Tomas (8 page)

Tomas is escorted to the courtyard wall. It's one of those fine old terracotta-coloured Mediterranean walls which has seen much use over the centuries. The sergeant offers Tomas the opportunity to speak and a blindfold. He politely declines both.

Tomas straightens his back, legs apart, placing his right foot forward. He clasps his hands behind him, his left hand holding his right wrist. His free palm is held loose, open. He pulls his shoulders back sharply, then slackens them so they come to a comfortable position somewhere between standing to attention and standing at ease. He raises his chin so that his head is pointing up, his eyes over the line of the firing squad. Finally, he lowers his eyes just a fraction, until they are level with the soldiers' heads.

The order to ready the line is given. Tomas takes a deep breath.

‘Present!' rings out in the now silent air.

‘Aim!'

Tomas thinks of his golden angel and the first moment he saw her, when time stood still.

There's a bang, squawk and furious fluttering of feathers. The buzzard has neck-bobbed his own hat and the vulture's off simultaneously. They flap about in the dust arguing over ownership.

The tension is broken. But Tomas doesn't mind. He was beginning to find the situation pompous. Better for there to be a comic touch at the end.

‘Fire!'

The crowd gives a tremendous roar. Millions of network viewers leap up in unison to cheer. And far away in an icy lair the Great Bear smiles silently.

Pigs can fly
…

A little known fact about pigs is that they can jump. Not high enough to warrant establishing a porcine Olympics, but to an altitude that is quite impressive given the pig's physiognomy and more than sufficient for the purpose Tereza has in mind.

Why, it may be asked, do pigs jump? The answer is simple. Food. The word was invented for them. Given the prospect of food a pig will go to any lengths, including vaulting into the atmosphere, to eat. And what food ensures maximum lift in an airborne pig? Truffles.

Tereza's quest for truffle-jumping pigs involves only a minor detour to Provence on her return to Paris from the Riviera. She strikes a bargain with a local farmer, which includes the provision of a pig-beating staff, and sets off down the motorway with a truck-load of squealing aviators.

On arrival in the capital she meets with an artist friend who has agreed to lend her his studio on the Left Bank. This is attached to a garage via an automatic roller shutter, through which Tereza herds her new friends.

Over the next few days Tereza makes frenzied preparations. First, the studio is plastered floor to ceiling with black plastic sheets, creating the impression of the inside
of a square dustbin. Next, she installs lava lamps and other psychedelic light effects, transforming the dustbin into a disco for slow dancers. Finally, she hires a motorised builder's hoist with all the accoutrements. The hoist, used mainly for transporting bricks to first-floor level, consists of a platform attached to a mechanical arm, which is operated by an impressive array of levers.

Tereza also acquires a harness similar to the one that was defeated by Boss Olgarv. But Tereza's version is guaranteed by the Japanese cousins of the Teutonic robots. It will perform any task required.

Tereza contacts Shit TV to borrow some equipment and agrees to give the network exclusive rights to the forthcoming show. She despises Shit TV for its role in Tomas's death and regards the network as her mortal foe, but life has taught her to be practical, and she remembers Tomas's lesson that sometimes a small evil leads to a greater good.

Her final task is one of omittance: she doesn't feed the pigs for a week. By the end of it, they are ready to leap to the stars in search of lunch.

With all her arrangements in place, Tereza dials a number.

‘That evening – I can think of nothing else,' she says. ‘You afforded me the greatest pleasure of my life. I want to pay you back.'

‘Where and when?' Hank asks.

Moments later Hank is en route to an urgent meeting on the Left Bank. He telephones his wife from the car. ‘I'm working like a dog. Don't wait up.'

When he arrives at the studio, Tereza tells Hank
through the intercom that she's been expecting him. He takes the fateful step through the magic portal. Dancing colours beckon him through an open door at the end of an entrance hall.

Hank's heart begins to race, goes into shock on seeing Tereza.

She is dressed top to toe in a single black plastic garment, which clings to her body like a wet rag. She stands with legs apart, shoulders back and hands glued to her hips. As Hank's eyes adjust to the shifting colours of the pleasure chamber he sees in clear relief the parts of Tereza's body that are exposed through gaps in the outfit. Eyes, nose and the sensual lips peep through slits in the hood; breasts point upwards, forced through two tight openings; in place of a plastic crotch, he can see the triangle of her sex. Were Hank a jumping pig and Tereza a truffle located on the farthest star in the galaxy, he would reach her in one leap.

‘Strip,' says Tereza.

Seconds later, Hank is her naked slave, in front of a bank of concealed cameras.

‘Lie face down on the platform,' she commands.

He prostrates himself.

Without ceremony, Tereza straps him into the harness. She touches the parts of his body she wants him to lift or move and fixes the straps around his chest, arms and legs. She is meticulous, making minute adjustments on the harness fastenings until his incarceration is complete.

Three words describe Hank now – naked, trussed and prone.

Tereza steps off the platform and swings its mechanical arm, to which is fixed a dangling length of chain, over her victim. She attaches the chain to a loop at the back of the harness and tugs it as hard as she pulled the bacon ball a few weeks earlier. There is no doubt that the harness will hold.

Lying with his head to one side on the platform, Hank attempts to say something. But Tereza doesn't look or listen. With calm concentration she engages the control arm. She flicks a switch and a mechanical noise signifies that the machine is alive. She presses another and Hank rises into the air. When he is chest-high off the ground she presses ‘stop'. Hank is left swinging like a caged captive in some medieval contraption.

If Tereza were to be offered her life in exchange for remembering one word of the banalities spoken by Hank at this moment she would lose. She's an avenging angel now, sword unsheathed. Except that her sword is a brush, which she dips into a large pot of truffle oil.

Lying naked and horizontal four feet up in the air, gravity has a predictable effect on Hank's penis, which Tereza proceeds to paint. She gives it several coats, before stepping back to admire her artistry.

Tereza before – dazed, disgusted, sprawled on the floor spitting shit from her mouth. Hank now – ecstatic, euphoric, suspended naked in the air with his genitals coated in truffle oil. Next door a room full of truffle-obsessed jumping pigs, who have eaten nothing for a week.

A demented disco and a rabid raptor
…

It's the series final of ‘Dwarf Slam Disco' on Shit TV and the Great Bear can't be disturbed. Even the Iranian Hawk and Boss Olgarv must wait outside for the show to end.

The scene opens in a cavernous circular arena with brick walls, a wooden floor and dim lighting overhead. A big buzzing crowd is seated in tiered rows running up to a pitched roof. After the American commentator delivers a long introduction, the lights fade and the arena's great entrance portal is flung open. A spectral beam floods the floor as from a spaceship door opening. Instantly music starts to pulse and a huge disco rig descends from the ceiling, flashing in time to the rhythm. This continues for a full five minutes, while the commentator builds the tension further with ‘Are you ready?' questions. The crowd starts to chant: ‘Slam! Slam! Slam!'

After a while, darting shadows can be seen in the light streaming through the entrance portal. At first these appear indistinct but slowly they take shape and the crowd, straining forward, sees the outline of little mobile figures. And as the music's volume and tempo doubles, a thousand rollerblading dwarves stream into the arena to the crowd's tumultuous applause.

For the next ten minutes the dwarves circulate clockwise around the space at great speed while the crowd claps in rhythm. As they pass floor-mounted cameras and microphones they make menacing faces and nasty noises. These are transmitted to giant screens and speakers suspended overhead: the crowd cheers the more offensive offerings.

The lights fade momentarily, then go out altogether, plunging the arena into darkness. The crowd explodes in a frenzy of excitement and the commentary rises to fever pitch. This is it. Only seconds to go.

An eardrum-bursting klaxon sounds, multi-coloured disco lights ignite, music shakes the walls. The crowd erupts to its feet as the dwarves slam into each other – fists flying, heads butting, legs kicking, teeth biting, elbows shoving: an orgy of pain and violence. From above they resemble a huge catch of fish, just landed, thrashing desperately on a fisherman's deck; a mosaic of a short, brutal, ugly battle. As stretcher bearers carry off the casualties, the mass of rollerbladers is trimmed to a core.

These are the top slammers, two dozen or so in total, expert with their legs and heads. A savage-looking dwarf, with blood streaming from his forehead, pivots on his blade and, incredibly, brings an airborne boot into the face of an opponent. He then swings round to defend against an attacker, arches back as if on a spring, and smashes his forehead into his opponent's nose. The crowd's ecstasy of clapping, cheering and chanting now drowns out the commentary. Ten minutes later just two dwarves are left standing in a pool of mess and blood.

This is the final slam. The dwarves take position at either end of the arena, pawing the floor like bulls about to charge. They snarl, slather and shout abuse. The klaxon sounds and the dwarves take off towards each other at tremendous speed, swinging low on their skates. As they reach the centre, they squat down before leaping high into the air like uncoiled springs. Their foreheads clash with a
bone-splintering crunch which echoes in the hall. One little body now lies slumped. The winner is paraded around the arena to ecstactic cheers and applause.

Only now are the Iranian Hawk and Boss Olgarv admitted to the Great Bear's lair. The raptor squawks uncontrollably and flaps about the chamber shitting, his feathers flying. Boss Olgarv manoeuvres his detachable stomach into a corner to watch and listen.

‘The pipeline between our two nations is a success,' the Great Bear begins. ‘In addition to the technology we've provided and our diplomatic support, you have my thanks.'

The Iranian Hawk flaps over to a table, sending a lamp crashing to the ground. Spooked, he begins thrashing around in circles, squawking dementedly.

‘But for the final plan to succeed,' the Great Bear continues, ‘the pipeline must be extended. You understand this, don't you?' He pauses awaiting a response. ‘It's critical for …'

Another squawk cuts him off. Inexplicably, the Iranian Hawk is lying on his back in the middle of the room, flapping his wings and making involuntary head movements. His pupils dilate and his beak opens and closes in short sharp spasms. He appears to be suffering a fit.

‘I must stress,' the Great Bear continues calmly, ‘that without the extension …'

The Iranian Hawk gives an ear-piercing shriek and is airborne once again. The Great Bear signals to his attendants, who roll back the boulder to allow the demented bird to escape.

Boss Olgarv steps from the corner to begin his interview.

‘Sir, may I begin with a request?' he asks. ‘I'm aware of the pipeline of which you speak but not its extension. Enlighten me a little about the plan. The knowledge will fortify my resolve.'

‘Revealing the final plan,' the Great Bear replies, ‘is out of the question. But I can put some points into context. As you're aware, our strategy is to subvert the West by flooding it with money. Clearly, the greater the funds at our disposal the more powerful our ability to spread our nihilistic message.'

‘I see,' says Boss Olgarv, ‘but this only influences a few – the oversized-collar wearers and dancers with champagne bottles.'

‘Nonsense,' replies the Great Bear. ‘Take football. You yourself own a team. “Ballers”, with their vulgar life-styles, infantile opinions and getting-away-with-it abuse of women, are an excellent symbol of the perversion of values and culture. What young Westerner doesn't dream of becoming a footballer? You think it's the ball he wants?'

‘But how are these values to spread?' asks Boss Olgarv. ‘How is the money supply to endure?'

‘That's my business with the Iranian Hawk,' replies the Great Bear. ‘But soon the pipeline will be extended, the venom required to execute the final plan prepared. Your task is to devise a means of spreading it across the West in conjunction with my general, King Rat. A manly weapon, something that borrows from our past but embodies our new virility.'

‘A great honour,' replies Boss Olgarv. ‘I shall design it personally. A final question, if I may.' He pauses and the Great Bear nods his consent. ‘Why was Tomas's liquidation so vital?'

‘Tomas was dangerous,' replies the Great Bear. ‘A celestial maniac. He understood what was wrong with the world and sensed our plan. He might have ruined it. What if he had started a counter-reaction – an age of reason and moderation? He had to be stopped. Are you certain he's dead?'

‘He was shot at point blank range with five bullets,' Boss Olgarv replies.

‘Nevertheless, take no chances,' the Great Bear says. ‘Send him a death dream.'

Tereza's magic box
…

Tereza doesn't have the Great Bear's power; hers is of a different sort. Whereas he commands a great army of followers, Tereza presides over a small circle of artists. But thankfully a few scientists exist at the outer reaches of this circle. It's to one of these that she now turns in her hour of need.