Falling
by
Mark Z. Kammell
SMASHWORDS EDITION
*****
PUBLISHED BY:
Mark.Z.Kammell on Smashwords
Falling
© Copyright 2011 by Mark Z. Kammell.
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* * * * *
Chapter 1 (Children)
I had my first epiphany on the motorway. At six in the morning, I stopped as the dawn broke on the brow of the hill, mist covered the fields and trees below as it struck me like a vision. All the cars were slowing down but I was the only one to stop, pulled over on the hard shoulder, sat on the bonnet watching the mist uncurl and wrap itself around me, the cold seeping into my pores as the sunlight set my brow on fire.
I left my car then and oblivious to the traffic allowed the mist to lead me into the centre, crossing over the barriers, to a hazy white field with a large, white, stone platform there in the middle. On the platform was the statue of a unicorn, rearing up on its hind legs, face aggressively to the sky, and sat round it was a group of children watching it silently as I came in there, broke the circle and reached out to touch it. The eyes of the unicorn, grey and cold, turned to seek me out and a woman’s voice, husky and seductive, whispered to me what would happen next.
Chapter 2 (Where will it end)
I don’t know what happened next. I don’t understand, still, how I ended up here. The room is bare and white, but completely clean, spotless. I sit on a white leather chair, against a white metal table, which is bare except for two white mugs, the only reason they’re visible is because of the blackness of the coffee still inside them. Another chair, empty, sits opposite me. Tentatively I reach out and take the first mug, sip at the coffee, and wait.
Chapter 3 (The white room)
“Hello, again, Mark”
I am staring at the man I don’t recognise, as he smiles warmly, sitting comfortably in the second leather chair. His teeth glint in the light. His eyes are covered by sunglasses. This makes me nervous. And my name’s not Mark
A spider crawls slowly towards me. Its eyes glint in the white fluorescent light. It crawls deliberately across the white marble floor as if it has a purpose in life, except to just die.
The man puts something on the desk, I think he gets it from a case by his side, he’s waiting but I am too fascinated by the spider to pay much attention, and anyway my head is hurting. I can feel this kind of connection start to build between us, as our eyes lock.
“Err, Mark, would you look at this photo please?” a slight hesitation from him, a sign of weakness obviously and he’s not as composed as I think he is. I glance at him quickly, before reverting my gaze to my new friend. I am sure I saw a trace of sweat on his forehead.
Spiders really are fascinating creatures.
Chapter 4 (The conversation)
“My name’s not Mark” I say, still not looking at him. The spider has crawled up the leg of the table now, and is moving tentatively across the smooth white surface towards a piece of paper (a picture, I think) in front of the man. As I trace its steps in my mind I realise that I am now looking at, actually a photograph, of a car. A very nice car, in fact, glossy, black and sporty, a shame that it’s nose has been crumpled. It’s my car, in fact, I realise and I find myself hoping that this is the “before” picture and we’re actually sitting in the reception of a rather exclusive repair garage. The spider stops, on the windscreen, and waits, staring at me still.
“Do you recognise the car, Mark?” His voice is slow and steady, I steal a quick glance at his eyes and they are bloodshot, betraying him surely.
“My name’s not Mark” I repeat.
“Your name’s not Mark”. He leaves it there. At least he understands English. “Your name’s not Mark”, he says again in his, rather annoying, drawl. He reaches down to something beside him and pulls out another sheet of paper, which he lets fall over the first. It lays flat over the first and I can’t move, I don’t know what’s happened to my friend, I can’t see any movement but how can I be sure?
“Look at this, please; this is a synopsis of your details.” He gestures at the paper. “The fingerprints match too”, he adds, helpfully. I glance at the paper, hoping to see some movement. I vaguely make out what’s on it, a scanned picture of a quite handsome man, and underneath his name, “Mark Forth”. A few more details, some pictures of fingerprints, the date of birth, etc. Strange, the same as mine. The man looks a little familiar as well, now I think about it.
The man is looking at me expectantly, with those patient green eyes of his, so I reward him with a smile. I notice the spider crawling up the left arm of his pristine white shirt
I shrug. “Do I know him?” – then – “Wait! He’s not the man who smashed up my car?”
I pause, take a deep breath and then “My name’s John – John Paris. That’s my car, I don’t know what’s happened to it, but I would quite like to know. I’m not sure why I’m here, or who you are, but you are making me very tired and I could really do with a drink. I don’t know who Mark Forth is, except that he looks a little like me and seems to share the same birthday, but beyond that I think you’re making some mistake. And...” and I pause for effect, but mainly for timing, “a spider is about to crawl into your mouth”
I got it so perfectly right. I was speaking fast, with an air of impatient authority and I had really trapped him, caught him in it, his attention focused on me so much that he didn’t have time to react, just to feel that tingling sensation, shuts his mouth too late and swallow. All this time he stares at me, not saying a word, and his eyes, his pale green eyes, dull just a fraction before he slumps forward in his chair, his head coming to rest on the papers in front of him.
A noise behind me causes me to turn and see a door appear magically in the wall, two people wearing identical white boiler suits, with the name “HART” emblazoned in red on the backs, rush in and grab his arms, pull him to his feet and leave. I’m scratching my head in confusion when I hear a voice behind me. “Good afternoon, Mr Paris. I am so sorry for the confusion. Will you please come with me.” I turn to see a lady, quite good looking in fact, standing right behind me. She’s wearing a dark blue suit, the first hint of colour that I’ve seen, but her smile is so intensely white it gets lost in the room. I shrug and get up. My legs feel like lead, but I can’t let that bother me as I follow her out of the door.
Chapter 5 (The blue room)
We sit in another room, this one’s completely blue, to match her suit I presume. She has very long legs and she’s smiling at me.
“I am so sorry for the confusion, I hope that you weren’t inconvenienced. Please enjoy this complimentary glass of champagne” and she gestures to the table. I don’t really like champagne but I realise that my throat is killing me, so totally parched, that I take it and drain it in one gulp. My hostess studies me with her strange blue eyes. “Would you like another one?” she asks, drily and I nod.
“Now Mr Paris” she starts, and reaches forward, lets her fingers gently brush my knee. She really is very beautiful, her eyes are quite piercing and though I never look away from people, ever, I look away. “I am glad to be able to tell you that we have rebuilt your car”.
“Oh” I say, glad that the new glass of champagne has arrived and I pick it up, try to drink it more slowly this time, happy for the excuse not to look her in the eyes
“Unfortunately”, she continues, “we still have one or two issues to resolve”. “Err... Mr Paris?”, I’m still staring at my now empty glass, and gently she lifts my face to look at hers, as she clicks the fingers of her other hand and I receive, somehow, another full glass. I’m starting to feel a little more relaxed now and I can see past the intensity of her eyes as I sip the champagne. It is very good, actually, I may change my mind about it.
“Yes, sorry”, I say, slowly, confidently.
She smiles with those intense teeth of hers and clears her throat...”The first thing - I’m afraid that the farmer whose horse you destroyed is refusing standard compensation, and insists that you see him personally to discuss it. Erm... I really do advise that you do this, he is actually within his rights to press charges on this and I think that would be far worse”. She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but as I have no idea what she is talking about I just smile and sip my champagne. A tiny, almost imperceptible shrug from her and she lays a small card on the table. “Well, here’s his name and address. As I say, I really think you should visit him”
“So...” she crosses her legs and I can just make out the top of her stockings and, strangely, I feel a shiver as she touches my knee again, “erm, can I assume you’ll do that, Mr Paris?”
“John, call me John” I reply, my throat’s dry and dusty and I throw back the rest of the champagne.
“OK, John, can I assume you’ll do that?”
“Yeah, no problem, “ I say, shaking my head. “Of course, of course I will, straight away, erm... sorry, I don’t know your name?”
“Oh”, she says sweetly, “I’m Miss B.”
We both wait, looking at each other, she is quite easy to see now. I’m waiting for another glass of champagne and I subtly tap my finger against the crystal.
“So, the second thing” she starts, and magically I find my glass refilled, “is that the police still want to talk to you, John. I am sorry”, she places the emphasis on am, as if it’s her own personal fault, and who knows, perhaps it is.
“The police?” I ask but after so much champagne it doesn’t really worry me. “Why do they want to talk to me?”
She gets up, obviously agitated and glides around the room, I don’t think her feet actually touch the floor, until she’s standing behind me, and I can feel her hands rest slowly on my shoulders, as she leans down and whispers in my left ear. “They don’t understand... how it happened”, and then before I realise, she’s sitting in front of me, with her glacial smile and piercing eyes. “But don’t worry, I think it’s just a formality, a detective will be in touch.”
And then she’s standing, and so am I and she’s shaking my hand as she places a set of keys in my other hand, squeezing slightly and she says, “just take the first elevator down to the third floor and your car will be waiting.”
She turns to go, I grab her arm quickly and can feel her tense, but she recovers just as quickly, turns and smiles. “I just wanted to ask,” I start, “who was the man I was with first of all?”
I can see something flash in her eyes, her face, just for a second, before she replies, in her sweet voice, “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about”. And then she’s gone.
Chapter 6 (In time)
In time to come they will call me a communist, they will call me a leader of men, and then later they will call me a terrorist, a man who doesn’t deserve to live. The truth is that I just do what I want. And if that leads me to shine, or to burn, then so be it.
Chapter 7 (My car)
I’m slightly unsteady on my feet as I find my car, but it has been repaired beautifully. This is a masterpiece of a car, sex on wheels, a real orgasm of power, style and refinement. I slide into the driver’s seat and the engine starts, with its soft, fragile purr, a leopard being woken from its slumber and stretching its legs slowly, gracefully. I stare into the blackness of the dashboard and the surfaces are so clean, so clear that I can make out my reflection, slightly distorted but handsome enough nonetheless. I allow my hands to caress first the soft leather seats. Soft doesn’t really do justice to what I feel, the lightest of touches, the uncertainty as to whether it’s real what I am actually feeling as my fingers sink into the wonderful nothingness. Then to the surface of the wheel, pure as the driven and sensitive to the touch, it’s eyes reflecting the warm glow from the garage like a child, like my child waiting to do my bidding. I must not forget the outside of my car too, it’s curved lines and handsome, no, beautiful shape, suggesting nothing so much as a dolphin, a porpoise, gliding through the water in a state of total grace. A mere touch, a mere caress, can almost make me faint. As I allow my hands to hold the wheel and sink back into my seat, I close my eyes and feel the car start to glide forward, perfectly in tune with my feelings.
The road is open and blissfully I drive, oblivious somehow to the traffic, until I touch the motorway and ask my car for directions to the farmer’s house.
The rest of the journey is not really eventful, except perhaps for the fact that a little while later I notice there’s a woman sitting next to me. As I smile at her, I wonder, absently, how long she has been there.
Chapter 8 (Angel, my heart skipped a beat)
As we glide on the motorway I keep glancing at her, to try and understand if I know her from somewhere, I’m pretty sure that I don’t.
She’s smiling at me though, and she puts her hand over mine, as I start to speak she touches a finger to her lips, motioning me to stop.
Chapter 9 (The angel’s voice)
The sound of the phone breaks the comfortable silence, and before I can do anything, the girl (I still don’t know her name) touches it lightly with a fingernail that must be 1 inch long, polished silver with the carving of a pentagram over it (symbolic? I expect so) – and she answers
“Hello?” her voice is smooth as velvet.
A pause on the end of the line. “Hello? Erm... is Mr Paris there? Who is this?” I recognise the voice, of course.
My angel turns her head slightly so we just, very slightly, make eye contact and she winks at me, turns away. I smile, curious to see where this will lead.
“I’m sorry, Mr Paris isn’t available at the moment, this is his secretary. May I take a message?”. I’m kind of surprised.
Again, another pause. “His... secretary?” the woman’s voice is quite severe. “This is his PA – that’s personal... assistant... calling, and I need to speak to him urgently. May I please do that – whoever you are? What is your name?”
It is true. It is Vicky Gossling, my PA. She’s very good, if a little scary.
The girl puts her hand on my knee, I can feel the electricity whip through me. It’s a little distracting, especially after four glasses of champagne, but professional driver that I am, I keep my hands steady and my focus on the road. (Mind you, there’s a huge lorry coming towards us and it seems to be on the wrong side of the carriageway. Or maybe I’m wrong)
“This is Elena, and I am John’s secretary.” John – that would really wind Vicky up. “I am so sorry, but he is not able to talk to you now. However I am able to take a message.” Her voice doesn’t change tone at all. I’m impressed.
I can tell Vicky is nonplussed.” Well..” she stammers, “tell Mr Paris”, with a real emphasis on the Mr., “that he needs to come into work straight away. There’s an urgent meeting with the Restrato client, starting in an hour. It is absolutely imperative that he is there.” And she hangs up.
Elena turns, leans over and brushes my cheek lightly with her lips. I touch my hand briefly up to my cheek, and feel the blood pulsing there. “What was that?” I ask.
“Oh nothing, not important”, she purrs and folds herself back into her seat, shutting her eyes.
I consider just for a moment, then sigh, and set my course for the office.
Chapter 10 (The office)
The table I am sitting at really is enormous. There are six people sitting around it, including me. On my left is a man, fairly handsome, in a dark business suit, though no tie I note, about my age. He’s tapping his hands nervously on the dark wood. I’m fairly sure I know him, likewise for the lady on my right, stunningly beautiful, in a black dress; she’s looking at me, smiling and her eyes are deep, voluptuous caverns of sexual desire. I think, at least. Jenny, I am sure. She’s talking to the man – his name still slips my mind – over me – and I feel a slight pang.
At the other side of the table, at least half a mile away, are three men, very straight, very serious, two of them I think are Chinese. They’re speaking to each other, it’s too hard to understand exactly what they are saying, but they keep glancing in my direction and I realise maybe I should do something. I drain my cup of espresso, and cough slightly, to see what will happen. It’s brilliant; everyone stops talking straight away. One of the men at the far side of the table clears his throat and starts.
“In representing my clients- “ gesturing to the two Chinese guys, who smile (do they understand English?) – “may I say that we are incredibly excited to be here today, after these long months of patient waiting and discussion. We were absolutely thrilled to hear that Mr Paris wanted to see us, and that a demonstration was ready. Mr Paris...” and he looks me straight in the eye, “may I just say thank you, on behalf of these kind gentlemen here. This will change” and he pauses, throws his arms out wide – “everything!”
With that, one of the Chinese men gets up – actually gets up – and almost runs around the table until he is next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. I catch a glimpse of his eyes – very black, very worrying – before he’s gone again.
Everyone turns to me and I am completely nonplussed; I really don’t know what to do. I’m about to start talking, saying anything to fill the gap, to fill the expectation, when a hand on my left arm stops me and to my relief I can see that I will be rescued.
“Gentlemen, may I just say how delighted we are to see you.” His name’s Simon, now I’m sure. “I may just need to explain that John – I mean Mr Paris, here,” and he puts his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, “is delighted to be with you today.”
“He has, however”, Simon continues, leaning forward earnestly, “literally just come out of hospital after two weeks recovering from quite a serious car crash.” (Have I?) “Please don’t be alarmed though,” he adds quickly, “he is absolutely fine and completely recovered, no major harm done, it’s just he’s a little tired and asked me to do most of the talking”.
“Now, as you say, this will change everything.” He’s speaking slowly and quietly now, building up the expectation. “This is a true moment, a rare moment, that we must take the time to recognise and celebrate. In years to come people will talk of this moment. And I, Simon Hart, am so happy, so... proud, to be able to share it with you, and with my colleagues, Miss Jenny Pierce and,” and he stands up, resting his hands on my shoulders, “the man who made it all happen, Mr John Paris”. I notice him discreetly pressing a button under the table, there’s a noise behind us; a nervous looking waiter shuffles in and places champagne glasses in front of all of us. It takes him hours to get to the other end of the table. He pauses by Simon and hands him a very old, very dusty bottle.
Simon clears his throat. “But first, before we celebrate, we must demonstrate. John,” he says, turning to me, “would you please stand up.” (I do). He motions at Jenny, who stands too, and steps towards me, close, so that I can feel her dark, sensuous breath on my face as she looks at me with those strange impenetrable eyes. At the same time her hands are reaching down and unbuttoning my black silk shirt, and I am wondering what’s happening here. She gently lifts my shirt off my shoulders, folds it neatly and places it on the table, leaving me bare chested. I shiver involuntarily.
“Now”, says Simon, “would you like to inspect?”
The three men all get up and come towards me, standing there, half naked; one of them, I notice, is holding a black wooden box, which he puts down close to me on the table. To add, I guess, to the sense of occasion, I feel myself drenched in light from a spot lamp, I’m guessing, from high above.
Then they all start running their hands around my body, my chest and my back, ruffling my greying chest hair (I must get it dyed, I note) and caressing my body. I feel like some gay porn icon as they rub their hands up and down, approvingly, and then step back.
The second Chinese man puts his hand on the box as Simon lifts the bottle, dusts it down and opens it with a flourish. “This champagne is sixty eight years old. A true vintage.” He pours just one glass and hands it to me. “I think we should allow John the honour first”. Gratefully I sip the drink as I watch the man quietly open the box and bring out what looks like a silver hand gun. A W-68, I think, approvingly, very rare, very powerful. As he caresses it in his hands, he looks questioningly at Simon, who nods ever so slightly.
The man then raises the gun, aims it at my chest, and fires.
Chapter 11
[Look at him now. He stands on the cliff top and all he can see is light. His naked body glistens in the morning sun; he reaches out and steps into it, forsaking anything else. The darkness is all behind him. He exists there too, standing drunk, pathetic, bleeding, holding a microphone on a stage in a dive bar, reading out the emotional excesses of his destroyed mind to an audience that is too stoned to care.]
Chapter 12
I can feel the sweat trickle down my forehead as I enter the bathroom, the heat is intense as I watch her, kneeling by the ivory bathtub, her fingers loosely held in the running water as she watches me, smiling slightly. As I take a sip of my gin and tonic, I notice that she’s stripped down to her bra and panties, the steam surrounding her in a mist, making her skin almost glow as she holds out her hand and guides me towards her, into her arms, into the bath, allowing the pain in my body to recede as she joins me
“Elena”, I whisper but she covers my mouth with hers and I don’t wonder where she’s come from, only where she will take me now
Chapter 13
The water’s cold and Elena’s gone. I’m trying to work out why I’m still there when the doorbell rings (again?). I heave myself out of the bath, ignoring the pains in my neck and chest, throw a silk bathrobe on and stumble towards the door, pausing to pick up the martini that seems to have been left there for me. I take a sip, then slide the door open. A hand claps around my neck and another on my shoulder as Simon pushes himself in, his wavy hair brushing against my face. “Come on my man,” he half shouts, “time to go out and celebrate. Get your gladrags on!”, pulling at my robe, which I have to rescue quickly.
I rush to my room, slamming the door behind me and then I realise where Elena is, lying naked, provocative on my bed, a cigarette between her lips, she sighs seductively when I enter. Just a couple of minutes, and then I’m ready, throwing my clothes on and out the door to where Simon is finishing my drink. We head out into the night.
The darkness of the bar dazzles me, in our booth, Simon’s leaning forward conspiratorially though I’m distracted by the girl next to him, who seems to be swaying. I can’t quite remember who she is or how long she’s been with us. He chinks his glass with mine and we both throw back our drinks, I have no idea what’s in there but it feels good, mixed with the cocaine.
“Well congratulations my friend” and he can’t help himself as he breaks out into a huge grin. He has a really lovely smile. “We are so fucking rich. You are talking” and he grabs my head, pulls me close so our foreheads touch and our hair interlocks, “to the first trillionaire on this planet. And you... well, you. How’s your chest, by the way?” but he doesn’t bother waiting for an answer. “I loved it, that was so dramatic. Didn’t you love their faces? They were so excited. I bet you know they can’t stop talking about it, they’re probably putting their plans into action right now. It’ll be quick, I bet, you look at the television, we’ll see it, in days, I bet, just days. What do you think, you agree, right, just days. God, I’m so powerful.”
“You and I” he throws his hands out suddenly, his left hand clipping the girl, hard; she falls suddenly, her head lolling on the table. For a split second I stare at her dull eyes; she doesn’t move.
“You and I” Simon repeats, “are everything, and we can do anything.” My drink tastes really good. “Amazing, isn’t it. But what I want to know” he whispers, “is whether we’ll carry on. Will you carry on, John, with the new project?”
“Is there any point?” I ask, my voice dry and husky, though I’m not quite sure what he means. He looks at me for the longest time, his eyes shining. “No, I guess not, there’s no point now is there”
“On the other hand” he says quietly, “why not? Not for the money, not anymore, but just... to see what would happen.” He grips my hands in his. “Can you not see what we are? We are the givers, the creators, we make the rules now. You make it possible, John, and I make the rules. Think what we could achieve. Think how much we could change.”
We stay like that for at least an hour, staring at each other, contemplating his words, seeing the light. I don’t quite remember how I get home, but I do remember getting into bed so so tired, my head spinning, my hand caressing Elena’s thigh but it leads to nothing.
Chapter 14
She looks really resplendent. For a washed up druggie pro, you would never guess. Her eyes really scatter the light and there’s a momentary hush as she enters the room, on my arm. I struggle to walk on these damn shoes, I need to look the part as we make our way towards our table, the crowds parting. I grab a swift glass of champagne, and remember to take one for her, she holds it delicately between those nimble fingers and stunning nails, the pentagram still evident if slightly blurred now. I can see someone, Jenny I think, she waves us over and I take my place next to her with Elena on my left. I scan the canapés, they look very inviting but not quite as much as the full bottle of Jack’s, I pour myself a generous measure and use it as a chaser. Now we can start.
There’s a cough to my left, it breaks my reverie, I notice a woman, no, a lady, in fact, trying to catch my attention, she must be over fifty years old judging by her grey hair and wrinkles; perhaps two hundred. But she’s wearing a pretty dress. I smile at her, and reach out my hand to cover Elena’s, then I realise Elena’s gone.
“Good evening, my name is Sarah. Sarah Jacob.”
Shit. I will have to make conversation now. “John” I mutter
“Nice to meet you, John. And what do you do?”
I am completely and utterly speechless, and start pouring myself another Jack’s just to make up time, when someone starts speaking. I look round – Jenny; thank God.
She starts with a soft purr. “I’m so sorry, John isn’t allowed to say anything about what he does. Top secret, you know” and she winks at me. Great. What a line.
“How disappointing, but how exciting”, the lady’s leaning forward, I can hardly believe it, she looks excited.
“Yes, isn’t it” Jenny purrs. “But don’t worry, he’s making the keynote speech in about half an hour and he’ll certainly give you some clues then.”
What?
“Oh my goodness, me. You do look worried” and she actually puts her old, wrinkled hand over mine and gives it a squeeze. Unbelievable, I try to pull my hand back, afraid I'll catch something, but her grip is surprisingly powerful.
“I design dresses” begins Sarah. “Lovely floral patterns, roses are my favourite, or maybe, no, daffodils. Mixed with beautiful colours and swirls, sometimes I add the faintest touch of a maiden, lying in the grass with that faint glow of fulfilled love on her lips”.
Why am I here?
“I also fit them, make to measure, they can be really wonderful. I get so close to the girls, one really needs to feel them, all their curves and contours, to understand exactly what suits them best, how the dress will fit perfectly on them, just like, well just like a second skin. That’s what they are, really.” She pauses and takes a delicate sip of her champagne. “ I could make you one if you like” I look up, and yes she is looking at me. I take a huge slug of my whisky, Jenny grabs my arm and lifts me.
“Lovely to meet you, Sarah, but I have to get John here ready for proceedings” and she drags me away, fortunately I just manage to get hold of the rest of the bottle before we go. I catch a glimpse of Sarah Jacob, and I am sure she is mouthing “call me” to me, as we disappear behind a curtain.
“Now, “ starts Jenny, serious and business like, “now you’re on in 5 minutes, so let’s assume you’re ready. You know what you’re going to say, I take it?”; she asks me this without glancing up, as she tidies my shirt and jacket. Before I can say anything, she hands me a slip of paper, “well just in case, here’s a backup speech that we used last year” and with that she’s gone. I sit, perched on a broken chair hidden behind a curtain, and manage to get through a fair bit more of the bottle, at least, before unseen hands grab me and pull me towards the stage. I see a woman standing in the centre of the stage, wearing a lovely floral dress, just starting to talk...
“And it gives me great pleasure to introduce our guest speaker for tonight. He is one part of Hart Industries, our co-sponsors for this wonderful evening. Most of you will know Hart, a small but highly influential organisation, who drive our most advanced scientific thinking and policy. Notwithstanding their extremely busy schedule, the leaders of Hart have made time to support the planning of tonight’s event, just showing how important it has become in the annual cycle. I am also so pleased to be able to say that our speaker has again made time not only to be here, but to speak here again. I know him well, I have heard him speak many times, and I can confidently say that we are in for something that will be thought provoking and far sighted. And now, can I please hear your appreciation for Mr John Paris!”
There is a reasonable amount of applause as the woman comes towards me, grabs my hand and pulls me on stage, she gives me a huge hug and a kiss and then I’m there, on my own, in front of some intense lights and a lot of people. Maybe this will be difficult, perhaps I shouldn’t have screwed up Jenny’s speech earlier. It’s when I am scanning the podium, desperate for a drink, that I see it, a little note saying good luck, and joy of joys, a yellow happy pill! Straight down with water (that’s all that’s here) and magically I feel the fog of the last days (weeks? months?) lift and I can see clearly, at least for now. And this is what I see
“God” I say “is at the centre of everything.”
Silence
“Man” I continue “has achieved so much through destruction” OK, I’m dealing with this
“We are coming towards the end of a cycle. The paradigm needs to change”
“But who will do it – us... or God?”
“Will we allow ourselves to be the victims of history and the future, or will we take control?”
“We have the skill, we have the knowledge, we have the power, to do that,” I say resolutely, gripping the podium and leaning forward, “and we have given ourselves the power to change. We can end the cycle of uncontrolled annihilation”
“Death...can be controlled. The power of the gun, the power of the sword can be taken away as well as given, as I will show you. Someone, please, come up here with a gun.”
Nothing happens. “Come on”, louder, “that’s what you’re here for, after all, ”someone pick up one of those brand new shiny handguns from the stands, load it with bullets and join me on stage” there are flutters of uncertainty going around the crowd but eventually someone stands, a big man, muscle bursting out of his dinner jacket, he doesn’t have any curves, his head is almost a cube, but he has a vicious grin and slicked back black hair. People get out of his way as he walks straight up on stage, next to me, close enough so I can feel the warmth of his breath, the sting of his eyes, but hey I’m on happy land, so it’s easy to stand my ground as I ask “don’t you need a gun?”
The grin comes back as he reaches into his jacket and withdraws a mean looking piece, it’s a Weber 4, probably the most powerful handgun in existence, gold plated, plutonium barrel, designed to cause maximum destruction (and also rumoured to be able to kill vampires without the use of silver bullets, though I’ve never seen this). He holds it easily in his hand as I carefully remove my jacket, and fold it on the stand. I then slowly unbutton my shirt, remove it and fold it with great care, putting it on the jacket.
“Give it your best shot” I say, indicating my muscled stomach. The man stares at me. “Shoot me”, I whisper and yet still he does nothing, a flicker of nervousness in his eyes.
“Go on”. Unsteadily he lifts his piece and points it at me, his hand is shaking now and I can tell he doesn’t have the guts. We wait there, for what seems like a hour. Sweat is trickling down his forehead and he still hasn’t moved. I start to tell him to sit down. Suddenly there’s an explosion, behind me and I feel a huge force hurl me forward, into the man who throws his arms out to catch me, stop me but I knock him down, off the stage. On my knees, I haul myself up and turn round. Ms Sarah Jacob is standing there, in her floral dress, a huge grin on her face and a smoking gun in her hand and she says, “oh my, Mr Paris, you’re immune to bullets.” She comes up to me, plants a huge kiss on my lips and leaves.
I'm kneeling on stage, getting my breath back, a couple of people from the audience have started to rise, to help me, but I raise my hand. My voice is a whisper.
"This is just the next step. It hasn't ended."
What did I mean by that?
I turn and leave to absolute silence, rather than the rapturous applause I was expecting, but maybe, probably they are too stunned to react.
The men’s toilets here are huge, so large in fact that you can hardly see the urinals from the door. They actually have travelators, built into the marble floor, that discreetly bring you towards them in case you’re not able to manage yourself. Of course, I am. I’ve put my shirt back on but haven’t managed to do it properly, it gives me quite a handsome, rugged appearance. I finally arrive and am about to start relieving myself when there’s a clap on my left shoulder, and I turn to see Simon; I give him a big grin, pull him towards me in a hug but he pushes me away, and steps back. He’s looking dishevelled, very unlike him, tie half done, a stain on his million dollar shirt. But he’s holding two glasses brimming with whisky and gratefully I accept one.
“What the fuck do you think you were doing?” he’s slurring his words as he shouts them.
“What?”
“What... the fuck... do you think... you were doing?” Now I get it.
“Erm?"
“What on earth possessed you, John” and he grabs my neck, pulls me close to him, “to start talking, no, not just talking, to actually – fucking – demonstrate – the most, the secretest... secret, I mean that secret was so secret that even the secret fucking squirrels didn’t know about it, I mean do you know how much security we put on to get that to our Chinese colleagues without anyone knowing anything about it? I mean, do you really?”
He throws back all of his drink in one gulp, and, in a gesture of solidarity I feel I must do the same
“And then, you, in front of this enormous crowd, decide that you will just, what, tell the fucking world? I mean, John, what the hell possessed you?”
He has his arm round me now, “I know, listen mate, I know you’ve been having a bit of a rough time recently, but do you know how much trouble we are in now? I mean, really, do you know how much your life is worth?” he’s shaking his head, pulling his hair out, I think he may actually be sobbing
“You know they’ll know, don’t you? You know how much we promised them that this was theirs, this was exclusive, this was top top top top, I mean top fucking top, secret? You know what they’ll do to you, don’t you? You’ve seen the films, right, I mean we’ve all watched the films, we watched them together didn’t we? I mean, look mate, I will do what I can to protect you but it is going to be tough. Fuck fuck fuck. Listen, Shaun will call you in the morning, OK, yeah, he’ll sort what he can, but fuck, I need a drink, I’ll drink to your life”
And with that, he’s gone.
I really don’t know what to make of this, but luckily they’ve put a bar in the toilets, so I go over and help myself to another bottle. As I pour myself a large measure, there’s a noise behind me, a slight cough. Simon? No, not the right sound
I turn to see a man I don’t recognise, short and slim, dressed in black, a handsome face with jet black hair and an eye patch on his left eye.
“Happy pill not so happy any more?” he winks at me with his good eye, reaches over and takes my glass, sipping the whisky.
“What?" I ask
“You know they’ll be after you don’t you?”
“The Chinese?”
“No, not the Chinese. Well, yes, they’ll be after you, but they’re the least of your problems. They’d just kill you. These guys want you alive.”
I have to get myself another drink now. I feel very weary, all of a sudden. “These guys?”
“Them, of course. The IN. They'll want your secrets" he whispers.
“But, “I start, shaking my head at him, “Simon..."
“Not Simon. It's you they'll want. You used to be s vague, marginal figure and now you've put yourself way in the spotlight. I must admit, I did quite enjoy your performance. Yes, it was pretty good, I’ll drink to that” and he raises his glass to me, “it was pretty brave."
“Beware the lady” he hisses, and winks again.
“The lady?”
“Oh, work it out.” He comes across and leans at the bar next to me. “But I can help you. We can help you. “
Oh God. Some neo-resistance movement, here we go. “You can?”
“Yes. We are the Resistance”; he lightly produces a card and puts it in front of me. “You can’t contact me, but here’s how you get in touch. I think you know of him already”
On the card there’s a number, and below that the words “HH Simmons”.
And he’s gone.
Chapter 15
He’s in trouble now, his hands are shaking as he holds the microphone and people are looking nervous, pointing, whispering. He wipes his eyes to get rid of the blood trickling into them from the wound on his forehead.
He searches in the crowd to try and find her but it’s too difficult, the lights are too dazzling and his eyes hurt too much. He takes one more drink and reaches into his pocket, pulls out the crumpled paper, folds it out in his trembling hands, he drops the mic and has to pick it up, a little blood on the paper now but he rubs it off and thankfully he can still read the words.
He starts talking, his voice cracked.
“In my dreams
Awake
I see you
At night
I watch insects
Crawl up the walls
Of my heart
They spread their poison
In my mind
I touch you
But poison seeps
From my dreamlike fingers
It kills everything
I don’t have the right to destroy you
For my empty heart to live on
Feeding on the innocent “
He crushes the paper in his fist, and throws it into the crowd, then unsteadily walks off the stage, into the crowd looking for another poor fucked up soul to mope over. As he tries to get to the table, he catches a glimpse of her leaving, a look of disgust on her face.
Chapter 16
Her name’s not Sarah Jacob. That’s what she tells me after the second time, after she leaves me breathless and desperate for more, her wrinkled skin laying so close to mine on the silk sheets.
So what is your name, I ask her and she tells me it’s Ruth, Ruth La Fleure. And then she gets close to me and whispers something in my ear, making me gasp in anticipation.
I’m not really sure how we got to this place (I mean now, not here), how I left wherever we were (and also what the hell happened to Elena, who looked pretty pissed off last time I saw her).
Ruth lays her head on my leg and strokes me. “Are you curious about me?” she whispers.
“Yeah” I gasp, I’m conserving energy.
“What would you like to know, sweetheart?” Her strokes become more urgent and she starts doing something with the other hand that I can’t actually describe.
“Well, erm, why were you using a false name?” I struggle to get this out, I’m sweating, and I think, panting
She sighs, and relaxes her grasp. Shit, wrong question. “Everyone has a false name, darling, at your ball. I wouldn’t have been invited if I didn’t. Don’t you have any imagination?”
I’m struggling to think, what is the right question, when there’s a crash behind me, I turn round to look (that hurts) and the door has been thrown open, literally off its hinges and standing there, the sun behind her burning a halo around her incredible naked body (except for a pair of panties), stands Elena, a pistol held in both hands, pointing at me. “How could you, darling” she rasps in her (admittedly sexy) Russian accent.
“Er, well” I stammer, I can see her finger stroke the trigger, maybe she won’t miss, but she crumples, suddenly and spectacularly to the floor, throwing her arms out in surrender. Before I can speak, Ruth hushes me and whispers “but she was nowhere nearly as good as me, was she?” I have to admit that she’s right. I can see the excitement of the kill building in her eyes, and just says “hello” before pushing me on the bed, and shagging me senseless, again.
***
I’m enjoying a post coital cigarette, I have to be very still as Ruth has balanced a mirror on my chest and is snorting what appears to be an incredible amount of something. I would have some, but I just don’t see how I can manage it.
“So, darling” she starts, wiping her nose. Strange, even that, even for her, is sexy, and I shake my head slightly. Her voice is drawn, husky, like she’s smoked too much all her life.
“So, there’s a wonderful little cafe not far from here, and I thought we could have a bite to eat tonight. They do fabulous wine.”
I just stare at her, incredulous, and she lifts her head, carefully removes the mirror and regards me with a half smile. “No?” she asks
“Well", I start, "look, you’re amazing in bed, but I couldn’t really be seen out with you.” Hmm, I’m not sure that came out exactly right. But she’s cool, she just raises her eyebrows questioningly.
I need to be more subtle. “Look at you, you’re old and wrinkled, I’m young and handsome, I would be laughed at. I’m sure you can understand that.” Better, but not quite right, I think, and Ruth lifts herself up, stretches out her arms and for a second I think she’s going to hit me but then she just starts to laugh, high and loud, she starts rubbing her breasts furiously, still laughing, then suddenly throws herself down onto my manhood and God, is that good, I feel myself start to shudder when shit, the doorbell rings.
I jump up, throw on a robe and hurry to the door. I’m not sure I recognise the man standing there, but he appears to know me as he grasps and squeezes my upper arm, and tells me “Don’t worry, John, we have your back.”
I don’t really notice his face, but his suit is amazing, I can’t resist stroking a sleeve and feel my hand almost having an unearthly experience, it’s so smooth. He seems to be a little perplexed by this, and brushes quickly past me, walking to the marble table in the centre of the room, placing his soft, black, leather case carefully on it, and turns to face me. “This building is secure, it is impossible to enter it without the highest security clearance. Not even Mossad could get in here” he states, confidently.
Shaun. Of course, Shaun Marker, our Head of Security. Great friend of mine, I think. He opens the case, and gingerly lifts out a roll of paper that he unwraps, and lays it on the table top, smoothing it out with soft fingers, and beckoning me over, at the same time with his other hand. “Look, look” he starts, “this is your apartment building”. On his paper there are lots of straight lines, and lots of colours. Yeah, ok, I can vaguely see the building, its outline at least. In the centre, one apartment is highlighted in red, flashing lights around it, big “Keep out!!” signs scrawled in a child-like hand.
“We have identified the danger area and worked it from there”, his hand brushing against the highlighted building. Great science, this. “Mr Hart said, and he meant it...” (dramatic pause), “money is no object, so we bought the entire building.” He’s stopped, waiting for some reaction, none from me, and he looks vaguely disappointed, but his eyes light up as he sees Ruth wander in from the bedroom, totally naked. “Hey there” she says, smiling at Shaun, and to me “do you have another bathrobe?”
I mutter something, she gives me a huge smile and brushes up against me before leaving.
Shaun whistles. “We’ll have to check her out” he smiles, and I almost hit him, but then I decide I can’t be bothered.
Shaun coughs, and starts again. “Ground floor, we’ve installed the latest in quantum nuclear devastation probes, so that anyone who doesn’t have approved security clearance and still passes checkpoint 1 experiences radiation level 6. Of course you know what that does. If, and I have to make the point that this will be extremely rare, they get past that point, the stairs are made from hydro-glycerine malatine substitute, and any level of touch, even through ½ inch thick clothes, will cause paralysis of the legs, followed by extreme pain to the chest and head for 30 seconds, before the heart explodes. Almost impossible to detect, and no antidote.”
“Do you have any coffee?” I ask.
As I start searching the apartment for any sign of a coffee machine, Ruth wanders in (in a robe now) and hands me a perfect cup of espresso. I have underestimated her. I think Shaun is trying to catch my attention by the way he keeps coughing, and eventually, feeling a little restored, I look at him.
“This has all, already, been put in place.” He waits and I stare at him, he turns to look at Ruth who gives him this most amazing smile.
“Anyway” he coughs, catching his breath, “if, through any amazing miracle, they make it to the first floor, we have covered that with laser guided heart impact molecular steering missiles, or LIM’s for short. Have you heard of those?”
He gets no reaction, so carries on “They will destroy anyone who hasn’t been vetted and approved within one point two milliseconds of entry. They cannot fail. And then... they of course, have to take the elevator to your apartment, and they have to know the code, which is only known to four people in the world. If the code isn’t entered, or if it's entered incorrectly, or if the fingerprints or heart rate or brain scan, or shoe size, do not match to the records, then the walls of the lift move inwards suddenly, crushing the occupant to a pulp.”
He picks up a glass of water that I had not noticed, and drains it. “And that, my friend, is the security that we have installed.”
Ruth, who is standing very close to me, passes her hand inconspicuously into my robe as she says “that is some system”.
“Er, Miss?”
“La Fleure,” she answers, “Ruth La Fleure.”
“I’m so sorry, but anyone who has contact with Mr Paris, now needs to go through our vetting process. Would you, er... mind? I assume you, er... will carry on having, er... contact with, er... him?”
She gives him a huge smile and starts doing something with her hand. “Of course I don’t mind”.
He gets this almost schoolboy grin on his face, as he rushes back to his case, and pulls out what seems to be a paper thin, state of the art power tablet. It is jet black, very shiny and absolutely beautiful. His hand runs all over it and then he stands straight, looks at Ruth.
“So, Miss” he’s looking down, I’m not sure if he’s too embarrassed to look at what’s going on, or can’t take his eyes of it.
“Call me Ruth” she interrupts.
“Oh, ok, erm, Ruth, well we have to go through a number of checks.” He’s moving his hand swiftly over the tablet and holds it out to her, still not looking at her.
“First, could you please put your hand on the screen?”; “Erm, your right hand, I mean” as he glances, definitely this time, at where her left hand disappears into my robe.
Ruth actually brings her beautiful, wrinkled hand to her mouth and licks it, slowly, sensually, before drying it gently on her robe and placing it on his PT. It makes a couple of sounds, and Shaun waits, concentrating hard, till his expression relaxes and he says “Thank you. Could I please ask you to confirm your security number, and your identity number?”
She coughs, slightly. “Security number 1543779001, and my identity number is 444669-78402A”.
“Yes, ok, that’s fine. Now,” he lifts the PT up so its screen faces her, “please look straight into the screen and... yes, that’s fine, just a second.”
He notices my questioning look, “iris scan” he explains helpfully, “yes that’s fine, erm, Ruth”, and she rubs her eyes.
“Now, final test here and then we’ll have to go to the lab”. He pulls something else out of his case, I realise it’s a syringe (is this going a little far?), he preps in and motions to Ruth, who, with just a smile obligingly pulls up the sleeve of her robe and offers her arm to Shaun. He quickly takes a blood sample and she lets her sleeve fall back down, and I see a tiny droplet of red come through.
He allows a drop of blood to fall on the screen of his tablet, and I see it disappear as it’s absorbed into the machine. Again, he looks at the screen for a second and then up at Ruth. “Wow”, he says, “that’s good. Now, all we have to do is the brain MRI to check emotional response on the Kazzar scale, and you’re clear. It will only take about five mins, and we have the lab upstairs fully fitted. You don’t need to come to this bit, John, if you don’t want”, he adds, turning to me.
Sadly, Ruth removes her hand and says “yeah, relax darling, have a cup of coffee”. Darling, well that’s a step in some direction.
“Hang on though,” I say, “before you go, why did you say wow when you saw her results?” I ask Shaun.
“Erm,” he shifts uncomfortably, “I’m sorry, Mr Paris” (Mr Paris? He must be nervous), “but it’s confidential personal data I’m not allowed to share, erm...” he trails off, not looking at me
“It must be about my job, darling,” says Ruth.
“Your job?” I ask
“My job.” She smiles sweetly. “I tell you what, I’ll tell you about my job over dinner” and she winks at me. I must admit I am curious, and slightly taken by this old lady. So I sigh, dramatically and start to say "I thought you made dresses" before stopping, ashamed.
“Wonderful!” she reaches over and licks my lips. “Now, Shaun, shall we go”, offering him her arm. Shaun looks a little puzzled, and takes her arm hesitantly. As they turn, he says to me quickly “John, you see, you are completely protected here – if anyone enters this building, I’ll know after less than a second, and if they’re not authorised, they will be dead in less than five.”
The doorbell rings; we all look at each other for a second, then Shaun says “must be one of my team” and he touches his tablet; the door slides open to reveal a tall handsome man in a dark suit.
“Good morning,” he starts, “I was looking for Mr Paris."
“That’s me” I say and he walks in, and offers his hand. “My name is Stephen Carver, I’m with the Central Investigations Body. May I have a quick chat with you?”
Shaun coughs and we all turn to look at him. “Erm, how did you get in?” he’s almost stammering.
“Well, I could only find a parking space at the back of the apartment block, and then the back door was open so I came in and walked up the stairs”
I look at Shaun. “Gap in your security plans?” I ask, smiling. “Shit, the back stairs” he sounds acutely embarrassed and starts to hurry away. “We’ll do, er, your MRI later, if that’s ok, Ruth?” he asks, but doesn’t wait for a reply.
“So, Mr Carver, would you like some coffee?” asks Ruth.
***
“How can we help you, Mr Carver?” I start, helpfully.
He coughs, and replies “Detective.”
“Excuse me?”
“That’s Detective Carver, I’m a detective, not a mister.”
“Oh, sorry, how can we help you, Detective Carter?”
“Well, Mr Paris, there’s a few things that we still need to follow up on from the, erm, strange incident from two weeks and three days ago.” He pauses, reaches down into his attaché case and pulls out a file, with paper inside it. Interesting. He coughs as he studies a sheet, running his hand down it and nodding to himself. “So, let me see. Your police report is here, it’s slightly bizarre, wouldn’t you agree?”
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