I got Chapters 1-3 sorted and then wrote Chapter 4.
Chapter 4 was great fun. I've had the 'Fiona' idea kicking around for a while. It's based on a story I was once told by a guy who, by sheer fluke (or a perverse personnel department), worked in an office with six women, all called Deborah. Nightmare. Thankfully, he didn't have quite the trouble Oliver does.
I scrabbled Chapter 5 - another short one - together today during a lunch hour and two lengthy train journeys. It's proving to be a real challenge in time management.
I've pretty much thought through how the next couple of chapters will work and will start writing tomorrow with a view to posting at least one of them on Wednesday evening.
So, how are you getting along?
Chapter Five
Nella hurried through the darkened tunnels. She deliberately stuck to smaller, narrower and off the beaten track tunnels so as to avoid the crowded tube station platforms and, more importantly, the LAPD – The Legions of Ascaroth (Proles Division). If she was stopped and searched she would have no excuse for what she carried and the punishment for possession would be, quite literally, worse than death. The side-tunnel stank of sulphur and sweat. Suddenly, she found her path blocked by a small group of scavengers and penitents. For a moment they didn’t see her. They writhed together on the floor, sliding around and through each other, their sweaty, broken bodies entwined like a wretched bundle of filthy worms dug from the soil. Two or three were even sporting erections, so excited were they by these forbidden fleshly delights. Nella quickly side-stepped past them in disgust but also with a sense of kinship. Here too were beings that, like her, had decided that the experience of pleasure outweighed the risk of capture and punishment.
She emerged suddenly onto the far end of a platform and immediately flattened herself against the wall to catch her breath. The air was almost unbearably hot here, most of it leaching from the bodies of the waiting proles. The platform was holding more than three times as many commuters as it had been designed to hold and the end farthest from Nella had already collapsed, spilling proles onto the tracks where they milled about in confusion. They desperately sought a handhold to climb back up onto the platform but it was impossible; the sheer weight of numbers had pushed people right to the very edge of the platform and there was no room. So tightly packed were they that people were sporadically pushed off the edge and found themselves sprawling on the tracks below with the other unfortunates. All this was taking place in deathly, sombre silence. Nella took a deep breath and stepped forward, preparing to hide in plain sight among the hordes. There was anonymity to be had in crowds. But suddenly the handle on her violin case snapped and the case fell to the ground with a loud clump that echoed around the graveyard-quiet tunnel. As it hit the ground, it sprung open revealing the violin. The nearest proles stared, open-mouthed. Just the sight of the instrument caused a mass intake of breath and one commuter fainted and fell forward onto the tracks and the doomed proles below. Then another pointed and screamed; a hideous banshee wail that Nella silenced by quickly picking up the violin case and pushing it through the pitiful creature’s oily head. The wailing stopped but the damage had been done. A penitent came bounding up the platform towards her, running over the heads of the commuters on all fours, an iron collar around its filthy neck and a long leash flapping away behind it. It was hard to tell whether the creature had once been a man or a woman; its body was broken and badly repaired with thick metal staples and crude stitching. There were holes where organs and flesh should have been and great wounds and gashes all over its miserable body. Its head had been augmented with thirty or more ears all crudely sewn into place; an earwigger – it would have heard the proles’ scream a mile away. The earwigger appraised her with its single, sad, grey eye. It looked at the violin that Nella was hastily stowing away and then at its own broken and gnarled fingers. Then, as if coming to a decision, it began gesticulating wildly in the direction from which it had come. At the broken far end of the platform, armoured figures had appeared – the hated LAPD. In a furious spasm of hand signals and pointing – its jaw and tongue having been long since lost or removed – the earwigger made it apparent that it was offering Nella a chance to escape. Nella quickly thanked the poor slave beast and ran back down the tunnel from which she’d come. She quickly arrived at the place where she’d passed the orgy earlier but there was no sign of the participants other than a pool of liquid she preferred not to look at. She doubled back down another side tunnel and found herself on a different platform. It was just as crowded as the first but the hot wind that was howling past her meant that a train was arriving imminently. The proles that had fallen onto the tracks felt it too and were running about in panic, screaming. Nella pushed herself into the middle of the crowd and waited impatiently. After what seemed like an eternity, the train announced its arrival with an ear-splitting whistle and ground to a halt while simultaneously grinding the people on the tracks into something resembling Thai red curry paste. The commuters began to push their way inside the carriage and Nella allowed herself to be carried along by the tide of inhumanity. The crush was unbearable and she could hardly breathe. Then the doors hissed shut like the jaws of some great beast and the train started to move off towards the tunnel. Through a smeared and broken window, Nella saw the LAPD officers emerge onto the platform. One of them, a large armour-clad woman with half a head and an axe where her left leg should have been, threw a desultory spear after the speeding train but it was a pathetic gesture. Nella was already beyond their reach and speeding on through the dark tunnels towards Charnel House.
She emerged suddenly onto the far end of a platform and immediately flattened herself against the wall to catch her breath. The air was almost unbearably hot here, most of it leaching from the bodies of the waiting proles. The platform was holding more than three times as many commuters as it had been designed to hold and the end farthest from Nella had already collapsed, spilling proles onto the tracks where they milled about in confusion. They desperately sought a handhold to climb back up onto the platform but it was impossible; the sheer weight of numbers had pushed people right to the very edge of the platform and there was no room. So tightly packed were they that people were sporadically pushed off the edge and found themselves sprawling on the tracks below with the other unfortunates. All this was taking place in deathly, sombre silence. Nella took a deep breath and stepped forward, preparing to hide in plain sight among the hordes. There was anonymity to be had in crowds. But suddenly the handle on her violin case snapped and the case fell to the ground with a loud clump that echoed around the graveyard-quiet tunnel. As it hit the ground, it sprung open revealing the violin. The nearest proles stared, open-mouthed. Just the sight of the instrument caused a mass intake of breath and one commuter fainted and fell forward onto the tracks and the doomed proles below. Then another pointed and screamed; a hideous banshee wail that Nella silenced by quickly picking up the violin case and pushing it through the pitiful creature’s oily head. The wailing stopped but the damage had been done. A penitent came bounding up the platform towards her, running over the heads of the commuters on all fours, an iron collar around its filthy neck and a long leash flapping away behind it. It was hard to tell whether the creature had once been a man or a woman; its body was broken and badly repaired with thick metal staples and crude stitching. There were holes where organs and flesh should have been and great wounds and gashes all over its miserable body. Its head had been augmented with thirty or more ears all crudely sewn into place; an earwigger – it would have heard the proles’ scream a mile away. The earwigger appraised her with its single, sad, grey eye. It looked at the violin that Nella was hastily stowing away and then at its own broken and gnarled fingers. Then, as if coming to a decision, it began gesticulating wildly in the direction from which it had come. At the broken far end of the platform, armoured figures had appeared – the hated LAPD. In a furious spasm of hand signals and pointing – its jaw and tongue having been long since lost or removed – the earwigger made it apparent that it was offering Nella a chance to escape. Nella quickly thanked the poor slave beast and ran back down the tunnel from which she’d come. She quickly arrived at the place where she’d passed the orgy earlier but there was no sign of the participants other than a pool of liquid she preferred not to look at. She doubled back down another side tunnel and found herself on a different platform. It was just as crowded as the first but the hot wind that was howling past her meant that a train was arriving imminently. The proles that had fallen onto the tracks felt it too and were running about in panic, screaming. Nella pushed herself into the middle of the crowd and waited impatiently. After what seemed like an eternity, the train announced its arrival with an ear-splitting whistle and ground to a halt while simultaneously grinding the people on the tracks into something resembling Thai red curry paste. The commuters began to push their way inside the carriage and Nella allowed herself to be carried along by the tide of inhumanity. The crush was unbearable and she could hardly breathe. Then the doors hissed shut like the jaws of some great beast and the train started to move off towards the tunnel. Through a smeared and broken window, Nella saw the LAPD officers emerge onto the platform. One of them, a large armour-clad woman with half a head and an axe where her left leg should have been, threw a desultory spear after the speeding train but it was a pathetic gesture. Nella was already beyond their reach and speeding on through the dark tunnels towards Charnel House.
Chapter Four
Oliver wholeheartedly believed that busking was a proper job. His mother and almost everyone else disagreed. They nagged him and pointed out job advertisements in newspapers and even registered him with some internet job sites. But Oliver resisted. He didn’t want what they called a ‘proper job’.
His last proper job had been a sales position with the wonderfully-named Global Gherkins; the company that supplied all of the major fast food chains with the slices of crisp green dill-pickle that adorned every burger and sub. The fact that pretty much everyone removed the pickles before enjoying their food had not affected sales at all. It was a testament to Oliver and his colleagues in the sales team that restaurants kept buying the things despite the overwhelming evidence of the public’s hatred for them. Removing the pickle had become such an integral part of the whole fast food experience that it had even been known for customers to complain if their piece of gherkin was missing. Oliver had been told that somewhere in Wiltshire, there was a hill that was made entirely from unwanted dill-pickles covered with soil and grass. It was said that no animal could stomach its vinegary smelling grass and it had acquired something of an occult reputation. For some reason he couldn’t really explain, Oliver was convinced that the Teletubbies lived there.
Global were based in the heart of London on the fourth floor of a 1980s office block in Bishopsgate overlooking the concrete pastures of Liverpool Street Station. It hadn’t been the most comfortable place to work. The specially-designed air conditioning system allowed diesel fumes to be freely circulated throughout the building while letting none of the carbon dioxide out, nor any of the secret silent farts emitted by the hundreds of pickle-eating staff. From May to September the building was like a stinky furnace. For the remainder of the year it was so cold that Oliver had once been forced to defrost his stapler over a hot apple pie. On really, really cold days, the warm farts were a blessing.
His last day at work had been during the hottest July on record and the temperature had quickly reached the point where silicone breasts melt and brain fluids start to boil. There had been a buzz of irritability in the room as audible as a wasp with PMS and a bullhorn. And Oliver had chosen this particular day to upset a number of Fionas.
Fiona (Sales) – Oliver’s line manager - had been discussing budgets with Fiona(Accounts), when Oliver had arrived at work. Fiona (Sales) was looking very stressed.
“You’re late!” she snapped.
“I don’t start work until nine”, said Oliver. “It’s 8.45. If anything, I’m early.”
“I was here at seven!” said Fiona (Sales).
Oliver tried to follow the logic of her argument and got lost.
“Are you saying that I should have been here at seven? Because I shouldn’t.”
“Commitment. That’s what you lack. Commitment”, said Fiona (Sales)
“If by ‘lack of commitment’ you mean that I don’t turn up two hours early for work, then I have to plead guilty”, said Oliver defensively.
Fiona (Sales) wiped the sweat from her brow with a shaky hanky and took a very large bite from a triple chocolate muffin.
“I hardly slept a wink last night”, she said. “You don’t have the worry. You don’t have to balance the books. All you have to do is turn up at nine and go home at five. Do you know the last time I went home at five?”
Oliver shrugged.
“Twenty-third of March 1999”, said Fiona (Sales). “I’ve forgotten what teatime is. I can’t remember twilight. I’ve never seen the streetlights go on. Sometimes I’m here until nine or ten at night. I arrive in the dark and go home in the dark. My whole life is spent in darkness …”
“Okay … you’re starting to scare me now”, said Oliver. “Perhaps you need a holiday or …”
“I haven’t been home in three days! How could I possibly find the time to go on holiday!” she screamed.
And with that, Fiona (Sales) swept melodramatically away and slammed the door to her office. Dull sobbing and barely-controlled violence could be heard within.
“All she has to do is delegate a little responsibility”, said Fiona (Accounts), “But will she? Oh no.”
“Suits me”, said Oliver.
“Maybe she’s right about you.”
“What? About my lack of commitment? Well, can you blame me? Look what commitment has done to Fiona (Sales). Did you see that fat vein wriggling on her temple? It was like some worm-based version of Saturday Night Fever. I don’t want to be near her when it bursts”
“You’re odd”, said Fiona (Accounts).
“I like you too Fiona (Accounts)”, said Oliver.
“My name is Fiona. Just Fiona”, said Fiona.
“Ah, but how else am I supposed to differentiate between you and Fiona (Sales), Fiona (Marketing) and Fiona (Catering)?” asked Oliver. “And there are nine other Fionas in this building. That’s 13 Fionas. It was obviously a very popular name at one time.”
“You could just call me Fiona B,” said Fiona, “Fiona Bell.”
“I could do that”, said Oliver. “But as Fiona (Marketing)’s surname is Ballsover, you’d both be Fiona B. Then there are the Fionas Chalmers, Colley and Cartwright. Three Fiona Cs. And there are five Fiona Ws, two of them Williams. See how confusing that could get?”
“I suppose.”
“Alternatively I suppose I could number you off”, said Oliver. “Fiona Three. How does that sound? Any better?”
“Why Fiona Three?” snapped Fiona, her hands flying to her hips as if magnetised.
“I just said the first number that came into my head”, said Oliver. “That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say but subconsciously you’ve obviously rated us all and I was number three.”
“What? No!” said Oliver. “Look, who’s to say that the quality rating, if there was one, which there isn’t, runs from highest number to lowest? Four star hotels are better than one star hotels. So, if there was a rating system, which again I must stress there isn’t, then Fiona three would be better than Fiona one.”
“Meaning that there are 10 Fionas with a higher rating than me.”
“No … I …”
“So who is Fiona One?” said Fiona (Marketing), emerging from the photocopy room with her arms folded and a look that would curdle milk.
“Or Fiona 13”, asked Fiona (Accounts).
“I am not doing this”, protested Oliver. “There is no league table for Fionas, okay? Such a thing does not exist. I was just trying to come up with a simple way to indicate which Fiona I was talking about. That’s all.”
Oliver shrivelled under their scowling gazes.
“Okay. Okay. Let me turn the question back on you”, said Oliver. “There are three Olivers working in this building. How would you like to address me?”
“Through a medium if at all possible”, growled Fiona (Accounts), turning on her heel and walking off in a huff. Fiona (Marketing) raised one eyebrow and shook her head before walking away.
And that was that. Oliver’s career at Global Gherkins was doomed. Word soon spread among the Fionas - by some extraordinary form of morphic resonance perhaps - and the topic of their supposed ranking system soon became the hottest water cooler topic. Ratings charts started to appear in the gents toilets. A nerd in the IT Department started running an email-based voting system. Several Fionas began canvassing for votes. For Oliver the situation quickly went from bad to seriously fucking bad. Fiona (Sanitation) left a note on his desk that said ‘Clean your own desk, twat.’ Fiona (Catering) ensured that his suspiciously salty-tasting glass of lemonade was served in a paper cup that leaked all over his trousers. Worst of all, Fiona (HR), approached the almost terminally hypertensive Fiona (Sales) to insist that all male staff attend a series of lectures on sex discrimination in the workplace or there was likely to be a strike. In the end, the simple answer was to identify the source of all of this bad feeling and excise it. Which is how and why Oliver had been fired from his last ever proper job. And he couldn’t have been happier.
As the Bakerloo Line train rattled into Oxford Circus, Oliver thanked his lucky Fionas. He’d hated the job but had become trapped and seduced by the regular wage and daily routine. His dismissal had allowed him to explore other options and he’d decided to follow his dream of becoming a successful musician. He’d learned to play the guitar and the piano as a child and had written his first song when he was 13. Now he had a decent catalogue of self-penned songs and was starting to regularly visit a recording studio to lay down what would become his first album. But that cost money and he had no desire to go back to the stressful life of the office. It had stifled his creativity and hobbled his freedom. And so, he’d become a busker.
Oliver’s pitch was on the London Underground in one of the Central Line tunnels at Oxford Circus station; although to say it was his pitch was something of an exaggeration. It ‘belonged’ to whoever got there first. And even then, it was an unofficial pitch so he was always at risk of being chased off by Underground staff - known to him and his fellow buskers as the ‘Mole People’ - and the British Transport Police, whom they called ‘Bastards’. Today he knew that the pitch would definitely be his. His only serious opposition consisted of a dreadlocked man called Murky and his wailing saxophone and E P Ennis, a strange old man who played the spoons. Ennis never got out of bed before 10am and Murky often didn’t get to bed until 10am. So, most of the time, Oliver had no competition.
Avoiding most of the crowds by walking the wrong way up a tunnel, Oliver arrived at his pitch and was simultaneously surprised, angered and excited by the sight of a busker he didn’t know performing on his pitch. She was tall and slim with long black hair that framed her pale face. She had high cheekbones and ruby red lips and her fringe was cropped Bettie Page-style above immaculately sculpted eyebrows and deep, ever-so-deep, dark eyes. Oliver found himself transfixed. Like most men, he had spent many idle moments creating a mental picture of his perfect woman. She was composed of various celebrity body parts: Catherine Zeta-Jones’ eyes, Angelina Jolie’s lips, Eva Longoria’s hair, Kelly Brooks’ bosom etc. The busker looked absolutely nothing like his composite ideal. Her eyes were too deep-set, her nose was slightly crooked and her chest was flatter than he’d have normally liked. The clothes were all wrong too. Oliver’s fantasy woman dressed in short skirts and tight t-shirts, but this woman wore a long red coat over a lacy black top and skin-tight black leather trousers, which, when combined with her high-heels, made her legs look impossibly long. And yet, despite everything being wrong, she was so right. To his surprise, Oliver found himself thinking that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And the music! The sweet rich sound of her violin was like honey being injected directly into his brain.
A small crowd had gathered to watch her play and Oliver joined them, swinging his guitar off his back and to the floor. Her battered old violin case, laid out in front of her, contained, at a rough estimate, somewhere between £30-40. Oliver puffed out his cheeks in awe. The most he’d ever made in a day was £50. And that had been when he’d wrongly claimed that he was collecting for charity (not something he was proud of – but it had been a desperately lean month and he’d needed to fund some urgent dental treatment). Yet here she was, his mystery rival, at only nine o’clock in the morning and she’d nearly reached his best ever wage. She was good. Really good. Her arm became a blur as she dived into a staccato frenzy of bowing. The tune, at once haunting and yet wholly unfamiliar, rose to a crescendo and ended with three long loud chords. With a flourish, she whipped the violin away from her chiselled chin and bowed low. Coins and notes clattered into the violin case but Oliver was momentarily transfixed upon the violin itself. The deep reddish-gold of the wood made the instrument shine like polished metal. Like its owner, it was a thing of rare and unusual beauty.
The crowd began to disperse and Oliver found himself standing alone with the stranger.
“Hello”, she purred. “Did you enjoy me?”
Oliver broke from his reverie.
“What? Oh. Er …”
She laughed, a deep, long loud laugh that was way over the top for the moment.
“It’s so good to laugh, don’t you think?” she said. “I’ve always maintained that if you don’t laugh often enough, your body forgets how. Did you enjoy my set?”
“Yes. Yes I did. But I only caught the final song. What was it called?”
“Ballo nei trafori di Inferno”, she said.
“Vivaldi?”
“Me. I wrote it many years ago.”
“Wow”, said Oliver. “It was great. I’m Oliver, by the way.”
He offered his hand and she extended a dainty white hand like porcelain in turn. As he took her hand, he felt a strange tingling between the fingers, like a low-level electric shock. Her hand was cold to the touch and the nails clipped short and tidy and painted red. Her thumbs, he noted, were red and swollen and one looked like it had been bleeding.
“Hello Oliver”, she said.
“Hello”, said Oliver.
There was an awkward silence that Oliver felt should have been filled by her giving him her name. Which she didn’t.
“This is usually my pitch,” he said and instantly regretted it.
“Oh, I’m sorry”, she said.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that”, said Oliver, “I just meant that this is where I usually play. No one actually owns the pitch, except for those guys maybe.”
He pointed at the graffiti spray-painted on the wall behind her. Jodnors. Cheffis. Podstoot. Three particularly ridiculous tags, presumably belonging to three ridiculous young men making their mark on the world.
“I doubt that”, said the mysterious fiddler. “They’re a bunch of retards. Anyway, the pitch is all yours again. I have to leave.”
Somehow, quite without him seeing how or when, she had gathered up all of her earnings and secreted them invisibly about her person without causing so much as a bulge in the line of her skin-tight outfit. Also, her violin had encased itself and was now in her right hand.
“Do you fancy a coffee or something?” said Oliver.
“Sorry”, she said, glancing at her watch. “You know how it is. I’m keen not to attract too much attention.”
“Moles.”
“Moles?”
“Underground staff. That’s what we call them, the Mole People.”
The violinist laughed again, throwing her head back as if Oliver’s words were the funniest joke she’d ever heard. The laugh went on for ages and seemed to have a slight edge of hysteria about it.
"Er”, said Oliver. “Maybe another time then?”
“That would be nice”, said the violinist, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Absolutely”, said Oliver. “I’m here every weekday. And some Saturdays.”
“Then I’m bound to meet you again.”
“Tomorrow maybe?” said Oliver.
“Maybe”, she said, smiling. Her canines were excitingly pointed and jutted slightly over her lower lip as she did so.
“Great”, said Oliver. “At least stay for one song …”
He unzipped his gig bag and looked up. But, to his complete and utter surprise, she had vanished.
His last proper job had been a sales position with the wonderfully-named Global Gherkins; the company that supplied all of the major fast food chains with the slices of crisp green dill-pickle that adorned every burger and sub. The fact that pretty much everyone removed the pickles before enjoying their food had not affected sales at all. It was a testament to Oliver and his colleagues in the sales team that restaurants kept buying the things despite the overwhelming evidence of the public’s hatred for them. Removing the pickle had become such an integral part of the whole fast food experience that it had even been known for customers to complain if their piece of gherkin was missing. Oliver had been told that somewhere in Wiltshire, there was a hill that was made entirely from unwanted dill-pickles covered with soil and grass. It was said that no animal could stomach its vinegary smelling grass and it had acquired something of an occult reputation. For some reason he couldn’t really explain, Oliver was convinced that the Teletubbies lived there.
Global were based in the heart of London on the fourth floor of a 1980s office block in Bishopsgate overlooking the concrete pastures of Liverpool Street Station. It hadn’t been the most comfortable place to work. The specially-designed air conditioning system allowed diesel fumes to be freely circulated throughout the building while letting none of the carbon dioxide out, nor any of the secret silent farts emitted by the hundreds of pickle-eating staff. From May to September the building was like a stinky furnace. For the remainder of the year it was so cold that Oliver had once been forced to defrost his stapler over a hot apple pie. On really, really cold days, the warm farts were a blessing.
His last day at work had been during the hottest July on record and the temperature had quickly reached the point where silicone breasts melt and brain fluids start to boil. There had been a buzz of irritability in the room as audible as a wasp with PMS and a bullhorn. And Oliver had chosen this particular day to upset a number of Fionas.
Fiona (Sales) – Oliver’s line manager - had been discussing budgets with Fiona(Accounts), when Oliver had arrived at work. Fiona (Sales) was looking very stressed.
“You’re late!” she snapped.
“I don’t start work until nine”, said Oliver. “It’s 8.45. If anything, I’m early.”
“I was here at seven!” said Fiona (Sales).
Oliver tried to follow the logic of her argument and got lost.
“Are you saying that I should have been here at seven? Because I shouldn’t.”
“Commitment. That’s what you lack. Commitment”, said Fiona (Sales)
“If by ‘lack of commitment’ you mean that I don’t turn up two hours early for work, then I have to plead guilty”, said Oliver defensively.
Fiona (Sales) wiped the sweat from her brow with a shaky hanky and took a very large bite from a triple chocolate muffin.
“I hardly slept a wink last night”, she said. “You don’t have the worry. You don’t have to balance the books. All you have to do is turn up at nine and go home at five. Do you know the last time I went home at five?”
Oliver shrugged.
“Twenty-third of March 1999”, said Fiona (Sales). “I’ve forgotten what teatime is. I can’t remember twilight. I’ve never seen the streetlights go on. Sometimes I’m here until nine or ten at night. I arrive in the dark and go home in the dark. My whole life is spent in darkness …”
“Okay … you’re starting to scare me now”, said Oliver. “Perhaps you need a holiday or …”
“I haven’t been home in three days! How could I possibly find the time to go on holiday!” she screamed.
And with that, Fiona (Sales) swept melodramatically away and slammed the door to her office. Dull sobbing and barely-controlled violence could be heard within.
“All she has to do is delegate a little responsibility”, said Fiona (Accounts), “But will she? Oh no.”
“Suits me”, said Oliver.
“Maybe she’s right about you.”
“What? About my lack of commitment? Well, can you blame me? Look what commitment has done to Fiona (Sales). Did you see that fat vein wriggling on her temple? It was like some worm-based version of Saturday Night Fever. I don’t want to be near her when it bursts”
“You’re odd”, said Fiona (Accounts).
“I like you too Fiona (Accounts)”, said Oliver.
“My name is Fiona. Just Fiona”, said Fiona.
“Ah, but how else am I supposed to differentiate between you and Fiona (Sales), Fiona (Marketing) and Fiona (Catering)?” asked Oliver. “And there are nine other Fionas in this building. That’s 13 Fionas. It was obviously a very popular name at one time.”
“You could just call me Fiona B,” said Fiona, “Fiona Bell.”
“I could do that”, said Oliver. “But as Fiona (Marketing)’s surname is Ballsover, you’d both be Fiona B. Then there are the Fionas Chalmers, Colley and Cartwright. Three Fiona Cs. And there are five Fiona Ws, two of them Williams. See how confusing that could get?”
“I suppose.”
“Alternatively I suppose I could number you off”, said Oliver. “Fiona Three. How does that sound? Any better?”
“Why Fiona Three?” snapped Fiona, her hands flying to her hips as if magnetised.
“I just said the first number that came into my head”, said Oliver. “That’s all. It doesn’t mean anything.”
“That’s easy for you to say but subconsciously you’ve obviously rated us all and I was number three.”
“What? No!” said Oliver. “Look, who’s to say that the quality rating, if there was one, which there isn’t, runs from highest number to lowest? Four star hotels are better than one star hotels. So, if there was a rating system, which again I must stress there isn’t, then Fiona three would be better than Fiona one.”
“Meaning that there are 10 Fionas with a higher rating than me.”
“No … I …”
“So who is Fiona One?” said Fiona (Marketing), emerging from the photocopy room with her arms folded and a look that would curdle milk.
“Or Fiona 13”, asked Fiona (Accounts).
“I am not doing this”, protested Oliver. “There is no league table for Fionas, okay? Such a thing does not exist. I was just trying to come up with a simple way to indicate which Fiona I was talking about. That’s all.”
Oliver shrivelled under their scowling gazes.
“Okay. Okay. Let me turn the question back on you”, said Oliver. “There are three Olivers working in this building. How would you like to address me?”
“Through a medium if at all possible”, growled Fiona (Accounts), turning on her heel and walking off in a huff. Fiona (Marketing) raised one eyebrow and shook her head before walking away.
And that was that. Oliver’s career at Global Gherkins was doomed. Word soon spread among the Fionas - by some extraordinary form of morphic resonance perhaps - and the topic of their supposed ranking system soon became the hottest water cooler topic. Ratings charts started to appear in the gents toilets. A nerd in the IT Department started running an email-based voting system. Several Fionas began canvassing for votes. For Oliver the situation quickly went from bad to seriously fucking bad. Fiona (Sanitation) left a note on his desk that said ‘Clean your own desk, twat.’ Fiona (Catering) ensured that his suspiciously salty-tasting glass of lemonade was served in a paper cup that leaked all over his trousers. Worst of all, Fiona (HR), approached the almost terminally hypertensive Fiona (Sales) to insist that all male staff attend a series of lectures on sex discrimination in the workplace or there was likely to be a strike. In the end, the simple answer was to identify the source of all of this bad feeling and excise it. Which is how and why Oliver had been fired from his last ever proper job. And he couldn’t have been happier.
As the Bakerloo Line train rattled into Oxford Circus, Oliver thanked his lucky Fionas. He’d hated the job but had become trapped and seduced by the regular wage and daily routine. His dismissal had allowed him to explore other options and he’d decided to follow his dream of becoming a successful musician. He’d learned to play the guitar and the piano as a child and had written his first song when he was 13. Now he had a decent catalogue of self-penned songs and was starting to regularly visit a recording studio to lay down what would become his first album. But that cost money and he had no desire to go back to the stressful life of the office. It had stifled his creativity and hobbled his freedom. And so, he’d become a busker.
Oliver’s pitch was on the London Underground in one of the Central Line tunnels at Oxford Circus station; although to say it was his pitch was something of an exaggeration. It ‘belonged’ to whoever got there first. And even then, it was an unofficial pitch so he was always at risk of being chased off by Underground staff - known to him and his fellow buskers as the ‘Mole People’ - and the British Transport Police, whom they called ‘Bastards’. Today he knew that the pitch would definitely be his. His only serious opposition consisted of a dreadlocked man called Murky and his wailing saxophone and E P Ennis, a strange old man who played the spoons. Ennis never got out of bed before 10am and Murky often didn’t get to bed until 10am. So, most of the time, Oliver had no competition.
Avoiding most of the crowds by walking the wrong way up a tunnel, Oliver arrived at his pitch and was simultaneously surprised, angered and excited by the sight of a busker he didn’t know performing on his pitch. She was tall and slim with long black hair that framed her pale face. She had high cheekbones and ruby red lips and her fringe was cropped Bettie Page-style above immaculately sculpted eyebrows and deep, ever-so-deep, dark eyes. Oliver found himself transfixed. Like most men, he had spent many idle moments creating a mental picture of his perfect woman. She was composed of various celebrity body parts: Catherine Zeta-Jones’ eyes, Angelina Jolie’s lips, Eva Longoria’s hair, Kelly Brooks’ bosom etc. The busker looked absolutely nothing like his composite ideal. Her eyes were too deep-set, her nose was slightly crooked and her chest was flatter than he’d have normally liked. The clothes were all wrong too. Oliver’s fantasy woman dressed in short skirts and tight t-shirts, but this woman wore a long red coat over a lacy black top and skin-tight black leather trousers, which, when combined with her high-heels, made her legs look impossibly long. And yet, despite everything being wrong, she was so right. To his surprise, Oliver found himself thinking that she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. And the music! The sweet rich sound of her violin was like honey being injected directly into his brain.
A small crowd had gathered to watch her play and Oliver joined them, swinging his guitar off his back and to the floor. Her battered old violin case, laid out in front of her, contained, at a rough estimate, somewhere between £30-40. Oliver puffed out his cheeks in awe. The most he’d ever made in a day was £50. And that had been when he’d wrongly claimed that he was collecting for charity (not something he was proud of – but it had been a desperately lean month and he’d needed to fund some urgent dental treatment). Yet here she was, his mystery rival, at only nine o’clock in the morning and she’d nearly reached his best ever wage. She was good. Really good. Her arm became a blur as she dived into a staccato frenzy of bowing. The tune, at once haunting and yet wholly unfamiliar, rose to a crescendo and ended with three long loud chords. With a flourish, she whipped the violin away from her chiselled chin and bowed low. Coins and notes clattered into the violin case but Oliver was momentarily transfixed upon the violin itself. The deep reddish-gold of the wood made the instrument shine like polished metal. Like its owner, it was a thing of rare and unusual beauty.
The crowd began to disperse and Oliver found himself standing alone with the stranger.
“Hello”, she purred. “Did you enjoy me?”
Oliver broke from his reverie.
“What? Oh. Er …”
She laughed, a deep, long loud laugh that was way over the top for the moment.
“It’s so good to laugh, don’t you think?” she said. “I’ve always maintained that if you don’t laugh often enough, your body forgets how. Did you enjoy my set?”
“Yes. Yes I did. But I only caught the final song. What was it called?”
“Ballo nei trafori di Inferno”, she said.
“Vivaldi?”
“Me. I wrote it many years ago.”
“Wow”, said Oliver. “It was great. I’m Oliver, by the way.”
He offered his hand and she extended a dainty white hand like porcelain in turn. As he took her hand, he felt a strange tingling between the fingers, like a low-level electric shock. Her hand was cold to the touch and the nails clipped short and tidy and painted red. Her thumbs, he noted, were red and swollen and one looked like it had been bleeding.
“Hello Oliver”, she said.
“Hello”, said Oliver.
There was an awkward silence that Oliver felt should have been filled by her giving him her name. Which she didn’t.
“This is usually my pitch,” he said and instantly regretted it.
“Oh, I’m sorry”, she said.
“No, I didn’t mean it like that”, said Oliver, “I just meant that this is where I usually play. No one actually owns the pitch, except for those guys maybe.”
He pointed at the graffiti spray-painted on the wall behind her. Jodnors. Cheffis. Podstoot. Three particularly ridiculous tags, presumably belonging to three ridiculous young men making their mark on the world.
“I doubt that”, said the mysterious fiddler. “They’re a bunch of retards. Anyway, the pitch is all yours again. I have to leave.”
Somehow, quite without him seeing how or when, she had gathered up all of her earnings and secreted them invisibly about her person without causing so much as a bulge in the line of her skin-tight outfit. Also, her violin had encased itself and was now in her right hand.
“Do you fancy a coffee or something?” said Oliver.
“Sorry”, she said, glancing at her watch. “You know how it is. I’m keen not to attract too much attention.”
“Moles.”
“Moles?”
“Underground staff. That’s what we call them, the Mole People.”
The violinist laughed again, throwing her head back as if Oliver’s words were the funniest joke she’d ever heard. The laugh went on for ages and seemed to have a slight edge of hysteria about it.
"Er”, said Oliver. “Maybe another time then?”
“That would be nice”, said the violinist, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.
“Absolutely”, said Oliver. “I’m here every weekday. And some Saturdays.”
“Then I’m bound to meet you again.”
“Tomorrow maybe?” said Oliver.
“Maybe”, she said, smiling. Her canines were excitingly pointed and jutted slightly over her lower lip as she did so.
“Great”, said Oliver. “At least stay for one song …”
He unzipped his gig bag and looked up. But, to his complete and utter surprise, she had vanished.
Chapter Three
The windows in Nella’s office overlooked the Maw and she would often, in distracted moments, peer out through the crazy-paving broken glass and watch as the savage, gaping mouth sucked in anything that strayed too near it. On this particular day, the Maw had caught hold of a tumbrel; maybe the same one that she’d seen earlier, and it was being slowly but surely pulled into the huge and horribly toothed mouth by a number of warty serpentine tongues. The fact that the Maw seemed to be set in the centre of a concrete city plaza never struck her as odd. As a wise man in another universe had once said, ‘Cannibalism is normal in a cannibal country’. Presumably just before he’d found himself the main ingredient in a casserole du homme sage. She’d heard that there were cannibals living out near Weeping Forest, but, thankfully, that was some way off her usual stomping grounds.
With a final squeal of defiance, the tumbrel vanished into the inky blackness and the Maw sank towards the centre of the earth. The ground behind it closed like a healing wound. Soon, there was nothing to see but the unbroken concrete paving slabs and the hordes of scavengers that emerged from their holes by Verminster Pier to collect the items thrown or shaken free of the tumbrel’s doomed passengers.
Nella glanced at the clock. The morning had flown by and the big hand had nearly reached the 13. Soon she would be free to indulge her passion. Her naughty, illicit, dangerous, life-threatening passion.
She hated her job. It was repetitive, painful work pushing staples into thick documents with her bare fingers but the work allowed her to keep up her credit. And as long as she had credit she would not have to submit to the Seneschals for penance. Those who worked, worked. Those who could not, or would not, served the State as penitents.
She tidied her desk, though not very enthusiastically in case it was mistaken for pride, and pushed her chair underneath it, carefully leaving it jutting out at a chaotic angle. Weary-eyed, envious full-timers flashed bloodshot baleful looks in her direction as she grabbed her bag and walked slowly towards the exit. It being a Friday, Bechet was on door duty. He eyed her suspiciously, glanced once at the clock and snorted before allowing her to pass. The air smelled of brimstone and Nella shuddered. Only a week ago, Bechet had destroyed one of her colleagues for taking too many toilet breaks.
The lift seemed to take forever. Far below the tower, she could see a group of penitents toiling at the ropes that were lowering her smoothly to the ground floor. Their sweating bodies were red-raw from the almost constant whipping of an armoured Seneschal. But soon she was walking back over the flaming river towards the underground rail station. Once through the doors, she bought her ticket and descended into the blood-warm, musty, torch-lit tunnels below.
With a final squeal of defiance, the tumbrel vanished into the inky blackness and the Maw sank towards the centre of the earth. The ground behind it closed like a healing wound. Soon, there was nothing to see but the unbroken concrete paving slabs and the hordes of scavengers that emerged from their holes by Verminster Pier to collect the items thrown or shaken free of the tumbrel’s doomed passengers.
Nella glanced at the clock. The morning had flown by and the big hand had nearly reached the 13. Soon she would be free to indulge her passion. Her naughty, illicit, dangerous, life-threatening passion.
She hated her job. It was repetitive, painful work pushing staples into thick documents with her bare fingers but the work allowed her to keep up her credit. And as long as she had credit she would not have to submit to the Seneschals for penance. Those who worked, worked. Those who could not, or would not, served the State as penitents.
She tidied her desk, though not very enthusiastically in case it was mistaken for pride, and pushed her chair underneath it, carefully leaving it jutting out at a chaotic angle. Weary-eyed, envious full-timers flashed bloodshot baleful looks in her direction as she grabbed her bag and walked slowly towards the exit. It being a Friday, Bechet was on door duty. He eyed her suspiciously, glanced once at the clock and snorted before allowing her to pass. The air smelled of brimstone and Nella shuddered. Only a week ago, Bechet had destroyed one of her colleagues for taking too many toilet breaks.
The lift seemed to take forever. Far below the tower, she could see a group of penitents toiling at the ropes that were lowering her smoothly to the ground floor. Their sweating bodies were red-raw from the almost constant whipping of an armoured Seneschal. But soon she was walking back over the flaming river towards the underground rail station. Once through the doors, she bought her ticket and descended into the blood-warm, musty, torch-lit tunnels below.
Chapter Two
“This makes no sense”.
“Do you want eggs with your bacon and sausage?”
“I don’t even want the bacon and sausage”, said Oliver. “I’ve already had a bowl of muesli.”
“That’s no way to start your day”, said his mother. “You need something substantial inside you. Like I did this morning.”
“Mum!”
“Oleg is quite the contortionist you know.”
“Mum, please!” said Oliver. “While I’m delighted that you’ve found some degree of happiness with an enormous and apparently acrobatic Moldovan labourer, I really don’t want to know the details.”
“Oh don’t be such a prude”, said Mrs Allen, “This is 2008, not 1666.”
“Why 1666?”
“No idea. First thing that popped into my mouth”, said Mrs Allen. “Not the first thing …”
“Mum!”
“So what doesn't make sense?”
“This postcard”, said Oliver. He showed his mother a garish photo of the beach at San Antonio. “It’s from Ibiza and it’s clearly addressed to me … but listen to this … Oliver you bastard.”
“Starts well”, said Mrs Allen, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.
Oliver frowned.
"Oliver you bastard. How you can leave me and not write or telephone? You are papa. Our son name Esteban. I give him family name Consalvez. You name not fit for him. You bastard I write to shame you that you leave Esteban with no papa. I expect you laugh and tell your stupid friends that I was easy fuckpuppy. Ha. Ha. Is no joke. Rot in Hell. You are bastard for leaving us and not write Esteban and I curse you. I send my brothers for to cut you.”
“So who is it from?”
“There’s a kind of chaotic aggressive scrawl. It could be ‘Maria’.”
Mrs Allen peered over his shoulder.
“Or Mario.”
“Hardly.”
“Well …”
“Well what?”
He saw the mix of concern, confusion and enquiry in my mother’s eyes and suddenly realised what she was thinking.
“Mum, I am not gay.”
“Of course not”, said Mum. “You’re just … not very heterosexual, are you dear.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mind you know”, said Mum. “I wouldn’t love you any less.”
“Mum, I am not gay! I’m just … waiting for the right woman to come along”, said Oliver. “I know that sounds like a cliché but it happens to be true.”
“You do seem to be waiting a long time”, said Mrs Allen.
"Anyway, I could hardly have got someone called Mario pregnant could I?"
“I guess not. So I’m not a grandmother then?”
“Not a chance,” snapped Oliver.
“Good thing too. Oleg would never sleep with a grandmother.”
“I’ve never even been to Ibiza, let alone met some woman called Maria and ... you know.”
“You never go anywhere glamorous or exotic.”
“I wouldn’t call Ibiza glamorous or exotic”, said Oliver. “It’s like a giant singles bar in Margate with bad cocktails and STDs.”
“You should take a foreign holiday. Broaden your horizons”, said Mum. “Look at me … I met Oleg in Fuengirola and he’s certainly broadened my …”
“Mum …”
“I call him Vlad the Impaler.”
“Mum!! There are rules!”
“Parents are not allowed to talk about their sex lives with their kids. I know. I only do it because it winds you up so much”, said Mum, laughing. “Anyway, a bit of sun wouldn’t do you any harm. You always look sort of greenish. Mrs Gooley thinks that you photosynthesise.”
“I’d rather be greenish than die of skin cancer”, said Oliver. “And Mrs Gooley thinks that Alan Titchmarsh is made of wool.”
“She has a different way of looking at the world that’s all.”
“She’s a loony and you know it. You just be careful.”
“Of Mrs Gooley?”
“She’s mad and delusional,” said Oliver. “She’s a borderline Nazi. She says all men over 25 should be castrated … just in case.”
“Well yes”, said Mrs Oliver, “But she makes a better date and walnut cake than any other fascist I know. So, how many eggs?”
“None.”
“Right-o”, said Mum. “Have a good day Dear.”
“You only say that every day because you know I won’t.”
Oliver picked up the postcard, glanced once again at the golden sands and golden bodies and popped it behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Fuckpuppy?”
“Do you want eggs with your bacon and sausage?”
“I don’t even want the bacon and sausage”, said Oliver. “I’ve already had a bowl of muesli.”
“That’s no way to start your day”, said his mother. “You need something substantial inside you. Like I did this morning.”
“Mum!”
“Oleg is quite the contortionist you know.”
“Mum, please!” said Oliver. “While I’m delighted that you’ve found some degree of happiness with an enormous and apparently acrobatic Moldovan labourer, I really don’t want to know the details.”
“Oh don’t be such a prude”, said Mrs Allen, “This is 2008, not 1666.”
“Why 1666?”
“No idea. First thing that popped into my mouth”, said Mrs Allen. “Not the first thing …”
“Mum!”
“So what doesn't make sense?”
“This postcard”, said Oliver. He showed his mother a garish photo of the beach at San Antonio. “It’s from Ibiza and it’s clearly addressed to me … but listen to this … Oliver you bastard.”
“Starts well”, said Mrs Allen, popping a piece of toast into her mouth.
Oliver frowned.
"Oliver you bastard. How you can leave me and not write or telephone? You are papa. Our son name Esteban. I give him family name Consalvez. You name not fit for him. You bastard I write to shame you that you leave Esteban with no papa. I expect you laugh and tell your stupid friends that I was easy fuckpuppy. Ha. Ha. Is no joke. Rot in Hell. You are bastard for leaving us and not write Esteban and I curse you. I send my brothers for to cut you.”
“So who is it from?”
“There’s a kind of chaotic aggressive scrawl. It could be ‘Maria’.”
Mrs Allen peered over his shoulder.
“Or Mario.”
“Hardly.”
“Well …”
“Well what?”
He saw the mix of concern, confusion and enquiry in my mother’s eyes and suddenly realised what she was thinking.
“Mum, I am not gay.”
“Of course not”, said Mum. “You’re just … not very heterosexual, are you dear.”
“What?”
“I wouldn’t mind you know”, said Mum. “I wouldn’t love you any less.”
“Mum, I am not gay! I’m just … waiting for the right woman to come along”, said Oliver. “I know that sounds like a cliché but it happens to be true.”
“You do seem to be waiting a long time”, said Mrs Allen.
"Anyway, I could hardly have got someone called Mario pregnant could I?"
“I guess not. So I’m not a grandmother then?”
“Not a chance,” snapped Oliver.
“Good thing too. Oleg would never sleep with a grandmother.”
“I’ve never even been to Ibiza, let alone met some woman called Maria and ... you know.”
“You never go anywhere glamorous or exotic.”
“I wouldn’t call Ibiza glamorous or exotic”, said Oliver. “It’s like a giant singles bar in Margate with bad cocktails and STDs.”
“You should take a foreign holiday. Broaden your horizons”, said Mum. “Look at me … I met Oleg in Fuengirola and he’s certainly broadened my …”
“Mum …”
“I call him Vlad the Impaler.”
“Mum!! There are rules!”
“Parents are not allowed to talk about their sex lives with their kids. I know. I only do it because it winds you up so much”, said Mum, laughing. “Anyway, a bit of sun wouldn’t do you any harm. You always look sort of greenish. Mrs Gooley thinks that you photosynthesise.”
“I’d rather be greenish than die of skin cancer”, said Oliver. “And Mrs Gooley thinks that Alan Titchmarsh is made of wool.”
“She has a different way of looking at the world that’s all.”
“She’s a loony and you know it. You just be careful.”
“Of Mrs Gooley?”
“She’s mad and delusional,” said Oliver. “She’s a borderline Nazi. She says all men over 25 should be castrated … just in case.”
“Well yes”, said Mrs Oliver, “But she makes a better date and walnut cake than any other fascist I know. So, how many eggs?”
“None.”
“Right-o”, said Mum. “Have a good day Dear.”
“You only say that every day because you know I won’t.”
Oliver picked up the postcard, glanced once again at the golden sands and golden bodies and popped it behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
“Fuckpuppy?”
Chapter One
The City had been burning out of control for centuries. Tall flames towered over the distant skeletal skyscrapers like a monstrous filthy curtain the colour of offal. High above, the pall of smoke draped itself over the city like a soiled duvet, illuminated from within by occasional flashes of lightning. Winged things sported in the acid rain that pissed from beneath the sickly grey-green clouds.
Nella stepped out of the train station and was immediately beset by scavengers. Using her briefcase to beat them aside, shattering skulls and breaking limbs, she nevertheless sustained several nasty scratches to her legs before reaching the relative safety of the road. She waited for a break in the traffic.
Motorcarrions dashed past spewing foul smoke. A blood red tumbrel, the number 23 etched on its side in burning letters, rolled past her and thirty poor lost souls stared pleadingly from the gore-stained windows. Nella quickly crossed the road to Verminster Bridge. The heat haze from the blazing river distorted the view ahead but Nella had walked this way a thousand times before and could have found her way to work blind-folded. As, indeed, some proles were forced to do so. She marched on, patting down the small fires that broke out on her smart business suit while beneath her designer shoes, the melting tarmac bubbled and farted. The mighty river Tamesis surged beneath the bridge, its crusty black surface broken by unidentifiable half-melted debris or by gas pockets that burst like pustules, throwing molten spray high into the air, singeing the commuters and setting fire to the few dank, rotten trees that clung to some kind of life on its banks. A column of weary proles, heads hung low and stooped with depression, were already on the bridge, trudging desolately towards their places of work. A spiked and be-suckered tentacle rose from the river and plucked a fat man in a bowler hat from the bridge, dropping him into the gaping, fire-rimmed mouth that waited in the lava below.
Nella shuddered.
She hated the rush hour.
Nella stepped out of the train station and was immediately beset by scavengers. Using her briefcase to beat them aside, shattering skulls and breaking limbs, she nevertheless sustained several nasty scratches to her legs before reaching the relative safety of the road. She waited for a break in the traffic.
Motorcarrions dashed past spewing foul smoke. A blood red tumbrel, the number 23 etched on its side in burning letters, rolled past her and thirty poor lost souls stared pleadingly from the gore-stained windows. Nella quickly crossed the road to Verminster Bridge. The heat haze from the blazing river distorted the view ahead but Nella had walked this way a thousand times before and could have found her way to work blind-folded. As, indeed, some proles were forced to do so. She marched on, patting down the small fires that broke out on her smart business suit while beneath her designer shoes, the melting tarmac bubbled and farted. The mighty river Tamesis surged beneath the bridge, its crusty black surface broken by unidentifiable half-melted debris or by gas pockets that burst like pustules, throwing molten spray high into the air, singeing the commuters and setting fire to the few dank, rotten trees that clung to some kind of life on its banks. A column of weary proles, heads hung low and stooped with depression, were already on the bridge, trudging desolately towards their places of work. A spiked and be-suckered tentacle rose from the river and plucked a fat man in a bowler hat from the bridge, dropping him into the gaping, fire-rimmed mouth that waited in the lava below.
Nella shuddered.
She hated the rush hour.
What's this Blog about?
Hi there. I'm Stevyn Colgan and this blog is where I'll be posting my 'novel in 30 days' that I'm writing for National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo as it's known). The idea is that you attempt to write a complete novel during November of at least 50,000 words.So, here's my effort. Provisionally entitled Orpheus on the Underground (I'm sure I can do better than this bad, bad pun if I really try). And, of course, because of the speed with which I have to write, there won't be much time for revisions so be kind and see this as a first draft only.
I started on November 2nd. See you all on the 30th.
I hope you enjoy it!
Meanwhile, life goes on as normal over at my usual blog.
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