The Kimota Anthology (25 page)

Threat neutralised. Recommend tactical re-positioning.

I expected the suit to dive for cover, or rush away. But it seemed the most logical way to deal with the threat was to remove it altogether. The killing was unnecessary to my human way of thinking. So will I kill again, (Or allow the suit to kill, it’s the same thing.) if another searcher locates me? Yes I decide, as a last resort. Sometimes it is necessary to take action to preserve oneself. 

I move on, heading down hill towards a wide green valley. The smell of trees and the sound of running water reach my senses. I smile, it seems for the first time ever. 

One day soon, I will climb out of this shell and be free of its programmed destruction. But for today, and tomorrow, it is keeping me alive, and alive is something I very much want to be.

[Originally published in Kimota 14, Spring 2001]

AGNES IN WONDERLAND

by Annemarie Allen

“F26, H19, E74…”

Two middle-aged women stood watching the line of people pass below a crenellated archway, muttering quietly as they shuffled towards the turnstiles. Above them, a huge banner danced in an artificial breeze, bearing the legend, ‘Welcome to Wonderland – Where Dreams Come True’, picked out in violent pink letters.

“What are they doing, Maude?”

“Trying to remember where they’ve parked, Agnes.”

“Ahhh… I see.”

And she did. Behind them, the parking lot stretched out in almost every direction as far as the eye could see. The latest arrivals were streaming across its vast surface like ants on a table.

Turning away, Agnes came face to face with a hunched figure dressed in billowing black rags, sporting an enormous hook of a nose that swooped down towards a sharply pointed chin. The chin was embellished with a huge, hairy wart. Agnes favoured her with a long, disapproving stare before dismissing her presence with a sniff.

“I don’t know, Maude. A five thousand mile trip to see my only son and then to discover he’s working as a cartoon mouse in a place like this.”

Maude was having none of it. She jabbed her companion in the ribs with a very sharp elbow.

“Lighten up, Ag! They’ve got nothing like this in North Berwick! This place is going to be a lot more fun than dancing naked through the heather in November.”

Agnes shot her a look and Maude had the grace to blush.

“Nothing wrong with a good stout pair of boots,” she snapped defensively. “Tell you what – let’s get something to eat before we look for Brian.”

“Good idea.”

Agnes clutched her handbag to her generous bosom and reached up to check that each iron grey curl was firmly in place before launching herself into the stream of humanity.

“Let’s do it!”

Inside the Burger Palace, they took their places in the queue.

“What can I get for you ladies?”

“I’ll have a hamburger. And one for you Maude?”

“Would you like fries with that?”

“Yes.”

“Extra Large, Large, Medium or Cheapskate?”

“Medium, thank you.”

“Ketchup?”

“Please.”

“Would you like a drink with that?”

“Oh, yes. Cola, please.”

“Mega, Regular, or Really Very Tiny?”

Agnes leaned forward and took hold of her interrogator’s stripy bow tie.

“Young man,” she said, in a confidential whisper, “Is there a prize if I get all the answers right?”

His smile never wavered.

“Here you are, ladies. Have a nice day.”

The two women turned away, unaware that a white, shocked face was peeping out at them from the hatch where staff were served. Brian’s fists clenched, crumpling the paper cup in his hand and sending a stream of ice and cola flowing unnoticed down his furry front. It was too much. This job was as far from home as it was possible to get, yet still she had tracked him down. Why couldn’t she leave him alone?

He replaced the head of his costume and hurried off to the staff room, where his replacement was waiting to take over, his mouse head sitting companionably in the chair beside him.

“Tom! You’ve got to go on now.”

“No way – I’ve still got five minutes left.”

“Please – you have to. I – I’m sick, man.”

Tom just grinned and stretched his furry feet out more comfortably on the table in front of him.

“Look - you can have all my Jesus and Mary Chain CDs – and the tissue Dylan blew his nose in.”

Crouched in a dingy corner, Cinderella was also taking her break. She stuck her hand down the front of her laced bodice, withdrawing a cigarette and a book of matches. Lighting up, she squinted at Brian through the smoke.

“You really are desperate, aren’t you?”

“Pleeeeeeease!” Brian knew he was being pathetic, but he didn’t care.

“O.K.” Tom hauled himself out of the chair. Cradling his mouse head in his arms, he treated Brian to a hard stare. “But you owe me.”

Two minutes later his costume was grabbed from behind and he was whirled round into the arms of a grey-haired woman he had never seen in his life before. He was surprised. His assailants were usually much shorter and stickier.

“There you are!” she boomed gaily. “I’ve mislaid Maude. We were just leaving Cinderella’s ball when the heel came off her shoe and we lost sight of each other in the crowd. Never mind – I’ve found you instead! Come on – I’ll buy you a beer and we can have a good long natter!”

Tom’s brain connected with the only thing he understood. “You can’t have a beer. The theme park is dry.”

“Dry?”

“No booze allowed.”

For once, Agnes was speechless. Then she shook her head. “Oh no,” she said firmly. “We can’t have that. Come along. Here’s a door – “ she pointed to a large plywood construction, brightly painted, with gnomes and pixies dancing across it and a large, cartoon-style keyhole – “And here’s a key.”

She delved into her bag and produced a giant brass key that perfectly matched the style of the door. Puzzled, Tom watched the key slide smoothly into the drawing and heard it turn with a gentle click. Slowly, the door creaked open.

“Come on, then,” she said, dragging him through the opening.

They stepped from midday heat into the gloom of an overcast evening. From what Tom could see through the eye holes in his mouse head, they were on a cobbled street, hemmed in by grey stone walls that rose up on either side, blocking out most of the light. The crowds milling past had swopped shorts and T-shirts for coats and hats.

“Where…?”

“Thought we might pop back home for a bit and have a decent drink for a change. Come along, Brian!”

The woman tucked his arm firmly in hers and stepped into the crowds. Tom opened his mouth to explain the misunderstanding but the words froze in his throat at the sight of a pack of grim-faced warriors bearing down on him, teeth gleaming through a mask of blue paint. Their meaty fists rested on the hilts of the broadswords they wore jammed through the broad leather belts that kept their plaids from slipping off. He stopped dead. He had never thought men in skirts could look so threatening.

Agnes pulled at him impatiently. “Football hooligans! Just ignore them, son – we’re wasting valuable drinking time.”

They turned down a roofed-over alley, emerging on to another street of narrow doorways and deep-set windows, with archways blocking the sky every few yards. If this place had seemed claustrophobic before, now it was positively subterranean. Agnes stopped for a moment to get her bearings and Tom found himself staring at a ragged poster showing a giant worm in a tartan hat with a bobble on top. ‘Nessie welcomes you to Scotland,’ it said.

“Here we are!” said his companion.

She pushed open a door set back in the shadows of a stone archway that was streaked green with moss. Tom peered through the haze of smoke at a large, low-ceilinged room. The walls were yellow with nicotine. Empty booths with ancient, tattered leather seats lined the walls, their doubtful comfort spurned by the row of customers propped up against a huge, scarred bar. They turned in unison to gaze at the new arrivals. Visions of Trainspotting danced in his head.

“I don’t think I’m dressed for this,” he quavered.

Agnes inspected her companion critically. Then she made up her mind. “Believe me, this lot have seen a lot worse than a giant mouse.”

Gripping him firmly by one furry arm, she marched forward and hefted her broad backside onto a bar stool. Tom had no option but to follow her example.

He stared straight ahead, determined not to catch anyone’s eye. In front of him, row upon row of bottles glinted golden in the dim light. He squinted, trying to read the labels. Glenfiddich, Glenmorangie, Highland Park, Islay Mist, Laphroaig, Talisker. It dawned on him that every one was a different whiskey.

“Jesus Christ!” he exclaimed.

“We don’t have that one.” The barman had approached while he was distracted.

“Aye, Agnes,” he said.

“Aye, Shuggie,” she replied. “Brought ma son in for a wee taste of the real thing.”

Shuggie looked at the mouse. It stared back at him, one large ear flopping over its eye.

“He does ye credit, Agnes. What’ll ye have?”

“I’ll have a Highland Park and a chaser,” she decided. What about you, son?”

Tom thought. “Can I have a Jack Daniels?”

A silence the size of Kansas fell over the bar. Hastily, he reconsidered. “I’ll have the same.”

“Give the mouse a double,” came a voice from the other end of the bar.

That’s very good of you, Alexander,” said Agnes politely.

The drinks arrived, along with, Tom was relieved to note, a small jug of water. He lifted it. “Shall I pour?”

There was another, heavier silence. The same voice spoke again.

“Do you know nuthin, pal? There’s two rules in this life – you never sleep with another man’s wife and you never water another man’s whisky. And make sure you add no more than a teardrop to that drink.”

Agnes leaned over to whisper in Tom’s ear. “Regius Professor of Anthropology,” she offered, by way of explanation. Tom shuddered.

He considered the problem of the amber liquid in front of him. No way was he taking his head off to drink – not with the madwoman sitting right beside him. Maybe he could ask for a straw. And possibly one of those dinky little umbrellas to go with it. Perhaps not.

There was one other possibility. After an epidemic of fainting mice, the head had been redesigned with a wide space hidden below the snout. He had no guarantee it would work. Eating or drinking 'In Character' was a capital offence at Wonderland ™. But it was the best he could do. Tom lifted the glass and shoved it firmly up his nose. The barman stared, then shook his head slowly and walked away.

Things settled down. This was a bar for serious drinking, and that was what they concentrated on. But at last, Agnes threw the last drops down her throat and said, “Time we were making a move. Come on, son.”

By this time, the mouse was feeling extremely ragged around the edges.

“You know, you guysh are really jusht pooshy catsh, arncha?”

“Aye,” said one. “And you’re a mouse.” He climbed down from his stool and moved alarmingly close.

“Now, now, Erchie,” said the barman.

“Time to go,” said Agnes. “Come along, Brian.”

They made a speedy exit. Night had fallen as they proceeded at a swift stagger up rain-slicked cobbles to the top of the alley, Agnes blithely ignoring her companion’s slurred comments.

“Nottamoush. Nottabrian,” he was insisting.

The door they had come through was gone, but Agnes used her key on another, much larger and heavier. They emerged into broad daylight back where they had started.

“Wha? Wha?” Tom was in no condition for clarity of speech. Agnes looked at him doubtfully.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ve just been testing out their latest section. I think it’s called the ‘Scotland Experience’. Now, I really must go. Maude will be wondering where on earth I’ve got to. Stick with your job, son. Work hard. You could end up the biggest rodent in the park.”

And she was gone.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

THE TERROR AND THE TORTOISESHELL

by John Travis

After The Terror we had to learn fast; I’d seen the whole world change overnight for no apparent reason - the animals had taken over the Zoo; the Sappy’s had all gone gaga, and old habits were hard to break. Licking between my claws I looked out of my third floor office window past the newly painted Logo,
Benji Spriteman, Detective - Animals rights, Human wrongs
, realising that I should’ve had it done the other way, so it was legible in the street and not just to me. I’d been learning fast, but not that fast.

The pavements were slick, rainwater belched through clogged gutters. I’d heard rumours that a gang of Collies were trying to figure out the city’s plumbing problem now that the Peace Accord between Mutts and Mogs had been signed; although how long that lasted was anyone’s guess. Down below a rhino from the zoo charged an already busted car. A grizzly rifled through a grocer’s store window, Lemurs swung from busted street lights.

As I said, we don’t know how it happened; rumour was of a book going round written by some dude called Machen saying we’d tried to take over once before, way back in WW1. It didn’t really matter. All I knew was that one evening I went to sleep a normal Tortoiseshell; next morning I woke up on two legs speaking English and about eight times the size I used to be. Jimmy - I took his surname for the business - folks don’t like
that
much change - was a quivering mess on the floor; insane. Going out later I saw that it had driven all the Sappy’s crazy - most ended up in the zoo’s they’d built for other animals. Later that day I got back and found he’d been savaged by a pack of lions out for revenge. I felt bad about that.

So I took over. I’d been open for weeks and no case to show for it. Food wasn’t a problem, or lodgings; it was all this time I had to fill, and it was taking some getting used to.

Then a shadow appeared at the frosted glass. I told it to come in.

She slinked into my life like a mirage, tail wrapped around her neck like a stole.

“Benji Spriteman?”

I tried to keep cool. “S’what it says on the door.”

“I didn’t know where else to go.” She curled up on a chair, white tail gently swishing the air. I was distracted by a Parrot outside doing a loop-the-loop on a phone wire when she said the word Tortoiseshell. I was all ears.

“One of my own. Tell me more.”

“Well you see, it’s like this-”

The long and short of it was that a Tortoiseshell had gone missing. Boy, was I dumb. You learn from experience - I hope.

I picked up one of the dimestore paperbacks Spriteman had kept on his shelves, putting it back down again straight away. I’d memorised it pretty well. “My fees is a hundred up front, plus fifty a day, plus expenses. If I crack the case I get to take you out for salmon.” She purred her agreement.

I wasted no time and headed for O’Bells on 24th, a regular hive of skulduggery. My hunch was it was the work of the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty of Humans, a new and potentially dangerous group bent on trying to regain power. There’d been various stories of animals going missing; mainly dogs, but dogs aren’t smart even now. I daresay a few other creatures had got waylaid too.

Tipping my hat to the Gorilla on the door, he moved aside. Even though it was mid afternoon the club was swinging. The band hadn’t improved none; the Tabby on the double bass kept getting her whiskers caught, and the drummer whacked his tail with his sticks from time to time.

“I’m looking for a missing Tortoiseshell, name of Ed Mahoney, he’s said to frequent here.” I was bluffing, but it sounded good. “Ed Mahoney...” the Tom behind the bar scratched his whiskers and yawned. “Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. Get you a drink?”

“Yeah. Tuna oil. On the rocks.”

There was laughter over at the other side of the club. A dog was kicked out for licking its butt. I turned back to the bartender. “Know anything about the SPCH?”

“A little,” he said, polishing a glass. “Yeah, they’re going be bad news. Bar snack?” I grabbed an anchovy from the bowl. “You think they took him?”

“I don’t know.” Knocking back the oil, I left the bar, unsure where to go next.

I went and got a bite to eat, the tuna oil had made me hungry. I tried a new place on Main taken over by a consortium of Alsatians. At least they had some idea - the poodle parlour I’d tried last week had nothing but that nouvelle crap the Sappy’s used pretend to enjoy. I was feeling adventurous with the advance in my pocket so I ordered a steak, rare.

“I’m looking for a Tortoiseshell,” I said to the waiter, an Afghan.

“Aren’t we all sir,” he replied. This new order of things was throwing up some interesting configurations. There was talk of a pig and a frog that had got spliced someplace. Word was they were gonna call the nipper a Frig.

“It’s one that’s gone missing, is all.”

Another one
?” the waiter called to a back room. “Hey, Alphonso, come here a minute.”

Alphonso looked like he still had trouble with the Two Leg thing. Hobbling over to my table he panted eagerly. “Yeah?”

“This fella here’s looking for a Tortoiseshell too.”

“No kidding? Jeez, what’s happenin’ in this town lately? They sure are popular all of a sudden.”

“Yeah?” I leaned across to him, moving away when I caught his breath. “tell me more.”

“There ain’t much to tell. They just seem to go missing, like that.”

“You heard of the SPCH?”

Alphonso looked confused. “I doubt it’s them. Those guys aren’t too smart I hear. Not that specialised.”

I was going to interrupt and make a speech about me being the detective, but thought better of it. He was right though - the Sappy’s I’d seen had the brains of cat litter, and about half the use.

I ate my meal, looking around the joint. An oversized Toucan waddled around topping up drinks. My eyes were drawn to a strange looking dude in the corner, hunched over and badly in need of a suntan. There was something about that guy that made me feel uneasy. “Who’s the old guy?” I asked the Tuke.

“Oh
him
. Arnie, his name is. Bit kooky, ain’t he? Mind you, knows his way around the city. Reckon’s he seen it all in his time.”

“Yeah?”

I waved the Tuke away and finished my meal at around the same time Arnie finished his. I gave him a few minutes then paid my bill, following him to a tower block on the edge of the city.

By now it was getting dark, and the streets were livening up a little. The lights of the Fairground shone through the skyscrapers, and I caught a faint whiff of candy apples. My whiskers started to twitch. There was thunder in the air. The pavement was grey with rain.

Arnie stood at the door talking to the Doormog. I got to wondering why a Persian would want to be a Doormog, when it was pretty clear we Felines were the smartest things around. As I got near I recognised him. Arnie had gone inside.

“Hey Bootsy,” I clapped him on the back. “Beneath ourselves, ain’t we?”

“Shh!” he licked his paw and smoothed his fur back down. “I’m undercover. Been here a week.”

My heart sank. A cop. Just what I needed. I drummed my pad against the wall. “Did I just see Arnie go in there? I’ve been meaning to catch up with him for ages. I even heard he had a Sap for a servant now.” I was fishing, of course.

The Persian looked me over. “First I heard. You know him?”

“Yeah.” I pulled my keys from my overcoat. “I need to return these to him. He left them at my pad the other day.”

Despite his breeding - or perhaps because of it - Bootsy wasn’t the brightest cat on the block. “Can I get in?” I persisted.

“Oh, what the hell.” Pushing a secret code on the grille which I pretended not to notice, he let me through. “Fourteenth floor.” He called after me.

The lift took me as far as the seventh when the door opened. A bulldog in overalls was shaking his head. “Hey you, oughta there. Maintenance. Lift’s on the blink.”

“Seems fine to me.”

He started growling. “You an expert? Go on, skidaddle.”

Seven floors later I was all in. Before The Terror Spriteman didn’t give me much in the way of affection but he fed me well. I needed the exercise badly - just not today.

I padded down the murky hall. One light flickered on halfway down then gave it up. Near the end of the corridor overlooking the street I’d just walked along the name Murchess had been scratched off the plate and replaced with Arnie. I knocked.

It took the old fella a while to get there but I heard him wheezing down his hall. “Yeah, just a minute,” he called, fumbling with the chains.

Opening the door I recoiled slightly. What kind of a guy was this? Ugly as sin and a face with more lines than the underground map. “Yeah, whaddya want?”

“Hi Arnie,” I said, showing him my badge. “I hear you know your way around this fair city.”

His eyes bulged. “Who said that? who are you? I ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”

“Didn’t say you had,” I walked past him into his front room. “I need information, Arnie.”

He walked round me. “Hey, I ain’t no snout! whatcha think I am, huh?”

“Take it easy, Arnie, take it easy.” I was thinking of the films I’d seen in the old days, curled up on Spriteman’s lap. But I was no Spillane. I had to play it my way, or none at all. It’s what being a cat is all about. “I’ve been enquiring about all these Tortoiseshells that keep going missing and somebody said you knew your way around. Might even able to help me.”

Arnie looked at me slyly. “Fancy a change, huh?” I’d no idea what he was talking about but went with it. “Yeah. Change is as good as a rest, they say.”

“I see.” Arnie picked up a pen and started rolling it around his mouth. Grabbing a piece of paper he scribbled down an address. “Go here, sometime after midnight. It’s near the river, big warehouse. You can’t miss it.” I looked down at his writing. It was worse than mine but I knew where it was. “Thanks.” I made for the door, stopping at the frame. “One last question, Arnie. Is this anything to do with the SPCH?”

Arnie threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, no!” he chuckled. “Imagine the irony in that!”

The path next to the river was full of sludge. Behind me I heard the bells of the clock chime thirteen. They hadn’t got the hang of it yet, whoever they were. Ten minutes later I decided to make my move.

Creeping around the side of the corrugated wall I heard voices up ahead. Peering round the corner I saw two odd looking figures shamble towards the door. They made me feel the way Arnie had. I gave them a minute to get inside and went to the door, finding it unlocked. I edged inside.

I don’t know what I’d expected but it wasn’t this.

The warehouse was filled with brilliant white light, the walls also tiled white. Huge sinks with runnels along the edges filled a large section of the room. One wall was lined with knives and hooks, and what looked like fine string wrapped around nails. A shudder ran through me; my paw itched on my gun as I saw the others in a room over to the right of me.

Inching my way along the wall I heard the talk in there. Before I burst in I should’ve listened properly: first rule of being a detective. Well, it would become my first rule. All I heard was talk of cutting and chopping and it got my fur up. I rounded the corner and burst the door inwards, gun pointing at the assembled mob.

“Okay, freeze!” I shouted.

A Siamese looked at me with disdain. There was blood on his white jacket. “Now, what the hell is going on here? Where are the tortoiseshells?” The cat sniffed the air like I was a bad smell.

“You must be one hell of a traitor,” I continued. I wanted to knock that grin off his face so badly. “I though the SPCH was bad but-”

“Hey just hang on a second.” He snapped. “We run a legitimate operation here. Well, as much as we can without any laws to stop us... what’s your problem anyhow?”

“I’m looking for a missing Tortoiseshell,” I told him. “Ed Mahoney.”

The cat looked angry. “Why don’t you just take it, like you took the others?”

I was thrown off balance. “Excuse me? A client of mine reported him missing.”

“
Him
?” A faint smile crept over his face and he whispered to the Ginger Tom beside him, who passed it along to another Siamese and before long they were all laughing wildly.

“Hey! I’ve got a gun, here. You want to tell me what’s so Goddamn funny?”

The Siamese stopped laughing. “Follow me.”

With the piece in his back, he led me through a corridor with the word “Surgery” above the entrance. Every door we passed seemed to have a weird name next to it: ‘Dewclaw Correction’, ‘Beak Reductions’, ‘Spot Removal’. A strange thought came into my head. I couldn’t have been
that
stupid. Could I?

I purposely ignored the sign on the door he led me through.

And there they were; all stacked against the wall like green piecrusts. He looked at the labels on each one, and stopped. “Here we are,” he said, lifting it and placing it in my arms. “Ed Mahoney.”. I could feel my skin reddening beneath my fur.

As I walked through the street with Ed Mahoney’s old lodgings on my head keeping the rain off, one question kept coming back to me;
what did she want it for
? Maybe she’d said but I hadn’t been listening. It was my first case, I was hot to trot. Suddenly I remembered something Spriteman used to say. Hell, it was true. “God in his heaven should’ve left the earth to the monkeys.”

I was learning fast. But not fast enough.

[Originally published in Kimota 15, Autumn 2001 and has since been expanded into a novel]