D46
D46
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There is an astronaut floating, seemingly helpless, in space. His
life support system is good for an indeterminate but limited
time. There is absolutely no chance of rescue because nobody
knows he is there. I do not know why he is there. His name, at
this point, cannot be revealed.
A Zen Buddhist, while travelling outside his body, discovers
that he harbours a deep desire to inflict pain. The thought
itself does not disturb him, but he is mildly disturbed by the
fact that this observation seems to help transport him to a
higher level of consciousness than he has previously
experienced. His body can be found on a small commune in
Wales and its name is Joseph Chow.
A housewife in Basingstoke, otherwise the picture of
respectability, drinks more than is good for her. She does it, it
would seem, purely to spite her body. But that is not the real
reason. Only she knows why; I could guess, but she is entitled
to a degree of privacy. That privacy, however, does not
extend as far as her name. Caroline Vaughan, take a bow.
A patient in a mental hospital is locked in a padded cell for the
public good. He stops banging his head against the floor,
overcome by a moment of total lucidity. He sees stars briefly,
but not as a result of his headbanging. He nods sagely,
decisively, as if he has seen a way forward. Then goes back to
banging his head. His name is not, at present, Joseph Chow or
Caroline Vaughan. Nor is he an astronaut. Our only means of
identifying him is by his cell number: D46.
QUESTION: What is the relationship between our four
protagonists? (A clue - they are not related in any way, and
have never met.)
QUESTION: What is the way forward, and can we take a
madman's word for it? (Why not, you may ask? We let
politicians run our world.) And if we do, will it ease the
persistent pain of Caroline's bottles?
PRIME COMPUTATION: The astronaut is soon to die...
*
Caroline was uneasy. She hurt. She felt the astronaut's fear,
and it made her uneasy.
"What astronaut?" she asked out loud. Her husband did not
reply. The game show on TV absorbed his attention as a
sponge attracts water. The living room door opened, and she
turned towards it in slow motion. The astronaut, still wearing a
space-suit, waved to her from the open doorway before pulling
the door closed again.
"What astronaut?" she asked, more firmly this time. Her
husband did not reply. The TV wore the trousers in their
home.
She did not ask again, but instead poured herself a stiff gin.
And then another.
*
When she got into the car to go shopping, the astronaut was
already sitting in the passenger seat, waiting. She could not see
his face, obscured as is was behind the mirrored visor of his
helmet. He acknowledged her presence with a sort of wave-
come-benediction, then returned to the problem in hand: trying
to adjust an oxygen valve on the front of his suit. The heavy
gauntlets he was wearing hampered his movements.
Starting the engine, she reversed out of the drive and set out
for town. She stopped at a junction, looking to her right for a
gap in the traffic. When she turned to her left, the astronaut
was gone. Caroline didn't seem to notice. She had bargain
pack fresh 'n' frozen peas on her mind.
The supermarket was crowded, but Caroline's mind wasn't.
She drifted up and down the aisles, filling her trolley with
mechanical detachment. Fish fingers on special offer this week.
She thought of the astronaut. Flour, eggs, butter, milk, gin.
*
The doctor sees me at the same time every day to establish a
routine in my life. Well, he says doctor, I say trick-cyclist; you
know, head doctor. I don't think much of a routine that
involves being strapped to a couch, but there you go.
I hate the doctor. I hate the male nurses that bring me here. I
daren't turn my back on any of them. I've seen the way they
look at me sometimes.
All I ever do is stare at the ceiling, counting the cracks. He
never seems to mind when I don't speak to him, just carries on
as usual. Oh, how the little fat shit bored me. Him and his
microphones and his scribbling were the only thing that kept
me insane. But oh, the alternatives. Better that he keep me this
way than have my thoughts travel in straight lines all the time.
I don't like what's in my mind. All the time I'm a certified,
head-banging psycho I'm safe. It's when I get an attack of the
straights that I get frightened. Something comes creeping out
and puts pictures and ideas in my brain. The astronaut is a very
good example. I don't want to talk about it. Or think about it.
He asked me what sort of pictures I saw. That shook me; I
didn't even realise that I'd been talking out loud. The line
between straight and wacky was getting fuzzier. If I told him
about the astronaut he'd probably..... I don't know what. What
could be worse than this? At least I'm off shock therapy at last.
Oh, the pictures...
*
Joseph, travelling outside his body, has stopped on a mountain
plateau. He is elated and feels he is on the verge of true
awareness. Until now, he thinks, he has just participated. It
had been sufficient simply to exist. The world had been laid
around him in it's natural state of chaos/order, and he had
existed within the machine. Soon he would stand outside and
observe. From out of the corner of his eye he notices a small
insect inching it's way towards him. Placidly, gently, he reaches
out and squashes it beneath his thumb. And He sees that it is
good. This should not, he knows, be possible as without his
flesh and blood body he has no substance. He allows a tremor
of excitement to run across his shoulders. The presence of the
astronaut is getting stronger now. He is starting to get
occasional glimpses through the astronaut's eyes; a
frighteningly deep nothing, punctuated only by bright, bright
stars. If he let go of reality he could hear the gentle hum of the
life-support system, the tautness across his chest as he tries to
breath the oxygen-starved gas that now passes for air. He let
go.
*
Space. The final frontier. CRAP! Black, black, stars and more
black. Space is deep. I think the worst thing about being out
here is the boredom. It's boring, dull. Radio's dead. I'm dead.
You're dying. It's the way of the world, the way of space....
Wish I could remember what I'm doing here. Or how long.
There's no day, no night out here. Each hour lasts a thousand
years, and I've been here for a million.
God, I'm frightened of the dark.
*
JUST YOU WAIT AND SEE. I'LL SHOW YOU.
*
Caroline is preparing a green salad for the gardener's lunch. He
is the son of a neighbour and does odd jobs up and down the
street to pay for parts for the motorbike that he is perpetually
rebuilding. He is the stuff of which bored, lonely housewifely
dreams are apparently made.
Caroline has several fantasies involving this shaggy-permed-
bleached-blond-haired, blue eyed Adonis with the rippling
muscles and the ripped, greasy T-shirt and jeans. I don't think I
need go into details; imagination is enough. At least, Caroline's
is.
She would no more engage in an affair with this young boy
than she would fart out loud.
The knife was sharp, and she felt powerful with it in her hand.
She understood how people must feel with guns, how easy it
must be to run amok and kill without anger or reason. She
drew the blade slowly, purposefully across the palm of her
hand and watched the blood run into the sink.
Joseph has been in his trance for nearly fourteen days. All his
bodily functions have slowed to minimum. His heart is beating,
on average, once every twenty-three seconds. His respiration
is so shallow as to be virtually unmeasurable. His body is cold
to the touch. A less than meticulous doctor would pronounce
him dead.
Our lunatic companion has a slight headache, but it does not
seem to be bothering him. He is discussing the possibilities of a
career in politics with his shrink, but he is not really fooled.
Inside, he is living a fantasy in which the doctor reaches out
and strangles him, giggling as he does so. His mind's eye has a
clear image of the doctor, eyeballs bulging, the vein on his high
brow distended and pulsing, his hands shaking with the effort.
Would a history of mental malaise prevent such a career? The
doctor seems to think that it is almost a prerequisite. D46
laughs, pleasantly and easily, while compiling a mental list of
assassinated politicians. The doctor smiles. Is he making
progress, he wonders?
*
D46 has noticed an indefinable change in the atmosphere. It is
dark outside. It is very late. On impulse he tries the door and is
surprised to find that it swings open at his touch. The corridor
is softly lit and deserted. Although he desperately wants to, he
finds himself unwilling to venture outside his padded nest,
eager to leave yet afraid of the possible consequences. He is a
confused child, and starts to cry.
The astronaut takes him gently by the hand and leads him out,
out of the cell and through the maze of corridors and stairs
that lead eventually to the real world. Using the quieter routes
through the sprawling building takes a long time. Long enough
for the boy to grow back into a man. He did not flinch when
the cold wind and fine rain of the outside finally struck his
face. For this was the way it had to be. The way of space?
*
The astronaut had gone away, leaving him all alone. He was
frightened all over again, and did not know what to do or
where to go. He felt certain that the astronaut had told him to
do something, but could not remember what. He was to
prepare something. He must make things ready. That was all
that had stuck, but he felt quite sure that the rest would come
back to him soon. Well, fairly sure.
Resisting the urge to panic, he struck off down a dark side
street. He was freezing cold, the rain making his clothes stick
clammily to his body and flap uncomfortably around his legs.
The streets were deserted, for which he gave a short prayer of
thanks. He walked for many miles, always seeking out the
darkest streets but keeping a fearful eye on the shadows. The
sun would be up soon, and he had to hide.
He slid down an alleyway and, surveying a row of dreary back
yards, decided that a garden shed would be the best that he
could hope for. At least he would have a chance to dry out a
little, maybe get some sleep even.
The first shed he tried was unlocked.
*
Joseph, upon re-entering his body, found that it had been
moved. He was now laying flat on his back. He could see
nothing, and thought that maybe he had gone blind. He found
movement very limited, not just because his long unused
muscles complained vigorously, but because he was laying in a
snug wooden box. A less than meticulous doctor had
pronounced him dead. It was a small but picturesque funeral.
The gaily clad mourners chanted mantras and read poetry.
Then returned to their camp to grieve and get stoned.
Disallowing himself the extravagance of panic, Joseph knew
that if he was to have any chance of saving his body, he must
first save his soul. Abandon ship. Not daring to use his
customary deep breathing exercises to attain trance for fear of
exhausting the limited oxygen supplies, he forced mind and
body into the state they had left only minutes before. It was
surprisingly easy, but he sensed that he was being helped.
Again he could hear the rasping of laboured breathing, and see
the cosmos stretched out before him.
Everything went black for a while. The astronaut made him
aware of his role. The reward would be the safe return of his
body.
*
It was colder than death in the shed when he woke up. His
clothes were still damp against his body, chilling him further. It
was light, but he had no way of knowing the time. Wiping
away the grime from a corner of the window, he peered out
across fifty feet or so of neat, well tended garden into the
picture window of an equally neat kitchen. A young woman
was inside, preparing breakfast. He bit into his finger to stop
his teeth chattering, fearing that she would hear him.
*
D46 had seen no signs of movement from his vantage point in
the shed for over an hour, when he observed the young woman
putting on a coat, presumably to go out. Summoning the last
vestiges of his courage and his last reserves of strength, he
exited the shed and made his way to the back door of the
house. He was hypothermic, he had to have warmth. He had to
have warm, dry clothing and a coat. He had to eat. He had to
live.
Contrary to his expectations, the door was not locked.
Heading straight for the fridge he pulled out a large pork pie
and the remains of a roast chicken. Gnawing at the latter, he
made a brief inspection of the house. He made sure to keep
away from the windows and paused only at the control for the
central heating, which he turned to maximum. His teeth were
chattering noisily and he was relieved to find a wardrobe
containing a selection of male clothing in an upstairs bedroom.
It did not take long to discover that their rightful owner was of
a similar height and build. Life is full of convenient
coincidences, don't you think? He was just starting to warm up
as he was admiring himself in a full length mirror - jeans, sweat
shirt, casual trainers, topped off with a stylish (and expensive)
leather bomber jacket - when he heard the front door being
opened.
It was not, as he had been expecting, the woman he had seen
through the window, but a man who strode confidently up the
stairs, two at a time. D46 slid back into the bedroom and hid
behind the door. The man went into the bathroom and relieved
himself noisily, whistling as he did so, before returning
downstairs and out of sight.
D46 faced a dilemma. He knew that the astronaut required that
the house be empty, but he also knew that the man downstairs
would kill him if he realised that there was a stranger in the
house. If D46 made a sound, the man downstairs would take a
carving knife from the kitchen drawer, race up the stairs in a
frenzy and cut his throat. He'd seen the very knife when he was
downstairs earlier. He thought he heard a creak on the stairs
and cowered back into a corner, convinced that he had given
himself away somehow. The front door slammed. Almost an
hour passed before D46 convinced himself that he was alone in
the house.
*
It's Karma. I think did something really bad in a previous life,
and now it's my turn. I know I shall die by violence. I have
always known. I try not to let it bother me. It's just that I don't
like to take chances. I don't like walking near tall buildings,
because a suicide might choose that particular moment to
jump, and land on me. These things happen. I've read a lot.
I try to avoid crossing busy roads but cars hold a fascination
for me. When I was younger, when I was free, I used to drive
to blow the shit out of my head. Always to the limit, just
seeing how far I could take it. A few times I went too far and
span out. Once I rolled a car. The feelings I got when I lost
control, at that moment when your mind freezes and screams
"This is IT", were indescribable. Like an all-over orgasm. I like
American cars. Big, chromed, blatant whores of cars.
Voluptuously cheap trash posing as class. I love it.
I used to cruise around looking for accidents. I really got a
buzz out of visiting car breakers and sitting in the written-off
wrecks, particularly head-on crashes, and pretending that I was
the driver and imagining the impact; checking possible points
of contact for traces of blood. Or watching those films of car
safety tests where dummies are strapped into the driver's seat
and the car driven into an obstacle at speed. Speed kills, speed
thrills.
I'm really quite a rational person. I just have to get a grip on
my paranoia. I know that this problem is not insurmountable.
But, as they say, just because you're paranoid doesn't mean
they're not out to get you.
And I'm not D46. I do have a name, you know.
It used to be good. Life, I mean. The drugs helped, of course,
they always do, but they were icing, not cake. But then I've
always had this feeling that everything I touch turns to shit.
But life's like that. Life may be a bowl of cherries, but every
cherry has a stone. The world is my oyster. Seafood makes me
sick.
I need to be planning something. Someone told me that the
more you plan the luckier you get. I'm not sure what that
means, but you've got to plan. I mean, I've got to plan. That
woman will be back soon, or the man; her husband? I can't kill
them, but I must, but I can't. I have to have a plan.
*
If the astronaut had a plan, he was telling D46 none of it.
*
Nobody takes me seriously any more. To him I'm just good old
Caroline: cleans the house, cooks the meals, opens her legs on
demand. None of the neighbours can talk for more than thirty
seconds on any subject that doesn't involve crochet, cookery
or who's screwing who. None of the people I come into
contact with know what I'm about. TV feeds me a constant
barrage of daytime slime, programs made for morons because
that's what the powers that be think women are. And the worst
part is that I'm becoming one. The boy who does my gardening
is about the only one who expects me to have a brain. He's got
a term for some of the others around here - Airheads. It fits.
And It's happening to me.
Things don't get any easier just because I've got a stupid
astronaut trying to sell me the world. He doesn't expect me to
think, either. just do as I'm told. Like another bloody Airhead.
*
I can't trust any of the sons of bitches. Fucking puppets, but
when I pull the strings I can feel them tug back. The only one I
can rely on is the fucking headcase, and his brain is full of
holes. The hippie freak has too much control of himself, but I
need him. I fixed that son of a bitch good, though. He doesn't
want to float on the astral whatever forever, and I've got his
body. And that suburban bitch is too bloody strong willed. She
doesn't know it, but she's got the power. Bitch. But as soon as
D46 gets things ready for me I can fix her too. If he
remembers what to do. Bastard.
I can't stay out here much longer, but I can only go back there
for short periods, sometimes moments. But I can suck their
power. I am the predator.
*
Caroline was growing restless, and she knew that she was not
wholly responsible for this. Frustration was welling up inside
her, frustration with the impotence of her life and anger aimed
at the astronaut. He thought he understood her, and was using
this to try to bend her to his will. And the worst part was that
there was no bending involved at all, she had no self-will
where he was concerned. She was too indifferent to bother
with resistance.
Her hand was throbbing now, and she almost wished that she
hadn't done it. The boy would be coming in for his lunch
shortly, and she didn't think he'd appreciate the pool of blood
that had gathered in the creases of his lettuce.
*
The time for playing is over. Too fucking right it is, they've
made me wait out here long enough. But it's my turn to be
puppetmaster now. They're primed and ready. Now it's my
turn.
NOW IT'S MY FUCKING TURN.
*
Caroline has had enough. Her hand hurt like hell. The
gardener, while bandaging her hand, had called her a silly cow.
And he hadn't even eaten the salad, even after she'd rewashed
the lettuce. And to cap it all her husband had just called to tell
her that THE BOSS was coming back to dinner with his wife,
and to prepare something special. Two bloody hours until they
got back, and she had to come up with something special.
How bloody suburban. She'd give him something bloody
special alright. Where's the gin?
*
D46 was close to cracking up. Time was passing. Through the
net curtains he could see schoolchildren making their way
home. The rightful owner almost certainly would have a gun.
They all do these days, you know. And they're not afraid to
use them. He'll be home soon.
He could stand it no more. He ran down the stairs, through the
kitchen and out through the back door. The astronaut,
however, blocked his exit. He laid his hand on D46's shoulder
in a fatherly way, but the strength of his grip was less kind.
D46 knew that nothing that could befall him at the hands of
another man could equal what the astronaut was threatening.
This house was the right one. It was needed. And it had to be
vacated tonight.
D46 returned to the house, head bowed in resignation.
*
Let's face it. Joseph is in shit up to his neck. He doesn't think
he can trust the astronaut, but he has no real choice in the
matter.
*
In the Vaughan household, Caroline was working on
'something special'. She gave a derisory snort, followed by a
generous mouthful of gin.
By the time the boss arrived, Caroline had polished off almost
half a bottle. She emerged smiling from the steam of the
kitchen to a stream of conversational banality. Lovely house,
pretty dress, must be proud of your husband, indispensable in
the office, wonderful weather for the time of year (FUCK
OFF!). Caroline smiled and poured herself another drink. And
another.
The party was not a total success. Caroline drank. Caroline
was drunk. Caroline didn't like the boss or his wife, and made
little effort to hide the fact, ignoring her husband's efforts to
silence her. Caroline became drunk to the point of being
abusive, although she never allowed the smile to leave her
face. The boss left early, his wife claiming a headache. Her
husband escorted them to their car, all the time apologising for
her 'illness'. Anticipating the row to come, Caroline slipped
from the house and, while backs were turned, stole into her
own car.
She waited until her husband returned to the house, then
started the engine and drove off into the starlit darkness.
*
D46 giggled quietly to himself. "Make it a good one, baby."
The astronaut said nothing. She would do what was expected
of her.
Joseph had problems of his own. He couldn't really care less
what happened to her.
*
The crash was predictable. Caroline, possibly trying to escape
the feeling that she was living in slow motion, had headed for
the motorway and was driving recklessly fast. "Airheads," she
screamed out loud, then swerved towards the concrete support
leg of an overhead footbridge.
As she hit she saw her bonnet crumple and fold into an origami
nightmare. She felt the body and chassis distort, causing the
windscreen to shatter, throwing spears of glass into her face
and eyes. The engine block tore loose from it's mountings and
forced it's way back through the firewall, devouring her legs.
Her seatbelt was stretched to its maximum, the pressure of her
body against it almost too much. Her ribs surrendered first.
"Still in slow motion," she gasped through the pain. It was an
old car and the steering wheel had snapped off as she tried to
brace herself against it, breaking her wrists. The broken end of
the steering column came back, seeming almost to kiss her
breast before forcing a passage into her chest and lovingly
penetrating a lung. Her head jerked violently against the door
frame. All movement stopped. All was silent. The astronaut
bent to peer in through the hole where a window used to be.
He reached in and wiped away the crimson froth that was
accumulating on her lips, to see it replaced almost instantly.
Paramedics administered drugs and drips while firemen peeled
the steel skin from around her. Nobody saw the astronaut
leaning over the footbridge handrail, watching, panting.
*
Caroline is taking a holiday. She has, metaphorically speaking,
packed her bags and run for the hills. Her physical body is
doing it's level best to keep a life support machine busy. The
rest, her soul, spirit, psyche, id or whatever you feel happiest
calling it, has locked itself in a mental closet and is refusing to
come out. The astronaut is with her. He occasionally flicks
switches in her mind that in turn register on dials on the
machine that thinks it is keeping her alive. This keeps the
doctors happy and gives them figures to enter onto the chart at
the foot of her bed. The doctor on duty this evening is Dr.
Mark Wilson. He is thirty-four and has a special interest in
head injuries. He smiles as he scribbles a few extra notes into
her file. Dr. Wilson thinks that Caroline is an 'interesting case'
that can help further his career.
*
Dr. Wilson has got another thought coming.
*
Mr. Vaughan has been to visit Caroline. He is no longer angry,
but filled with dutiful guilt and remorse. He has spoken to Dr.
Wilson who, while telling him that Caroline may never regain
consciousness, indicated that there were hopeful signs. Too
early to say for certain, further tests, doing everything in their
power, the usual technocliche medispeak went in one ear and
out the other without pausing for breath.
After exhausting the usual inane platitudes, Mr. Vaughan made
his excuses and left.
*
Life is a Cabaret, Old Chum....
*
D46 is sat just inside the front door, a cricket bat cradled in his
arms. Who'll be home first, him or her? Or together? Shit,
please not together. The light is fading outside, schoolkids
whooping and wailing, sounds of traffic increasing as people
make their way home. The gloom enveloped him, gradually
deepening, until the streetlamp outside flickered on, suffusing
the hallway with orange.
Joseph is sat on the stairs, although D46 cannot see him.
Joseph could actually see the aura of tension around D46,
could feel the violence waiting to be unleashed. He moved
across the hall and through the front door, like a ghost.
*
Dr. Wilson is looking at an encephalographic printout with
deepening interest. The peaks and troughs of the thin ink line
are teasing him, hinting at brain activity that just should not be
occurring. He is not to know that Caroline is not alone in
there.
The astronaut is engrossed, testing circuits, remapping
memory, reprogramming portions of the system to enhance its
performance. Caroline has been reduced to being merely a
tool, a gadget. Immobilise, modernise, utilise. That's the way
to do it. Damn, but she was uncooperative.
*
Joseph watched the couple walk up the path, laughing at some
private joke. A part of him was yearning to hear the slap of
willow against bone, but he was not quite there yet. He
reached into their minds as they walked, pushing, influencing,
turning. They stopped at the door.
"Let's not go in," he said. "Let's do something wild."
She smiled. " I was just thinking the same thing. Let's go to a
hotel."
"In Wales," he was laughing now, "Like the time we...."
"Yes! Let's do it. Now." They turned and almost ran back to
their car.
D46 had heard the conversation through the glass of the door.
He and Joseph sighed simultaneously, one a sign of relief, the
other of regret.
The house was secure. The astronaut had established a base.
*
Oh man, it felt so good when I didn't have to kill them. It
always really upsets me when I have to hurt someone.
But they give me no choice, you have to know that. They box
me into a corner and make it impossible for me to do anything
but move them out of the way, if you know what I mean.
You do know what I mean, don't you?
*
The astronaut, D46 and Joseph are sat in the back of a black
cab. Their destination is the hospital.
It is a curious situation. The driver can only see D46, D46
cannot see Joseph (and as a consequence keeps putting his
hands through Joseph's body, which Joseph finds irritating),
and Joseph could see everyone if he could really give a fuck,
which he couldn't. He wants his body back. That's all.
The astronaut, D46 and Joseph are walking up a grey hospital
corridor. Their destination is Caroline's room. D46 is nervous.
He has an aversion to hospitals. Joseph is nervous, for the
obvious reason. The astronaut may or may not be nervous, but
we are not party to his innermost feelings.
The astronaut, D46 and Joseph are leaning over Caroline's
bed. Dr. Wilson is laying at the foot of the bed, a trickle of
blood from one nostril. He is breathing, so no need to worry
on his account. Worry instead about D46, who may have
sprained his wrist when he hit the good doctor, and Caroline
who, although drugged and mentally readjusted, will
experience considerable pain over the next hour or so.
*
The transition from bed to wheelchair to taxi to wheelchair to
bed causes sufficient wear and tear on Caroline's nerve-endings
to bruise her unconsciousness, but not, thankfully, enough to
dispel it. For a few moments it was touch and go, but the
astronaut had things well under control. He was providing the
impulses and controls that the hospital equipment had
previously done, and her condition was stable.
D46 was not a happy bunny. He was not best pleased. It
would be true to say he was totally pissed off. As the only
body with any substance present, the brunt of the lifting fell
heavily across his shoulders, and they were unprepared and
unwilling. Whilst Caroline was not large, she was a dead
weight.
*
It is raining heavily in Wales at the moment. I thought you
should know.
*
Joseph and the astronaut have something in common. They
both seem to be suffering from a shortness of breath. The
astronaut seems to have miscalculated slightly on at least two
fronts: his oxygen supply is running out faster than anticipated,
and he is dying; Joseph's oxygen supply, although being used
very sparingly, is also dwindling, and he is also dying.
There is also Caroline to consider. The astronaut has bypassed
the synapses that receive pain, has liberated and controlled
certain areas of her brain, reprogrammed them for his own
means, and is keeping her alive after a fashion. But the amount
of damaged sustained by the system cannot be discounted. She
had been removed from the hospital before much of the repair
work could be done, and some of the repairs that had been
affected have been undone during her liberation. She also is
now short of breath, and her damaged lung is slowly filling
with fluid. The astronaut has all but stopped the flow of blood
from her legs, chest and various other cuts, but it is still
leaking from her.
The young man known as D46 is the only one of the crew that
is not suffering at present. In fact, he seems quite happy. He is
watching the television news. There is a picture of him on the
screen and the newsreader is warning us that the man is
dangerous, and should not be approached.
No, I'm sorry, I didn't catch his name.
*
The rain in the Welsh valley is torrential. It trickles through
freshly-dug soil, seeking out gaps in the cheap timber coffin. It
is a slow process, but after a couple of hours of rain Joseph's
body is actually floating, his nose pressed against the satin
lining of the lid. A little while longer and it starts to dribble
into his mouth, then to his nostrils.
The astronaut gives Joseph a stern look. Joseph gives the
astronaut a frightened, accusing look and then disappears.
Within seconds he is back in his body, but there is nowhere to
go. No air. No light. No room to move, even to bring his arms
up from his sides. Just water in the dark and the pain as his
nose repeatedly strikes the lid of the coffin and the burning
sensation in his nose and throat as water flows where it
shouldn't go and a rapid-fire sequence of retching and gasping
for breath and retching again and then another gasp and the
panic as he retches again and then....
Joseph is at peace.
*
Goddam fuckin' hippie, dumped me right up shit creek. Just as
I finish tuning the transmitter the antenna breaks down. And
it's taking everything I got to keep the transmitter in one piece.
The fuckin' bitch went too fuckin' far. The whole fucking plan's
gone haywire. And where's the fuckin' headcase?
The astronaut looked around just in time to catch D46 chafing
a hole in the leg of his suit. He roared and made as if to strike,
but D46 avoided him as a rush of foetid gas drove him back
out of range, and filled the room with its stench as the suit
depressurised. The astronaut clawed hopelessly at the tear for
a few seconds before he faded from sight.
D46 stood over Caroline, and she opened her eyes.
"Has he gone?" Her voice was a hoarse whisper. He nodded.
A smile struggled onto her lips. "Can I go now then, Peter?"
D46 - Peter - stroked her forehead and nodded. Her eyes
closed and the system shut itself down. Peter made her
comfortable, made a phone call and then settled down to wait.
*
Can you believe it? I told you I had a name. I used to be
scared of everything, but I think I'm better now. A friend of
mine used to say when the going gets weird, the weird get
going. Maybe this is what he was talking about.
Life can get confusing. Ignorance is bliss. In a few minutes
time there'll be blue flashing lights outside, and then I'll be off
through the back door. When the going gets weird....
Beam me up, Scotty.
END
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