House plant

House plant

Twenty odd miles after leaving Crieff, and the single-track road still
crept between fences and hedgerows that secured disinterested cows and
sheep. Eventually John Grant spotted a pair of huge black wrought-iron
gates, and slowed his Range Rover down. Approaching them slowly, he
read the large brass nameplate: Orchidia. He swung the car through the
open gates and followed the winding drive up to the house: the stately
pile of Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason.

Sitting in its original Victorian austerity, the house was vast, and
looked in need of some general repairs. Grant took an immediate dislike
to the place as he climbed a worn set of stone steps towards a pair of
massive oak doors. He hammered three times with a rusty lion's head
knocker. While waiting, he looked around him: the extensive grounds
were well wooded, but also looked rather unkempt. It was so quiet that
he became aware of his own breathing; he never could get used to the
utter silence of the countryside. Nervously he cleaned his shoes on the
backs of his trousers.

A very short, rotund and stern-faced man came round a corner of the
house, probably from the gardens.
"Yes? Can I help you, sir?" To Grant, this had to be the archetypal
butler figure. He handed the man his business card, which was
scrutinized to the nth degree, before being read out loud. "John Grant.
Capital Fertilizers ? Ah yes, the Colonel's expecting you. This way,
sir."

Grant was led round the side of the house, along a crazy-paving path.
He took in the cobwebs that hung between pillars and on every window,
unsettled by the air of neglect that the entire place seemed to exude.
The path led towards a large domed greenhouse. Weak sunshine peaked
through parting clouds and glinted off the uppermost panes. His view of
the interior was hidden behind an impenetrable wall of greenery. All
exterior woodwork seemed to have been recently painted.

Heat leeched out as the butler opened the door. Beyond this Grant
detected a kind of air lock, leading to another inner door. When this
was opened, heat struck him like a slap in the face. His mouth gaped
open automatically, and he inhaled a lungful of damp, heavy scent-laden
air. Sweat ran freely down his back. He gazed into a green gloom of
steamed-over windows, where giant sprays of fern, hanging vines and
bamboo stems fought with each other for dominance. The place was a riot
of plants, a typical rain forest; though Grant detected some order
towards the centre of the greenhouse. Here, banks of exotic flowers
shrieked their colours at one another, vying for attention: purple
leaves with yellow and white veins; red leaves with blue and green, and
pale fleshy pink leaves with red and blue veins. Grant caught odd
glimpses of silvery pipes behind all this vegetation.

Grant was ushered over to some solid wicker furniture that occupied the
central clearing. An old man reclined in one chair, a rug over his lap,
apparently dozing. He had the distinct feeling that he was reliving a
scene from The Big Sleep. With skin the colour of porcelain, and limp
grey hair, Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason appeared totally washed
out, dehydrated. A canopy of palm leaves sheltered him from any direct
sunlight. Immediately behind him, a severe looking array of woody
spines put Grant in mind of a porcupine.

"Colonel, this is Mr Grant. He's the gentleman from Edinburgh, calling
on behalf of Capital Fertilizers." Colonel Melville-Mason slowly opened
his eyes, and stared at Grant with an intensity that immediately
startled him. He raised a slim, bony finger and indicated the chair
opposite.
"Sit, Mr Grant. Parker, sort out a drink for our guest. You will take a
wee dram, sir!" It was clear the Colonel still liked barking out his
orders.

Grant fell into the wicker seat with relief, any more time spent
standing and he thought he might well have collapsed. He mopped sweat
from his brow, and removed his jacket; his shirt was now sticking to
his back. Parker stared at him, almost demanding an answer. "A small
one, please. Plenty of water."
Parker vanished. Grant was aware of the door opening with a swirl of
humid air, and then closing again.

He continued to mop his brow as he gazed at the profusion of colour
around him.
"You sir, are looking at my life's work," Colonel Melville-Mason said.
"For forty years I've collected plants from all over the tropics. And
I'll say I've learnt the odd thing or two along the way. But now I've
retired, I take my pleasure in sitting amongst the things I
enjoy."

Parker soon returned bearing a tall glass on a silver tray. Grant,
almost wilting in the extreme heat, took it and sipped gratefully. The
whisky was good, and he regretted adulterating it with water. Parker
retired once more, Grant envied him the fresh air.

"Orchids!" the Colonel exclaimed. "They're my favourites. At my age,
they have the softest, most tender flesh of anything I'm ever likely to
stroke." Grant took another sip, slightly disgusted at the Colonel's
allusion. "Did you know Mr Grant, that there are almost 30,000
different varieties? Some even complete their life cycles entirely
underground. By and large though, plenty of sun, plenty of rain ? and,
of course, natural fertilizers, that's what they need. Organic
fertilizers, Mr Grant, plants depend on them."

Colonel Melville-Mason relaxed, all intensity seemed to leave his eyes,
as if this address had physically drained him. "Sorry Mr Grant, lecture
over. It's very impolite to keep you here so long. Please excuse an old
man's ramblings, but you'll gather, I am rather passionate about my
house plants."
As Grant nodded, he gazed around at the different varieties. He could
have sworn that things were moving at the periphery of his vision: he
also had the distinct impression of being watched. Rustling noises and
the sound of dripping water occasionally broke the silence. He glanced
back at the Colonel, who appeared to have dozed off again.

A huge fern dropped down and brushed the Colonel's face; he casually
flicked it away and carried on. "Mr Grant, I need manure, fertilizer;
I've no faith in these modern day chemicals. You can supply a range of
organic fertilizers?"
Grant nodded as he loosened his tie, desperately gasping for some fresh
air, "Made up to your own requirements."
"I want blood Mr Grant! You can't top blood for healthy plants. You do
you sell it?"
"Indeed, sir. Mostly mammalian, all in highly balanced compounds,
unless otherwise specified."
"Bulls' blood?" Grant nodded, and noticed the Colonel's eyes; that
fierce intensity had returned. They were those of a hungry, determined
man. A predator even.
"I'll take five hundred litres initially. A basic compound with ? mmm ?
thirty per cent bulls' blood."
Grant drained his glass, took a notebook and pen from his jacket, and
scribbled, his sweaty fingers barely able to grip the pen. "Thirty per
cent bulls' blood ? basic compound ? thank you sir," he rose, carefully
dodging vines and creepers that he was unaware of only minutes
previously. "I'll arrange for a delivery early next week."
He walked heavy-footed to the door, almost exhausted, and jerked it
open. He stumbled out into fresh air, gasping for fresh air and a
cigarette.

*****

Six months later and Grant was once again at Orchidia. Parker had
phoned him with a fresh inquiry from the Colonel; and only a personal
visit would suffice. The grounds appeared even more neglected than on
his last visit. The drive was almost overgrown in places: strange
un-Scottish like vegetation now hugged the roadside; large areas
appeared to have died. The house looked even more run down: windows
were shuttered; the steps even more crumbly and loose. As he lifted the
knocker, large flakes of rust fell at his feet.

Worry seemed to have replaced the sternness of Parker's face. It had
etched great lines into it, and had given him a slight stoop.
"Ah Mr Grant, glad to see you again, sir. You are the first visitor in
several months."
Grant got the impression that Parker felt the need to explain the
situation, perhaps glad of the company.
"The Colonel no longer leaves the greenhouse. He seldom eats at all
these days. What energy he has is directed to his plants, and his
greenhouse. Perhaps?" he hesitated before continuing. "Perhaps you'll
notice a difference. In my opinion, I don't think he'll last much
longer."

Parker talked as they walked along the crazy-paving path, weeds now
poked up between every crack. The greenhouse shone in the late autumn
sunlight, an exquisite oasis in a desert of neglect.

Grant had anticipated the blast of heat as the inner door opened, but
it still hit him hard, almost taking his breath away. He walked into
the deepening gloom, and was practically assaulted by an array of huge
palm fronds studded with yellow, violet, and blood red. At first he
couldn't see the Colonel buried under his canopy, shielded by curtains
of vines and layers of ferns. The intense damp heat and cloying scent
of the blooms made him gag.

He eventually navigated his way to the seat opposite the Colonel, now a
feeble looking figure with totally washed-out skin. When he spoke, his
voice was dry and croaky; though his eyes still retained their fierce
intensity.
"Ah Mr Grant. My plants are thriving on your compound. Your people made
up a good mixture. I'm pleased with it, and with you young man." Grant
didn't like the way he stressed the young man.

Parker returned with a glass of whisky on a silver tray. Grant drank
thirstily. He gazed spellbound at the Colonel as several wickedly
spiked stems dropped down lazily and seemed to hover above him. One
even settled on the pale skin of his bare arm. Grant likened this to a
mosquito settling to feed.

The Colonel seemed to be totally oblivious. "My orchids are doing
especially well, don't you think?" He waved an emaciated arm in their
general direction. "Just give them love, heat, water, and fertilizer.
That's the secret." Grant stared past him at the exquisite range of
flowers. One caught his attention: larger than all the others, its
virgin white leaves were shot through with bright red veins.

Grant noticed that the spiked stem had now broken the skin, and a tiny
drop of dark red blood appeared. Again the Colonel was seemingly
unaware.
"I want another five hundred litres, delivered next week. Stick to
bulls' blood, but double the amount this time, sixty per cent. You can
do that?"
"Indeed, sir." Grant made a quick note. "But, I suggest it's not
administered too near the stems, as ..."

The Colonel's eyes widened, and flashed fire. "You're in my house sir!
Kindly don't tell me how to feed my plants!" He sank back, utterly
exhausted after the outburst.
Grant shrank into his chair, alarmed at the vehemence in the old man's
voice. "I'm ? sorry, sir. By all means, you indeed know best ?"
The Colonel barked back a throaty cackle. "Parker's been at you, hasn't
he? Worrying you about the state of my health. He's becoming a bit of
an old maid. Take no notice of him Mr Grant, I'm not intending to die
just yet!"
Grant gulped down the rest of his whisky, the fiery liquid bringing
even more heat to his already burning face. "Delivery should be in
three to four days, sir. Thank you, again." He rose wearily, and
hurried to escape the infernal heat.

As he walked back along the crazy-paving, he had an uncomfortable
feeling that had nothing to do with the temperature.

*****

Grant forgot all about Colonel Sir Aubrey Melville-Mason and his
infernal orchids, until his laboratory people asked him to check the
results of their new compound. Passing close to Crieff he decided,
rather reluctantly, that he'd best get it over with. He followed the
same single-track road until he swung through the still open gates to
Orchidia.

A depressing silence clung to the entire grounds. Mist hovered in thick
patches all the way up the winding drive. He carefully climbed broken
and crumbling steps to the oak doors. He tried the knocker, now almost
rusted solid; no one came to answer its call. Finally he tried the door
and it slowly swung open, the hinges squealing their resistance every
inch of the way.
"Mr Parker?" His voice echoed emptily round the huge hall. Untouched
dust lay thick on every surface. The house looked to have been deserted
for some time, the air smelt musty and dry. He didn't want to go in any
further.

So he just waited there, uncertain what to do, but knowing where he had
to go. Eventually he traced the familiar route along the now shattered
and overgrown crazy-paving towards the greenhouse. Immediately he saw
broken panes, with creepers and vines thrusting out, as though trying
to escape. A solid green wall still prevented him from seeing anything
inside.

The outer door opened fairly easily, the expected heat no more than a
warm breeze. He had to put his shoulder to the inner door and, when it
gave, it splintered under his weight. The stink hit him hard: an
overpowering stench of fetid decay clawed at the back of his throat,
and he gagged several times. He heard a series of frantic rustling
noises coming from within, and peered through a jungle of creepers,
exotic blossoms, bamboo stems and thick palm fronds to try and locate
what had made the sound. There appeared to be far less variety of
colour now, but he noticed one dominating feature among the greenery,
much more red.

A fluttering of wings above his head made him glance upwards. He saw a
pigeon through a gap in the canopy glide just under the apex of the
greenhouse roof. It disappeared in a flurry of feathers as a woody
spine shot upwards, skewered it, and pulled it down into the mass of
greenery. Grant followed a few of the slowly descending feathers before
they were lost in the mass of leaves. His instincts told him to turn
tail and get the hell out of there.

"Colonel?" He called out meekly. He felt a bit of an idiot: no one
could possibly be in there now; surely Parker would not have left
without having some serious motivation. Perhaps the Colonel had died,
and Parker had simply moved on? He heard more rustlings: they now
seemed to be running round the perimeter of the greenhouse. They
stopped for a few moments, only to be replaced by sickly squelching
noises. A growing sense of unease prompted Grant to push forward, and
force a passage through the wild and twisted jungle. He could have done
with a machete, but he gradually cleared a path and slowly advanced
towards the centre of the forest of plants.

He saw the wicker chair, and in it, a naked figure reclining
motionless, smothered beneath a network of creepers, spines and
ferns.
"Colonel!" He didn't reply. Grant was gagging on the stink, but forced
himself to push closer. The body of the Colonel was severely bloated;
the sallow flesh had a green tinge to it, and was covered with livid
purple veins and a series of parallel circular welts running up his
torso. Long, wickedly sharp spines penetrated his back and neck, and
disappeared into the jungle. Grant traced these to a huge pink orchid
with bright red veins. Could this be the same one as had dominated the
display on his previous visit? Amazingly, he detected a faint pulse
from the Colonel's over-thick neck.

The eyes shot open. Behind nictitating membranes, Grant once more
detected a deep intensity in them, a hunger almost. He stood transfixed
as black swollen lips slowly parted in a self-satisfied grin. A forked
tendril snaked out through yellowed teeth, tasting the air like a
reptile. It made to grab his tie, and Grant staggered back in horror
and tripped over. Rising stiffly, he saw he'd stumbled over the naked
and shrivelled up husk of Parker: he'd been sucked completely
dry.

Grant turned to look back at the Colonel, and was gripped round the
throat by the forked tendril. It was so tight that he was unable to
breath. His sweaty hands kept sliding off its slimy surface as he tried
desperately to prise it loose. It began to slowly reel him in, his feet
slipping on the damp leaves of the floor, unable to gain any purchase.
He saw the parallel welts on the Colonel's torso suppurate, then
gradually open to reveal emerging quill-like tubes: he was being guided
onto their razor sharp points; their sucking, gurgling noises testimony
to their ultimate purpose.

Black spots started appearing before his eyes, and Grant knew that he
would soon pass out. His feet caught the legs of the wicker chair and
this halted his momentum slightly. He fumbled frantically in his jacket
pocket, groping for his one last chance at freedom. His clammy fingers
found the cool metal, closed round it and drew it out. The Colonel's
eyes flared in horror as Grant flipped the lid of his Zippo and thumbed
it to life in one movement. He played the flame up and down the slimy
tongue as the Colonel's wretched screams filled the greenhouse.

The tongue tensed once, then released its grip on Grant's throat. It
slapped down onto the Colonel's bloated belly, and hung there limply,
steaming and giving off the foul stench of burnt flesh. Grant once more
fell back over Parker's corpse as he scrambled away out of range. He
sat with his back against the other wicker chair, drawing in great
gulps of air, and watched disgustedly as the tongue was slowly
retracted. He thought he detected a note of disgust on the Colonel's
face as the burnt and singed areas passed into his mouth.

As Grant frantically fought for a way out, he heard the Colonel's dry
croaking voice call out behind him, "Need one hundred per cent human,
now!"