Face Value

Face Value

An Original Story By Chris Richards

Of all the places in the world that Lucy asks me to meet her, the
centre of London is perhaps one of my worst nightmares.
I'm standing alone outside HMV, the hustle and bustle of Oxford Street
passing me by. From inside an annoying and repetitive song thumps out,
threatening to cloud my every thought, the incessant beat making me
want to cover my ears and scream.
This is most definately not my idea of a fun time out.
Truth be told, I'd rather be at home, shrouded in darkness, alone with
my own thoughts.
Lucy laughed when I told her that, saying I'm too negative, that I
need to get out more and in the back of my mind I know she's
right.
The thing is I hate the idea of people staring at me, the thought of
them watching me, ridiculing the way I look, the way I walk, the way I
talk.
Don't get me wrong, I'm anything but vain. I certainally don't
consider myself to be an attractive looking person. But then maybe
that's the problem: low self-esteem.
I have friends, of course and they, like Lucy, do their best to assure
me that I'm just an ordinary bloke, no better or worse than anybody
else. But I'm forever ill at ease in the company of strangers.
So, why am I venturing out into our wonderful capital on this fine
summer's day ? Well, the fact that it's Lucy's birthday in a few days
and she desperately wants me to help her shop for a new outfit probably
has something to do with it.
'A guy helping a girl buy clothes ?' I hear you cry and yes, I'll
admit that it's certainally not my area of expertise (That's movies, by
the way. Lot's of darkened rooms...), but apparently girls can get a
bit 'over ambitious' in their comments. Lucy says that her girlfriends,
loving that they are, can't stand the thought of her wearing something
better than them and subsequently they try and persuade her to go for
the thing that makes her look less attractive, less appealing.
Hell, I guess I'm just going along because she knows I'll give her an
honest opinion. Maybe that and the fact that none of the other blokes
she knows would be seen dead near a woman's clothes store. All that
hanging around outside dressing rooms, trying not to look at the sexy
lingerie that always seems to be right next to the waiting area,
tantilizing you, teasing you.

I look down at my watch and sigh. Lucy is like most girls, I guess, a
terrible time keeper and true to form she's now almost half an hour
late.
Turning to look inside the vast music store I begin to wonder if I'm
listening to the longest track ever written. Has the song actually
changed in the forty five minutes or so that I've been standing here ?
I shake my head and turn back, almost jumping into the air as I find
the tall, wrinkled frame of an old man standing beside me.
For a moment he is as still as a statue, his whole body unmoving, eyes
unblinking. Then he smiles at me and winks, yellowed teeth seeming to
glow from behind his dry, cracked lips. He is probably in his late
sixties, unkempt grey hair plastered to his dirt encrusted face with
sweat. A large, once white, sandwich board covers him from head to toe
so that only his hands and feet are visible from the neck downwards and
the words 'THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH' is scrawled in black marker
pen across it in huge letters.
I step a pace or two backwards, but the old man matches me, not once
taking his eyes from my face. Then he speaks, his voice croaky, like he
hasn't spoken in days, like his throat is lined with sandpaper.
"Don't look so worried mate.You've not long to wait."
"Sorry ?" I say, trying not to gag on the fetid breath that is
emanating from the tramp's mouth. "What the hell are you talking about
?"
"Don't worry." The old timer whispers, leaning close to me, touching
the side of his nose. "Your secret's safe with me."
It is amid this confusing scene that I suddenly feel something moving
inside my trouser pocket and before shock can set in I realise that it
is only my mobile phone vibrating, informing me that I have a new
message. I turn my back on the old man for a moment and press the 'YES'
button on my phone to confirm that I do indeed want to read the four
lines that somebody has just spent the best part of a day tapping
out.
It's from Lucy, she's been delayed by the tube and has had to get off
at Charing Cross Station due to a security alert. She's sorry that she
couldn't let me know before, but due to the infuriating fact that
'mobiles' don't actually work underground she has been unable to
contact me.
As I look up from the small screen I discover with relief that the old
man has now wandered off, making his way down towards Tottenham Court
Road.
What the hell ? Did that kind of encounter not justify my anxiety
about being out in public ?

I decide that the best thing is for me to make my way to Trafalgar
Square to meet Lucy. There's a place she's always talking about down
there that apparently does the 'most amazing pasta in the world !' and
as she's promised to buy me lunch I text her and suggest we go
there.
As I start my long trek down Berwick Street I suddenly realise that I
don't seem to be as bothered about people staring at me as usual. In
fact I feel quite confident as I stroll past the movie post production
houses and record shops, actually smiling at a young girl selling fruit
on a stall at the maket. This changes though as I step into Soho and
I'm suddenly surrounded by garish neon signs and windows filled with
'adult' material.
A man emerges from behind a colourful beaded curtain, clutching a
brown paper bag and quickly he vanishes into the crowds.
Perhaps the ugliest woman I have ever seen in my life stands on a
corner asking passers-by if they'd like to come see one of her
'girls'.
Soon I'm across the road though and onto Rupert Street where an
attractive girl, who in my eyes at least looks no older than fifteen,
leans out of a non-descipt doorway and asks if I 'want to see a live
show'. For some reason I actually bother to murmur a "no thanks" as I
pass by and I can feel her eyes burning a hole into the back of me as I
hit Shaftesbury Avenue.

I usually visit my local multiplex when I go to see a film, but I
still enjoy visiting Leicester Square and seeing the huge black
monolith of the Odeon climbing into the sky.
As ever the Square is filled with tourists and street entertainers and
sadly a few teenage kids appear to be sleeping rough across from Burger
King.
Stopping for a moment I survey the area, taking in the displays at the
Warner Bros cinema and the Empire, casting my eyes across at the small
park in the centre of the square where office workers and students sit
on the grass tucking into sandwiches and burgers, fending off
over-eager birds and tramps. Then I walk down Charing Cross Road and
out into Trafalgar Square.
Even though there are so many people around I still feel calm and that
in itself should disturb me, but as I gaze up at Nelson's Column and
hear young children splashing in the fountains I realise that I've
never felt so good.
It's then that I see Lucy waving at me. She's dressed in a bright red
jacket, something I would imagine would be too hot to wear on a day
such as this. Her long blonde hair is tied back from her face and even
from this distance I can see that she looks as beautiful as ever.
I wave back and walk down some steps, heading in her direction,
dodging round the hundreds of pigeons that flutter around me as they
search out scraps from lunches that have been hastily discarded or
deliberately thrown.
Looking up I see Big Ben in the distance and wonder why it is that the
big hand on the face of the clock is going backwards. It actually
causes me to stop and check that my eyes are not deceiving me and in
that instant I hear Lucy call out my name and time suddenly seems to
freeze.
As though somebody has hit pause on a video the world around me comes
to a stop. Only Lucy and I appear to be unaffected and I look up at
her, hoping to see some kind of explanation on her face, but all she
does is smile at me and turn on her heel, heading for the spiral stairs
that lead back down into Charing Cross tube station.
Without thinking about it I give chase, adrenaline fueling my body, my
mind unable to comprehend what the hell is going on. I can hear her
feet ahead of me, clattering down the stairs, but no matter how hard I
try I never catch sight of her, people around me as still as statues.
As I enter the ticket hall though I see a shadow on a wall and realise
she's gone down the escalator. Fortunately the barriers are open and I
dart through them, almost throwing myself down the stationary
staircase, trying not to collide with the passengers who unlike me are
frozen in time. But even then she remains hidden from my sight.
After what seems like an eternity I arrive on the northbound platform,
following sounds and shadows in a vain attempt to keep pace with my
'friend'.
For a moment I pause to catch my breath, my energy spent, my legs
suddenly feeling like they're made of iron.
"Lucy ?!" I shout, my voice echoing around me. "Lucy ! What the FUCK
is going on ?!!"
The only answer I get is a sudden rush of warm air and the loud
clatter of a train emerging from the tunnel. I can feel the hairs on
the back of my neck rise and goosebumps prickle over my skin as the
train comes to a halt and the doors open before me.
It's only because I hear the tap of Lucy's shoes on the platform that
I turn around and see her jump on the train and as the doors suddenly
begin to close I instinctively throw myself sideways and fall clumsily
into the nearest carraige. Almost immediately I get to my feet and race
down towards the emergency door that should allow me access into Lucy's
carraige, but I guess I'm not too surprised to discover that it appears
to be locked and no matter how hard I tug on the handle it refuses to
open.
In frustration I hammer my fists on the dirty glass, trying to peer
beyond, trying to see Lucy, to get her attention. But once again she
ignores me and I'm left to curse under my breath.
I turn my back to the door and slowly slump to the floor, realising
that we should pull into Leicester Square station in a moment or two,
but I even get that wrong as for an eternity darkness prevails outside
the moving train.
Checking my watch, out of instinct more than anything, I see that the
big hand there is going backwards too and I almost smile as I think
about how absurd this whole situation is.
I almost smile......almost.
What stops me is the sudden realisation that every single passenger in
my carraige is staring right at me, every one of them seated, every one
of them looking right at me, their eyes unblinking.
They are silent and I have never been so afraid in all of my
life.
There is a multitude of races and ages, male and female, a true cross
section of the population. Just your average group of people. Whatever
the hell average is this days.
I feel panic flood my body and have to take deep breaths to stop
myself from screaming.
This is worse than a nightmare. I even try pinching myself to see if
it is all a dream, but no matter how hard I twist my skin I never wake
up.
Outside, the train actually begins to slow down, but still there is
only darkness.
For a few seconds there is something resembling silence, the only
sound the heavy 'thump thump' in my chest as my heart goes into
overdrive. Then the emergency door at the opposite end of the carraige
opens and I see a familiar face appear, that of the old man from Oxford
St, the man with the sandwich board outside H.M.V.
I open my mouth to speak but he looks at me coldly and places a finger
to his lips as though suggesting I remain silent. He is now dressed in
a slate-grey suit, his hair combed neatly, a small plastic bag in his
hand from which he produces a pile of what appears to be plain white A4
sheets of paper.
My fellow passengers all turn their attention to him, reaching out as
he passes them, taking a single sheet each, holding it out before
them.
Finally the old man reaches me and stops, handing me my own sheet,
which I automatically take.
"You may begin." He says and turning his back on me he starts a slow
walk back down to the other end of the carraige, watching as each
person places the piece of paper over their face and presses down
hard.
The lights begin to flicker, almost giving off a strobe effect as I
watch with horror as the passengers pull the paper away, removing their
faces in the process.
There is no blood. There are no screams of pain. It just seems that
that their faces have somehow become transplanted onto the paper,
appearing like a photo, leaving the heads featureless, a bald, flesh
covered skull, void of eyes, nose, mouth, even hair.
It's then that I'm sick, that I begin to scream like a newborn child
entering into the world and the old man comes back to stand before
me.
"Why is it that you always give us trouble ?" He says and shakes his
head. "Come now, Mr Chaney. It's like riding a bike. You never forget
how". And then the lights go out and all I can hear is laughter.

Maybe I've lost consciousness, maybe not, but slowly my vision returns
and I find that I'm now sitting at a large circular table, a single
bulb barely illuminating the three people sitting across from me, each
of them dressed in the same, shapeless black robes.
They are faceless, like the people on the train, their skulls covered
in smooth skin, two caucasian and one coloured. They look like showroom
dummies: motionless. Infront of them, resting on the table, are what
appear to be small film projectors, their lenses pointing up at where
their faces should be.
For a moment there is silence and I wonder if I'm supposed to say
something first but then a soft whirring sound begins and the
projectors come to life. From each of them a small beam of light
suddenly spills out, facial features now appearing on the three heads
staring across at me.
For the first time I realise that the central figure is a woman,
flanked on either side by two men. They all appear to be middle-aged,
but I've never been very good at guessing ages.
"This is all getting a little tiresome, Mr Chaney." The woman sighs
via her projection. "We shouldn't have to do this every time."
"I'm sorry." I say. "Perhaps you can tell me what the Hell is going on
?"
"Do you really expect me to believe that you've forgotten why we are
here once again ?"
The woman looks exasperated, like I'm a naughty schoolboy who has to
be reminded of a simple fact time after time after time.
"All I know for sure right now is that I've never been so scared in
all of my life."
"Your dead, Mr Chaney. Do you not realise that ?"
"What ?" I say incrediously. "How can I be dead ?"
"Once you've fulfilled your 'assignment' or 'strayed from the path',
you get recalled, given a new identity, a new face."
I stare at her open-mouthed.
"You're special. You're not like them, those.....humans". It's almost
like she's spitting out something foul as she says that word. "For some
reason you seem to forget your duties and we have to keep finding ways
to get you back."
"Oh." Is all I can manage to say. What else can I say ? I shrug and
shake my head.
"Mr Chaney, this is not the order of things."
"What if I don't believe a word you're saying" I counter with a little
smile, wondering what the hell is going to happen next. "What if I say
you're full of sh....."
That's when I feel something hard connect with the back of my neck and
for a moment there is darkness.....

I open my eyes and find myself lying on a beach.....

The End

copyright: Chris Richards 2002

mail: exciterxl@yahoo.co.uk