Authors: Gordon Houghton
In an attempt to improve my memory, I read a great deal about how it works. I learned that everything received by the senses is translated into pulses of nervous energy. These pulses, and the pathways they create in the brain, can be recreated instantly to produce the effects of short-term memory. Long-term memory works by repeating the pulses and pathways often enough to create virtually permanent anatomical and biochemical channels, so thatâ
I forget the rest.
The red army
The door to the Stock Room was already open, and we found War chest deep in a heap of tiny, brown packages. He was cursing loudly.
Death coughed. War looked up irritatedly.
âWhat do you want?'
âWe've come to give you a hand.'
âHands I don't need. Eyes I do.'
âWe have both.'
An awkward pause.
âI'm looking for a sack,' War admitted, sulkily.
The room was filled with sacks.
âWhat kind?'
âLarge and red. I can't remember what's written on it.'
Death rubbed the palm of his hand across his chin and scanned the room. War, pouting like some gruesomely bloated child, returned to his search.
The Stock Room was filled from floor to ceiling with boxes, sacks, parcels and packages, devices, tools, gadgets and gizmos, contraptions, kits, pieces and parts. Everything appeared to support everything else: pull a tiny packet from a stack on one side of the room and a pile might collapse on the other; remove a bag from the top of a heap and the whole structure beneath might be fatally unbalanced. The walls and carpet were invisible beneath fragments of unidentified objects; four windows, obscured by cliffs and crags of jumble, failed to provide adequate light; and a door leading directly to the Diseases Department was blocked by a precarious column of cardboard boxes, all unmarked. It was the most cluttered, chaotic and confusing space I had ever seen. It was a smuggler's cave, a devil's workshop, a wizard's hut. It was a miracle that anyone could ever find anything here.
Death, for example, was having trouble.
âI can't move this crate,' he said to War. âHave you seen the whatsit?'
âWhat's that?' War replied.
âThe thingumajig. You know ⦠The lever tool thing.'
âI don't know what you're trying to say.'
Death stood up, frustrated. He surveyed the room for the object of his desire. War shook his head slowly and stared at Death as if he were mad.
âHere it is,' He burrowed behind a heap of battered cartons and produced a small jack; then used the jack to lift the crate. He wedged his hand beneath the crate and pulled out a shrunken brown bag, âWhat colour was it again?'
âRed,' said War. âAnd it's about ten times larger than that.'
âWhat's inside the sack?' I asked.
âEquipment,' War replied. Then added, nervously: âIf you find it, don't shake it. It'll only bloody annoy 'em.'
Most of the jumble had no identity. There were no labels, markers, tags or stickers. I confined my search to the area to the right of the door, a windowed wall that faced the front of the house. At first I was careful not to disturb anything, but after half an hour of fruitless foraging I began to disentangle the jungle of rubbish.
âHave you found something?'
Death stood over me, looking weary. He was holding a large tin of dog food in his left hand. His right was covered in grease and grime. War was still burrowing eagerly on the far side of the room.
I shook my head.
He sighed and returned to a pile of sacks. All of the sacks were grey, empty and unmarked.
My mind back-flipped to the past.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Amy and I are sitting in the Jericho Café, gazing at the rain through the window. It's half an hour after I told her I loved her in the shelter of an elder tree, nine years before I will speak the same words to Lucy at the same table. Our clothes and hair are damp. We are sharing a cappuccino.
âDo you really love me?' she says.
I love her irresistibly like a wave hissing against the shore; irreversibly, like a comet caught in the gravity of a star, instinctively, like a dog relishing a bone; possessively, like a comedian protecting a joke; naively, like a child excited by a present; hopelessly, like an idiot coveting genius; comically, like a foot drawn to a banana skin; aggressively, like a fist striking an enemy's face; desperately, like a starving man longing for food.
I love her less than I can, but much more than I have ever said.
And time passes.
âYes.'
And time passes.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âFound it!'
Death waved a red sack above his head, grinning like an infant.
âBe careful,' War cautioned. âIt might not be tied securely.'
Death ignored him, whirling his prize high into the air before throwing it into the centre of the room. The bag was about the size of a sheep, and bright red. It flopped and quivered like a jellyfish. An enigmatic message was crudely printed in brown ink on the front:
A. A. Qty 10,000. Handle with care.
In frustration, War kicked out at a stack of packing crates he had been investigating. The stack wobbled, but did not fall.
âWhat exactly is it?' I asked.
âToday's mission,' Death replied proudly, picking up the sack again. âThese are the friends I was telling you about. Ten thousand ants.' He untied the cord and peeked inside. âArmy ants, to be precise. They devour anything in their path. And they
obey
their queen.' He smiled at War.
Momentarily abandoning his sulk, War also peered into the bag. I expected a swarm of insects to spill from the sack and wreak havoc on the neighbourhood, but he mumbled some placatory incantation as he peered through the open end, and intercepted any sign of activity.
âWhat are you saying?' I asked him.
He looked up. âYou wouldn't understand.'
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
My zombie brain was filled with rubbish. One minute it was love, the next a bunch of useless facts from my favourite trivia encyclopedia. As soon as Death mentioned the word
ant,
it set to work thinking of the key differences between an ant and a corpse. I couldn't stop it. This is what it came up with.
An ant can lift fifty times and pull three hundred times its own weight. A corpse cannot lift or pull anything, because it is dead.
Ants have five noses. A corpse has one (and eventually none).
Ants have been used to cure diseases. A solution combining ants' eggs with onion juice is said to cure deafness, and the fumes from mashed red ants are reputedly a remedy for the common cold. A corpse, on the other hand, is rarely anything other than the result or cause of disease.
Some ants burrow eighty feet deep in search of water. Corpses never travel further than six feet below ground.
An ant is much smaller than a corpse.
What use is a brain like that? And why was it doing this to me?
The Rorschach Test
The night I collected the recording equipment from Amy's apartment was also the night I died. So far, the images associated with this memory have been no more coherent than arcane graffiti, the sounds no more meaningful than loops of jumbled messages. But I feel confident of the sequence now. I
know
how I died.
It was a humid evening in late summer, seven weeks after Amy's first phone call. She had contacted me a couple of days earlier, informing me that it was safe to collect the video recorder, and asking for a progress report. I told her my work was finished, and that she could be more than satisfied with the results.
In the previous fortnight I'd watched the video of her husband's perverted power game half a dozen times. My need for repeated playback, and my unwillingness to admit the reasons for that need, convinced me of something I had long suspected: I was human vermin. But it didn't stop me, of course. I can't say I was excited by anything I saw â I'm not even sure prurience was my main motivation â but I was too close to understanding the desire for my own comfort. In the end, and against all principles, I broke open the plastic case, ripped out the magnetic tape, and burned the evidence.
But I couldn't forget that final image of her mouth twisted into a smile. Why was she smiling? The video was hardly conclusive proof of abuse: a legal eye could see it as a simple case of S&M role-playing gone too far. Was it, then, a sign that she had exercised some form of control over Ralph? By exposing one of his secrets to an outsider, and potentially to a much wider audience, she had wielded some retaliatory power. But how much would he care? He was much more likely to be concerned by the other evidence I had gathered.
So was that smile meant for me? It was a narcissistic thought ⦠but perhaps some part of her was pleased at being able to show me just how far she had come; how far she had managed to push the limits of her desire. Perhaps, in some crazy way, she even wanted to remind me of who I had once been, and to make me jealous of what I had missed.
But I didn't feel jealousy. I felt self-disgust.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
Amy was holding a half-empty glass of orange juice when she opened the door. Both rings were missing from her right hand. I walked into the living room and saw an open box of Ritz crackers on the coffee table. I turned around as she fastened the bolt, and noticed again the small depression in the skin at the nape of her neck. In my memory I felt its roundness with my forefinger, ran its tip down the ridges of her spine, explored a mirrored hollow in the small of her back. I saw her roll over, heard her say she loved me, felt her kiss ⦠And I was still standing here seven years later, having already fallen so far into the abyss that no light penetrated the darkness.
I opened the French windows and stepped outside, attracted by the cold glow of the moon. The balcony was a small undecorated area with a low wall made of yellow Cotswold stone, overlooking the deserted square below. I kept well away from the edge. Only a thin layer of concrete prevented me from falling seventy feet to the ground.
I sensed Amy's approach as I leant against the door frame. I glanced sideways and saw that she was gazing at the street lights in the distance. She hesitated before she asked, afraid of my answer.
âDid you find anything else?'
âEnough,' I said.
âI'm disappointed.' She turned away and sighed. âIt's different when you know for sure ⦠But thank you.'
I shrugged. âIt's why I'm here.'
âIt's not the
only
reason.'
And I didn't know what that teasingly ambiguous phrase meant. It could have been an expression of desire, or a casual blandishment. Seeing the puzzlement in my face, she laughed bitterly and walked back inside.
It started to rain.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
We were childhood sweethearts. We met when we were fifteen, were good friends until we left school, fell in love shortly afterwards. Our homes were only a couple of miles apart in Oxford, and I cycled over to see her almost every night. And I wrote letters, too â twice a week for over two years. Passionate letters, filled with energy, and desire, and joy.
Teenage romance!
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âI've left the evidence in a locker at the railway station. There's a micro cassette in there, and some photographs.' I handed her the key. âI've sealed the photographs in a plain brown envelope. You might not want to look at them.' I took a sheet of paper from my inside jacket pocket. âHere's a list of everything I've found. Bare details â but it should be enough to convince him.'
âThank you.'
She hid the key and the sheet in her wardrobe, and retrieved the recording equipment from beneath a pile of jumpers. I recognized none of her clothes, and felt the slightest stab of jealousy. There's no explanation for emotion.
âI'll send the bill next week â unless he opens your mail?' She shook her head. âAs soon as you settle, everything I've discovered is legally yours. You can use it before then, naturallyâ¦' She nodded. âAnd if there's nothing else, I'llâ'
âDidn't you ever miss me?'
Her question surprised me, but I tried not to let it show. âOf course.'
âYou could have called. Just once.'
âI ⦠disappeared for a while.'
âI'm glad you're back.'
I felt my shell weakening. I was playing by
her
rules now. âYou could have called me, too.'
She laughed. âYou wouldn't have
satisfied
me. I bet you couldn't, even nowâ'
âThat's not the issue.'
We stared at each other sourly, and fell silent, listening to the rain rattling on the roof of the round tower.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âWhy did you marry him?'
âIt's none of your business.' She shook her head, then sighed. âIt was a mistake ⦠Though not at first.' She smiled. âAnd I didn't know about his past. He didn't â
doesn't
â tell me.'
âBut you weren't blind.'
âIt was different back then. He was wonderful. Just what I needed.'
Silence and rain.
*Â Â Â *Â Â Â *
âHow can you just lie there when he does those things to you?' My disgust was directed at myself, at my own desire.
âYou've seen what he's like.'
âThe whole thing makes me sickâ'
âI'm not interested in your opinion.'
âI don't know what you see in him.'
âYou have no rightâ' She breathed deeply, then suddenly reached across and clasped my face in her hands. âLet's not talk about him any more. I don't want to hear it.'
She pulled me towards her, and we were locked in a kiss. We became one person, joined at the forehead, nose and mouth, at the arms, hands and chest, at the groin, thighs and feet; consumed and controlled by the kiss, worshipping each other so completely with our bodies and minds that we became one spirit, one ecstasy. The taste of her mouth was sweet, like an orange, and for a fleeting moment I imagined our tongues as the flesh, our lips as the soft, waxy rind. And as we stood there in the glow of a pink light bulb, my shell cracked open.