The Kimota Anthology (47 page)

“Kieran, when will I see you again?” I asked.

He paused at the cemetery gates. He looked tired and so pale. Nettles and twigs clung to his coat and hair.

“Can I come back with you?”

“Sorry Alice. I want to be alone this evening. I’m not in the mood for company tonight.”

“Oh. Okay.” I felt crushed. He smiled and stroked my face. “You’ll be back here tomorrow, won’t you?”

“Perhaps.”

It began to drizzle. I wrapped my white cardigan around me.

“I like you, Alice. You remind me of somebody I once knew. You’re a special person and I like you very much.” The rain came down harder, tearing through the trees. “It’s that… it’s harder for me to get close to people these days. I find it hard to give pieces of myself away.”

“It’s okay. We can take our time.” My voice trembled. He stooped and kissed me, running a hand through my hair. Then he was gone, into the rain.

I sat on my bed, staring at the four walls. Slowly, the shadows lengthened across the ceiling and floor. I began to see things in the half-light. Transient images of shapes and faces distorted like fleeting reflections in a broken mirror. I lay my head down on the pillow.

The street was utterly empty. The night’s sky reflected back the lurid light of the city, masking the moon and stars. I saw no signs of life in the buildings around me, heard no traffic, no voices. There was a phone box on the corner. I had to call Kieran and warn him about the danger he was in. I opened the door and squeezed into the cubicle. The light above my head flickered on and off. Every time I gazed at the smooth black glass of the booth I saw my pale, translucent reflection disappear then reappear, disappear then reappear. I picked up the receiver.

“Kieran?” I whispered down the phone. There was no answer. Just an empty, mind-numbing hiss. Then the voice.

“I’ll be here for you, Alice.”

“Who?”

“Stop playing games.”

The laugh. I saw a flash of disjointed images. A door opening. The darkness spilling into a silent room. Kieran trying to free his hands and the polythene bag over his head. A painted grin. The glint of a knife.

“Have you ever felt slighted, Alice? Do you think sometimes that you’re just walking one long, dark corridor for the whole of eternity?”

“Where are you?”

“I’m with you now, Alice.”

I slammed down the phone. I ran a trembling hand through my hair. Then I saw him standing outside the booth and I screamed. He was staring at me with those dark, monstrous eyes and his lipstick was smudged over his face. He was hissing like a cat.

Something sparkled in the night and I saw he was holding a coin between his fingers. He began to scratch it against the booth.

“It’s always the past with you, isn’t it, Alice.” He scratched harder, peeling away black slivers of glass. “Always the
fucking
past.”

“Don’t come in,” I cried, grabbing the door with white-knuckled hands. “Don’t you come in.”

Then I was awake, staring at the night pouring through the window. I crossed the room to fetch a glass of water. I turned on all the lights to chase away the shadows, half expecting The Spook to be waiting, but I was quite alone. When I looked into the mirror minutes from dawn, I saw a laceration across my neck. I touched it with my fingers and it opened like a wide red mouth.

I waited patiently at the window for Kieran to show. The afternoon dragged into evening.

He never appeared.

It was eight o’clock and night transformed gnarled trees and shuttered houses into grotesque silhouettes. I walked down the narrow staircase. I could hear the cough of the old man in the antique shop. I scrambled over clapboard fencing and kicked my way through the creepers. I saw The Spook standing under the shadow of the church. He was watching me intently, rubbing his pale hands together. When I looked again, he metamorphosed into a stone gargoyle right in front of my eyes. The lips were curled up in an eternal and abhorrent sneer. I shivered and pressed on.

I searched the cemetery, stooping to look behind and between tombstones. I couldn’t find him.

I stumbled upon the angel, brooding under those old willows. I gazed at her for a while. Then, as I turned right around, I saw a memorial sculpture I had never noticed before staring at me from tall yellow grass.

Recognition clicked as I met his dark eyes.

I stepped back and felt cold stone against my hands and realised he wasn’t looking at me at all.

I returned to my apartment and dug through some boxes under my bed. I found a Polaroid amongst my old clothes and books.

I crossed the cemetery. The moon was full and the stars were scattered like chips of glass. Behind the railings, the willows were thick and silent. I brushed away some dirt and twigs with the back of my hand. I knelt before my angel and raised the camera. As my fingertip poised over the switch, I wondered whether my pictures could ever be half as good as one of Kieran’s.

[Originally published in Kimota 13, Autumn 2000]

CONCENTING ADULTS

by Hugh Cook

Burton Hurst saw Matilda at the Electronic Grandmother launch. Her fluroescent pink name tag proclaimed her corporate handle, but her real name, of course, was unknown to him. A woman of phosphorescent beauty, the light gleaming from her white, white teeth.

“And you’re Paul,” she said, reading his corporate tag.

“Burton, actually,” he said, using his real name,

A mistake. In one fingersnap instant, he was blanked out of the launch. He found himself in a corporate lecture theatre, empty but for the cartoon figure of a Vigilant.

“You know the rules, Paul,” said the Vigilant.

“Sure,”  said Burton. “Mea culpa. It won’t happen again.”

The rules of Business-Business were simple. Business is business, and leave your personal life out of it.

However, a month later Burton saw Matilda again at the Pyongyang condominium launch. (Pyongyang? Sometime capital of North Korea. Available for development now that there were no more North Koreans. And, once you’ve made your house into a cheery home by installing an electronic grandmother, you’re going to want somewhere to put the real one, and what better place than an all-care automated condominium in Pyongyang? Right?)

“I’m going to be expert-systemed next month,” she said, all matter-of-fact.

Expert-systemed. That meant she would appear no more in the vitual world Business-Business. Instead, a computer would be doing her job. A computer model of the real woman would perform all the woman’s business functions, and any chance of ever meeting the real-and-truly flesh-in-the-flesh Matilda would be lost to Burton forever.

He petitioned Dave Glingor, his boss.

“I’m in love,” said Burton.

“In love!” said Dave. “What a nonsense! You’ve only seen her twice! Besides, you know how it is.”

Burton knew. Ever since the virtual T-Rex had eaten the kid in the Dinosaur Wonderland, initiating the virtual malpractice lawsuit, virtual corporations had turned mother-nanny cautious. Virtual rape lawsuits, virtual sexual harrassment lawsuits, molestation lawsuits - it had got to the point where the hard-hit corporations had no option but to compel their employees to behave like robots in suits.

“You know how it is,” said Dave. “If I so much as give you permission to ask her real name, that lays us wide open to a sexual harrassment suit.”

Checkmate. Or was it? No! There was one more thing to try. So Burton did it. Masquerading as the cockroach control man, he penetrated the headquarters of Business-Business, and burgled Matilda’s personal details.

Tuesday was her day off. And so, the next Tuesday, Burton headed out to her personal residence. The landscape through which he travelled was desolate, deserted but for pizza delivery vans. In a world of virtual work, virtual holidays and virtual education, hardly anyone was on the move during the day except the pizza delivery guys and the relocation trucks which handled the grandmothers.

Bing-bong. Anyone home? Maybe she’s still in her hook-up suite, doing a virtual day in virtual Hawaii. And maybe, too, she’s not like her Business-Business image. Maybe the real Matilda is 56 years old with hair like the Medussa. Then the door opened and - hey. There she was.

“Burton,” she said.

“You remember!” he said.

  “Of course I remember,” she said. “I was sure you’d get here. I’m... I’m attractive to men.”

Such confidence! It suggested - in a way that Burton did not entirely like - that Matilda had done this before.

“Who knows you’re here?” she said.

“Nobody,” said Burton. And then: “Matilda! I’ve waited for this moment for so long! Tell me - what’s your real name?”

“People like me don’t have real names,” said Matilda. “Come on in.”

She didn’t waste time. She dragged him inside and flung him on the floor. He grinned. So quick? This right-down-to-it stuff was amazing!

Then she bit him. Her long sharp fangs sliced into his neck. More surprised than shocked, he just lay there, listening to the vacuuming guzzle and suck of her hunger. By the time he was ready to start fighting, he was already too weak to fight back. Then she handcuffed him so he couldn’t fight any longer.

“You’re not going to get away with this,” he said. “Dave will figure it out.”

“Dave?” said Matilda. “Who is Dave?”

“I don’t think I want to tell you that,” said Burton, realising he might have made a mistake

“Share a woman’s privilege,” she said, putting some water on to boil. “Change your mind.”

After he talked, she used the last of the water to make a cup of coffee.

“Coffee,” she said, grinning at him as she lowered her mouth to his neck, “is very good for the digestion.”

A long while later, she finally raised her head again. He was very weak by then, and realised he was not far from passing out.

“So,” he said. “Will I become a vampire like you?”

“Somehow, I don’t think so,” she said, walking to the corner where she kept the chainsaw and the rubber sheets.

And she was right - he didn’t.

The next day, Dave Glingor saw a woman of phosphorescent beauty smiling at him at the Bubble of Joy design-a-baby conference. Her corporate handle was a bit clunky - Matilda - but the gleaming enthusiasm of her long-toothed smile more than compensated for the name.

[Originally published in Kimota 8, Spring 1998]

ON THE EDGE OF REALITY

by Davina Marsland

Have a corner I sit in. Corner of Mind. Almost free from madness and fear. Can explore every inch but day to day it shrinks. Darkness creeps in and gobbles up more space. Then when return to reality, am in little corner. This has a bed, a locker, a wardrobe, a door. Locked door. To keep me safe they say. Keep them safe they mean. Have no keys to the room. None for mind either. Push against gaping holes where the memories leak out. Fill them with something. Have this pen, this paper, can write. This way have right for something. Control pen. Don’t control life.

Would like to scream, cry, shout but this would only result in a needle. For my safety. When needle comes, I go. Into the dark. Where voices wail, hands stretch out for flesh. Can’t cry. For my safety, mustn’t make a sound. Instead I tell you a story, my story. Pretend it’s Oprah Winfrey. Pretend you can see me. Some can. Watching me. Mustn’t make a sound. Write story for you. Used to be like you. Had job, home, family, children. Katy and Peter and husband John. Happy. Played Happy Families. Then changed. Not like you now. Not happy. Have nothing except room in head. Live there. Edge of reality. Reality fading. One touch and it turns to dust. Katy and Peter dust. Killed. Dead. Waiting in dark. Not right they said. Not normal. Have to die. John said yes. Yes kill them and let him live. But killed too. Took me...

Want to know my story? Want to see my mind? Only blackness. Dust shrouds memories. Remember though, was coming. Not just guns. Chemicals to kill. In cans like hairspray. Not hairspray. Deathspray. Not us, our village safe from spray. But not water. Drink to survive. Drink to change. Not like you anymore. Contaminated. Flesh grey and all hair gone. Am thing, not person. Have changed, not for better. Change is not always for best. After war, cleansing. Had to be cleansed. Cleansed village. Everybody dead. Not me. Study me. Poke, probe, lift skin. ? Find out truth. Why I’m like this. Don’t talk to me much though. Scared of me. Touch with plastic gloves and cold eyes. Could catch my disease. Like to lock door and throw away key. Curiosity is the key, so keep turning lock. Can’t write now. Must go to my room. Pretend I am normal. Pretend I am like you.

4

Could call this day Tuesday, Monday. Anyday. Now all the same day. Have to keep writing. Writing keeps me sane. Every letter I form, makes me real. Room in head so small now. Scrunch into little ball and squeeze inside. Room like museum. Store faces and times. Dusty. Do the watchers see me writing? Is this an experiment? Give me tools to see if I can write still? Can write. Can feel too. Want to die. Think about John. He wanted life. See children dead for his life. Daddy. Daddy was scared. Daddies are meant to be brave. Not bargain with babies. Did they understand? Please God, let them not have understood. Only three and five. Not normal, they said. Normal to me. Beautiful to me. Mummy’s little bundles of joy. Not normal enough for this world. Did anybody escape? Friends, neighbours with their grey flesh and hairless bodies. Do they live in secret? Perform in a circus act as freaks? Are there reports on T.V. about monsters? About my friends? Or are they all dead? Ticked off the list, one by one. Stop now. Door opening.

3

Frightened. Frightened when hair started falling. Didn’t know what was happening. Couldn’t find out. War was everywhere. Had to keep in Village. Katy’s hair first. Baby hair. Then skin. Rough like sandpaper. Grey. Knew it was bad water. But needed water. Had to drink. Ugly. Became so ugly. Shocked when saw neighbours. Shocked when saw self. Broke mirror. Seven years bad luck. Bad luck happens in threes. Bad luck just happens... To anybody. Left alone at first. Months of wondering. Then came. Wearing clothes to protect. With guns. Came to help they said. One soldier too scared. Peter’s friend ran towards him. Shot him. Then we knew. Too late. Rounded up like cattle. Screams. Blood. Not red blood anymore. Yellow blood. Spewing over the ground. Took me. Who else? Is this place full of us? Or is there just me left.

2

HAVE TO LIVE. CAN’T DIE. IF DIE THEY CAN PRETEND. PRETEND NOTHING IS WRONG. CRAWL INTO HOLE AND THINK. CAN’T THINK NOW. HAVE TO LIVE. AM HERE TO TELL STORY. WHEN I WAS CHILD, LIVED WITH MOTHER. SHE SAID I COULD DO ANYTHING. BELIEVED. BELIEVED IN GOOD. GOT BIG. GOT JOB. DID WHAT WANTED. TAUGHT. TAUGHT ENGLISH. TAUGHT GOOD THINGS, NOT VIOLENCE. TAUGHT LOVE. SOLDIER KILLED PETER’S FRIEND, MY PUPIL. BEST MARKS IN CLASS. NICE BOY. DID HE KNOW ME? DID HE SEE HIS TEACHER? OR DID HE SEE MONSTER? AM MONSTER. STILL BELIEVE. SOMETIMES. STILL THINK THAT THERE IS GOOD. SOMETIMES. NOT REALITY. ONLY PRETEND. LIKE CHILD WHO MAKES BELIEVE. THIS IS END. SICK OF LIFE. SICK OF PEOPLE WHO LOOK AT ME. LIKE YOU. AM LIKE YOU. COULD HAVE BEEN YOU. FEEL. THINK. CRY. LIKE YOU. DIFFERENT BUT SAME. STOP NOW. THINK NOW. MOURN LOSS.

1

LOOKED FOR ROOM. ROOM GONE. CRY FOR ROOM. MUSTN’T CRY. BIG GIRLS DON’T CRY. FOR MY SAFETY. MUSTN’T CRY. MUSTN’T MAKE SOUND. CAN’T SEE FACES NOW. CAN’T REMEMBER FACE FROM BEFORE. ONLY GREY FACE. FALL DOWN. MUSTN’T CRY. FALL DOWN AND STAY DOWN. MUSTN’T CRY. TEETER ON EDGE. THEN FALL. CAN’T TELL WHAT IS TRUTH. AM I MAD? CAN’T TELL. ONLY TELL THIS STORY. YOU DECIDE.

[Originally published in Kimota 5, Winter 1996]