Nowhere Near Milkwood (15 page)

The illustrated student also came apart, but in a different way. He woke to a morning dark as treacle with rainclouds. He climbed painfully out of bed, lurched to the bathroom and remembered that his name was Michael and that he was poor.

In the cracked mirror over the sink, his pale reflection accused him with a mournful eye. He opened his mouth and checked his teeth. They were all as loose as spare change. Yellow saliva dribbled free. Blood flecked his sallow tongue.

Back in his room, he listened for the hacking cough of his neighbour. There were seven other students in the house, all as despised and absurd as himself. They were dying of neglect. But he would refuse to die. He had decided to fight back.

On his bookshelf stood a heavy dusty volume, a psychology textbook he had stolen from the local library. Clearing his desk of long-empty beer cans, mouldering plates of curry and overflowing ashtrays, he threw the volume down and flicked through the pages until he found the section he desired.

The chapter in question discussed the use of the Rorschach ink blot test. The test had been designed as a method of showing the different ways in which people perceive the same image. A random splodge of ink would be shown to a subject, who would then have to say what the splodge looked like.

Michael remembered reading a story about a psychology lecturer who had painted a Rorschach ink blot on his shirt and who had travelled the land, diagnosing people he met by their reactions to the design. Although this story was a fiction, it had given Michael an idea.

Staring at the example on the yellowing page before him, Michael scratched his head. Instead of an ink blot, he saw a starfish. Or was it a sunrise over a mountain? He blinked. Perhaps it was a flight of swans? It was only after ten minutes of careful study that he understood what it really was. It was, of course, a hedgehog...

Selecting a plain white shirt from his wardrobe and laying it out next to the book, Michael began mixing his paints. He took a fine horsehair brush, dipped it in the black viscous liquid and faithfully copied the design in the book onto both the front and back of the shirt.

Afterward, when the paint had dried, he pulled the shirt on and buttoned his coat up over it. Then he slung his bag over his shoulder, retrieved his piece of sculpture from under the bed and pocketed it. This piece of sculpture was essential to his plan. It had taken two days to carve from a piece of wood and stain to the correct colour.

Leaving his room, he tramped down the stairs to the musty hall. Old newspapers littered the floor; the plaster was flaking off the walls. He opened the front door and stepped out into the street. Above him, the clouds tumbled against each other. Pulling his collar up around his face, he headed toward the shopping centre.

As he walked, a lorry pulled up by his side and the driver hailed him. Grumbling, Michael walked up to the cab window. The driver wanted directions to the college. “I’ve been driving around in circles all morning,” he confessed, “but I can’t find it. I’m supposed to deliver an espresso machine to the Dean’s office.”

“I’m a student,” replied Michael. “I have no money. I have not drunk a cup of coffee for weeks. The Dean, like the government, doesn’t care about students. Look at my teeth.” Determined not to help the driver, he gave the fellow false directions and moved on. He felt guilty, but he also felt powerful.

Before long, Michael reached his destination. It was his local Post Office. He took off his coat and placed it in his bag. Then he took out his piece of sculpture and strolled into the lobby. When the people inside saw what he held in his hand, they fell silent and shuffled their feet.

“Nobody move,” cried Michael, as he waved the imitation gun in the air. A large, muscular black man in the process of licking a stamp glowered at him, the stamp still attached to the end of his tongue. Michael frowned. He had not considered the possibility that anyone might disobey his instructions. “Or else...” he added vaguely.

“Do you want cash?” To his surprise, the cashier was already reaching for a bundle of used notes. He nodded and continued to brandish his piece of sculpture. In one way, he felt truly free for the first time in years. In another, he felt that events had somehow moved beyond his control.

“Just like in the films.” An old woman shook her pension book at him and chuckled. By her side, her senile, harmless husband swayed in his universe of drool. “Wait till Mrs Owen hears about this!” Her chuckle turned into a ghastly rattle.

“Listen.” Michael began to suspect a plot. “I’m the victim here, not you lot. My gums are shrinking a little more every night. My new girlfriend, Claire, left me because I was so poor.” He was almost tempted to aim his sculpture at the ceiling and pull the trigger. He mumbled and snorted angrily.

“How do you want the cash?” The cashier raised an eyebrow. When he failed to reply, she grew petulant. “Tens? Fives?” She counted out the money with professional efficiency. “Will two thousand do? We’re not a bank you know.” Behind her, Michael could see a stunned assistant squinting at him.

Michael knew that his time was limited. He took the cash and stuffed it into his pockets. Then he jabbed the gun into his belt. Rushing out of the door, he bounded down a sidestreet. He was so excited he forgot to put his coat back on. He scarcely even looked where he was going...

The Police arrived at the scene five minutes later. Inspector Firbank had not had a good day. A migraine was forcing rainbows through a mincer at the corners of his vision. His unhealthy grey eyes bulged and he mopped his forehead with a damp handkerchief. He was convinced that he had somehow slipped through a wormhole into a dimension ruled by lunatics.

“You mean that you all had a good look at him, but none of you can describe him?” He was incredulous. He rubbed his chin and wrestled with all the metaphysical problems that arose from such a question.

“Oh yes, we all saw him.” The old woman shook her finger in imitation of Michael’s gun. “He didn’t wear a mask. Not even a stocking.”

“What did he look like then?” Firbank demanded.

There was a long pause. The customers and the cashier eyed each other. They scratched their heads. Suddenly, their faces lit up. All at once they opened their mouths and spoke:

“A starfish.”

“The sun rising over a mountain.”

“A flight of swans.”

Inspector Firbank sighed. A quote from Nietzsche came into his unwilling head: The irrationality of a thing is no argument against its existence, rather a condition of it. He shook the quote free from his aching mind and tried to smile. His mouth, however, refused to obey.

“I see,” he said, slowly. As they all waited, not knowing what to do next, a man came into the Post Office. He was panting heavily. He made straight for the cashier and then spotted Firbank. He caught his breath and nodded. “Just the fellow. I came in to ask directions. I’m a lorry driver looking for the college. I’ve been driving around in circles all morning...”

Inspector Firbank gasped. “You’re covered in blood...”

The lorry driver blinked. “Well, yes, I did hit something just now. It ran out in front of me. I tried to brake but it was too late. I got out to take a look, but it was nothing important.” He seemed to notice the stains for the first time. He grew desperate. “Nothing unusual,” he added in a small voice.

“But what was it?” Firbank cried. His day was growing worse by the minute. There were pains in his chest and his left hand had turned numb.

“Nothing unusual,” the driver repeated, gazing around with terrified eyes. “It was an accident, I swear.” His voice became a pleading mumble. There was genuine remorse in that voice, as well as the traces of a growing doubt. “Just a hedgehog...”

Bang! This story starts with an explosion, to grab the attention of its readers. Once the dust settles around them, it can turn into a complex, profound, mature piece of writing, and they will probably stick with it longer than if there wasn’t any action in the first sentence. That’s my theory, and it clearly works, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here. But I can’t be bothered with the literary stuff, the bookish expression, so the opportunity has been lost.

I’m tired and fed up. I’m not claiming I enjoyed the trauma of the blast. Far from it! It knocked off my hat and medals. But all the same, it had power, and that’s something I sorely miss. Plus I’m desperate to escape from here. The damage was minor. No big holes in the walls. Just a few broken bottles behind the bar. The juke box in the corner had got stuck, playing ‘Broken Angel Blues’ again and again. What else? Oh yes, all our customers were dead.

We don’t get many bombs going off in the TALL STORY. But I doubted Hywel would ever discover my responsibility for this one. There are so many terrorist groups devoted to so many whimsical causes that I could easily blame some imaginary faction or other. The Pacifist Brigade, for instance, or the LOMOJ, whoever they might be. Think up one yourself if those won’t do. It was a crude device, but I hadn’t made it. I just lit the fuse. I found it among the pile of junk left by Steven Karlsen on a table. Maybe it was an antique.

In the mirror over the bar, I saw that the pub was untouched. The drinkers were still alive. The potbellied overseers cracked their whips and the students shared a glass of cider and the Faskdhfgasdhian temple tottered over its acolytes. There was even a commotion in front of the fireplace, for the Three Friends had decided to climb up the wall to the rafters and the ends of their ropes trailed in the coals and strangled the sparks. Near the door, a convention of doctors blocked the exit. Dr Lithiums, Walnut and Slither debated the merits of Aerial Turkish Komodo Dragon’s blood. There weren’t any. Everything in this parallel world was normal and routine and facile.

“Fine for them lot,” Hywel groaned. “But what a loss of business on our side of the reflection!”

He surveyed the mangled bodies with a frown.

“Shall I go through their pockets?” I suggested. “And maybe slip the rings off their fingers?”

“You know I only take payment in stories. I doubt you’ll find many of those on them now. On second thoughts, search the writers for scraps of paper, notebooks, that sort of thing.”

I did so. The usual suspects were a disappointment. Flann O’Brien had a collapsible bicycle in his pocket; Gabriel García Márquez had a phial of cholera, a clock and a heart; Anna Kavan had a puddle; Omar Khayyám had a winged piglet; Bruno Schulz had a hole. Felipe Alfau wore a coat made entirely of pockets sewn together, and all of them were full, but they only contained other coats also made of pockets, and so on forever, or at least until the pockets became so small they might only hold a single atom, and you can’t generally write stories on those, unless you happen to own a quark-point pen, which you don’t. And neither did he. No, the professionals were destitute. I guess they left their work at home.

As for the amateurs, Billy Belay and Harold the Barrel had diaries, but they were just full of graphs recording the number of times they had flown or walked through walls that week. The figures had been massaged. The numerical figures, I mean. The human figures, with their shoulders, spines and necks, all stiff, had probably never felt the touch of a Thai girl in the whole of their now absent lives.

At last I came across a corpse with a story. It had been scribbled on an old napkin, the ends of which were stuffed up his nostrils. I drew it out and wiped it clean on my own nose.

“What does it say?” asked Hywel.

I read it. “It says:

The Story with a Clever Title

Bang! This story starts with an explosion, to grab the attention of its readers. Once the dust settles around them, it can turn into a complex, profound, mature piece of writing, and they will probably stick with it longer than if there wasn’t any action in the first sentence. That’s my theory, and it clearly works, otherwise you wouldn’t still be here. But I can’t be bothered with the literary stuff, the bookish expression, so the opportunity has been lost.

I’m tired and fed up. I’m not claiming I enjoyed the trauma of the blast. Far from it! It knocked off my hat and medals. But all the same, it had power, and that’s something I sorely miss. Plus I’m desperate to escape from here. The damage was minor...

“Hold it right there!” cried Hywel.

“What’s wrong?” I said.

“Don’t you see? It’s
this
story, the very piece we are standing in. If you get to the point where I ask you to read it, we’ll be stuck in a loop forever. A terrible fate!”

I kicked the body with my boot. Clots of blood jumped onto my sock. “I wonder who this person is?”

Hywel sneered. “Oh, I know him. He’s a hack by the name of Hughes. Not sure of his first name.”

“Has he published anything? Will he publish this?”

“That depends on who you are now. If you’re him, reading this after having just written it, to check for mistakes, then maybe not. If you’re somebody else, then maybe he has, unless he gave it to you in manuscript form. Perhaps you’re an editor on the verge of writing him a rejection note? It’s hard to tell.”

“I’m reading it in manuscript form, I think.”

“No, you’re
standing
in it. Put it down. It’s too dangerous. Have you any idea how uniquely horrid it would be to get stuck in a fiction loop?”

“No I don’t. No I don’t.”

“Put it down. It’s far too dangerous. Have you any idea... Wait! This isn’t a loop. I just broke out of it.”

“Well, I put it down. It must be plain déjà vu.”

“Thank heavens for that! Now put it down. It’s too dangerous.”

“More dangerous than my bomb?”

“I didn’t hear that. Obviously my ignorance of your part in the explosion has been written into the text.”

“A bit implausible that, isn’t it?”

“Not really. There are so many terrorist groups running around, it could be anybody. I reckon it was the LOMOJ.”

“The Liberators of Mrs Owen’s Jam?”

“That’s probably what they are. Or maybe the Come Again Faction. They use déjà vu bombs, packed with that odd feeling.”

“I have to confess that I did read the manuscript to the point where you asked me to read it. Maybe the déjà vu bomb knocked us back out of the loop? It took us back to a moment
before
I did read it. But wait! That’s impossible. It wasn’t a déjà vu bomb. It was gunpowder. I lit the fuse myself.”

“I didn’t hear that. I didn’t hear that.”

“This is getting boring. Shall we look for a different story? One without any paradoxes?”

“No point. You’ve searched all the bodies now. If you really want another story, you’ll have to invent it yourself.”

“I’m too disillusioned for that.”

“Then you’ll have to go without. I’m not telling one, because even when I do, it’s really you doing the talking. Hang about! You can step outside the story again and use Mondaugen’s word recycling machine to write it for you!”

“No I can’t. It’s empty now.”

“In that case, we’ll just have to wait until enough unnecessary words accumulate on the floor to be recycled. Say something unnecessary. Tell me about your childhood.”

“That will take too long. That will take too long.”

Hywel sighed. “Well, that’s a start. But you’re right. We might be here for millions of years. At least you would get to meet Titian Grundy at the end of the wait. And then you could ask him about the impossible mirror.”

“I can’t waste time waiting around for the future. Isn’t there a faster way of getting there?”

“We could use a time machine.”

“Great idea! Let’s hop on immediately!”

“Sorry, they haven’t been invented yet. But when we
do
reach the future the slow way, we can send one back to us here.”

We looked around expectantly, but it didn’t appear.

“Obviously we never got to the future, or else we forgot to send one back.”

“Maybe we’re too busy there. I wonder what the future’s like, and what I’m doing? Hearing that story about Byron and Julian has made me want to learn to juggle.”

“That’s too mild an ambition for you. I bet you’re President of the World and living in a mobile tower!”

“Will we
ever
get to hear another story?”

Hywel clicked his fingers. “I’ve got it! You know how your best stories are always polished with great care? The more care that goes into them, the better they are.”

“True. But so what?”

“Well then, the less care you put into them, the worse they are. What if you put
no
care into them at all? What if you don’t even write them? That really is minimal care!”

“They wouldn’t exist.”

“Ah, but how do you know that? Maybe they would just be very, very bad stories. But stories nonetheless.”

“You mean that a tale might already have spontaneously generated out of total lack of care?”

“Yes, and it might be here at this very moment. It’ll probably be a horror story, because bad horror stories tend to be the worst of all. If we search the pub, we’ll be sure to find it. I’ll take this side of the bar, and you take the rest of the room.”

I found the story pasted to the notice board near the main door. I peeled it off and studied it.

“That’s weird!” I said. “It has a number in front of it.”

“What’s the number?”

“18b,” I replied.

“Well don’t read that bit out.”

“It’s almost as if it’s a story which is pretending to be a chapter in a much longer work!”

“Arrgh! No déjà vu! That hasn’t happened before!”

“Yes it has! New things happen all the time!”

“Guess that’s called déjà vu?”

“Shall I just read it out?”

“Just read it out, will you?”

And I did.

A TALE OF TERROR

Laura was running. She ran.

She ran through the forest. Through the forest she ran. Laura ran.

She was running through the forest. The forest was dark. It was scary. Her name was Laura. She ran.

A monster was chasing her!

(“Awful title,” remarked Hywel.

“Now you’ve interrupted the flow of the story!” I protested. “I’ll have to start again from the beginning.”

“Don’t forget to include the title. For the sake of integrity.”

I didn’t.)

A TALE OF TERROR

Laura was running. She ran.

She ran through the forest. Through the forest she ran. Laura ran.

She was running through the forest. The forest was dark. It was scary. Her name was Laura. She ran.

A monster was chasing her!

She ran from the monster. Laura ran away from the monster. Through the forest.

The forest was large. It was dark.

The monster ran after her!

After Laura ran the monster, through the dark forest. It was running. Laura was running. They both ran.

Through the forest.

She tripped as she ran. She picked herself up and resumed running. She tripped again. She tripped because she was running! Through the dark, creepy forest.