Unstable elements

Unstable elements

"At last! he cried into the mirror. He had checked that the toilet cubicles were empty before talking to himself. Splashing water on your face is just a ritual when you have been awake this long. It was over. The strange hunt, the whispers in his dreams and the final mystery. It was curious how by realising a success he had banished the preconceptions that led him to seek it. That by theorising along unknown paths, something undreamt of was now a shocking reality, but consequentially contained, unable to harm. "Enough! he whispered at his exhaustion jaded reflection. This tangential praise he had slipped into was a new side of himself. He attempted to force his mind back to his task. Splashing more water onto his face only to realise that he had used the hot tap and the water was warm and not even symbolically refreshing. "Ok! he uttered. Since he was unable to speak to anyone of his new work apart from those already overburdened with its duties, he had begun to speak to himself. It was funny to him how almost monosyllabic utterances had become one with physical and mental motivation. Back to the job. "Ok he said and allowed a short snort of a laugh. Back to the cause.

He was on auto pilot for a while. Familiar routes preceded by the echoing of the familiar footstep. The interviewing rooms were contained on the lowest floor. A subterranean journey was made with the 'detainees'. A long walk down where there is no natural light. A way of showing them their grave before you pushed them in.
He frowned at his morbid reverie and then frowned deeper. He was about to interview. His internal workings should not be registering on his face. Years of interviewing had taught him to hide, as best he could, his feelings behind an unchanging façade. Decades of office politics showed him that even with colleagues he must regulate how he reacts. A lifetime of training himself to be better. The three states he had recognised when still a child, not knowing they would dominate his life. Grow up meant fit in which in turn means hide. There is only one obvious end to all three.
The floor had recently been waxed and was reflective. The poor, strip lighting doubled in effect. As he walked it gave him the impression of a depth below the surface. His stride faltered as he remembered. The prisoner had been taken upstairs. This once, his precedent had been broken but for a reason. They had installed the plush new offices at the height of the building. These rooms had a fine view of the city out to the sea. The bustlingl metropolitan life was inescapable and he wanted the charged to be reminded that everything he had tried to destroy was still surviving, functioning, thriving.
He was too tired. The back of his eyes itched and there was a pressure at the base of his skull. Surely he could not start the chain of posturing and counter-proposal that would lead to a confession now. He was compelled. It felt personal.
He felt immensely superior at the facts he had discovered. It was he who had located the killer. He, officially by accident, caught him bloody handed standing over the remains of his adoptive father. He had lied as to why he had been there. He wondered whether one falsehood would lead to many, the way that a single homicide could ease the way to further murder. He contemplated that perhaps it was possible to unravel many, faded, false decisions to an original deceit and the path it inexorably set you on. He was the man of the hour. He would build rapport.

First his steps would have to be retraced to where he first went wrong. The waxed floor and fluorescent lighting had the exact same effect on his return journey, making it seem that false perspective is constant. Sometimes he felt trapped by this building. His mind was racing but unable to focus.
The shiny and scratched doors of the lift stood in front of him. There had been a time, at the beginning of his employment when he would not travel in one of 'those machines'. Frequent trips up the stairs keep you fit and wake you up. Very soon the extra five minutes those strenuous journeys took were needed for other things. Coffee keeps you alert and you can become unpopular if you show people up by what you do right; especially if they are your betters. He blinked and pressed the button. There were still misgivings in his mind. A power cut would see you suspended in a cell, a fire, in an oven. He had always thought it strange how some issues were phobias while others had been labelled reasonable fears. It brought to mind his wife. His ex-wife, now, but their attachment had never died in him as it had so obviously with her. One night he returned to find Fiona looking serious beyond her usual composure. It transpired that she had found his gun and would not sleep with it under 'this roof'. He was smiling at her acute feminine sensibility when her brother dropped by. He was welcomed in with the exuberant warmth by which a family member can read that as they don't live 1,000 miles away, they are not preferred to call again soon and that during their visit they are to be hosted in the most patronising fashion. The brother stepped into what was at the time a plush suburban phase of the couples' life and froze as he saw the gun. He expressed that he had always had a phobia of firearms. Looking back he remembered thinking how un-manly this fear was. Fiona reiterated her complaint and after dinner he put it in the safe in the garage. Later, he reassured her that he had removed it in compunction with her conditions.
The lift doors had been open for some time. A smartly dressed young woman was holding the door and looking at him expectantly. He stepped through the silver threshold into the plain functional interior thinking of how he had just been in two places and times at once and was wondering which had been more real.
Transferring the suspect to his office near the top floor had come to him in a flash of inspiration. The decision had met some consternation and older heads than his had retreated and conferred. It was all-abnormal but so was murder. When he had first seen Patric, as that was what some aspiring wit had named the new addition to the cells, he thought of how plain or even average he looked. He did not seem to be the same Gothic, intrusive figure of his dreams but rather an everyman. Not a killer dragging his spent victim down the steps but a butcher discarding of the offal. He lost much of his fear for the player of his subconscious but his horror of Patric grew. Patric had not seen him watching. He was sure of that. He was sympathetic to every jarring bump of the dead man's head upon every step until, to his relief, the obscene couple turned a corner out of sight. It was like being audience to a particularly sanguine performance by Shakespeare or Tarantino with the detachment that he felt. He stood looking down from the vantage point that he was certain now; he had been led to. In a daze, he had wondered how he would reconcile this to his work. A routine of scientific investigation to a strict definition of progress was at least upset by the weight of what he could only call a mystical experience. He would not be able to file this under 'irrelevant', the place where fork benders, empathetic twins and incurable romantics went. Slowly his hand felt inside his pocket. He speed dialled the office and called for backup. In his confusion he did not identify himself but the operator knew the number and half recognised the voice. It was sloppy procedure he thought, distantly. Soon he was back in the moment. The suspect could be destroying evidence. He started down to street level. You shouldn't really approach an armed man on your own. Slipped on a pool of gore traversing the steps Patric had taken, he was aware of how new this felt. He had wasted enough time. The hinges on the battered steel door didn't need the force he used. The moment sped with the noise and power of his action to be greeted with the silence and timelessness of darkness. He suddenly had the image of that strange, normal little man standing four feet in front of him. Eyes straining into the veil of shadow, the adrenaline rush turned suddenly making his limbs heavy. He had made up his mind this was his. At every step inside that close, pitch dank room he visualised that figure always in reach but abhorrent to touch. This was the manifestation of the dark that he had exerted, conjured and run from as child only to find it keep pace with him whispering wordlessly behind. He had found less abstract replacements, as he grew older. Trivial disappointments to be blown out of proportion, commonplace things, almost comforting. The thwarting of some desire or the way Julie chewed her food. He had tripped suddenly. The instability of his internal world seeking physical expression, this accident could have cost him his life. He had not heard the footsteps but now they were awfully apparent. He froze as a flashlight captured him in a sprawling rictus embrace with Patric's victim. The First view he had had of this poor man was from almost a godlike perspective. He had been 'on high' coolly observing the petty foibles of human nature. Now there was no escaping the cruel methodically lacerating signature of malign human hatred. His body spasmed and he tasted the man's dead blood as bile burned up into his nose.
He awoke to the sound of laughing. On opening his eyes the whole circus had begun. A team of armed uniforms stood at intervals while a paramedic fiddled with a gurney. Chaos borne out of chaos it seemed, as always. Both services emergency lights flitted then battled upon the walls of the surrounding buildings, a discord with intermittent harmony. The laughter got closer but had simmered to a smile as DS Clacton came into view.
"These guys've got a sense of humour he said. The smile turned into a grin as the detective handed over a digital camera.
"It's on the wrong one, press up¦..Dan's calling it Corpus coitus, the cheeky bastard. He chuckled again.
"I passed out¦I really felt¦really felt¦.
"Well that's good sir! Given your record let's put it down to a near life experience, you'll want to get to a cleaners though, sir.
He felt down and realised there were no patches of blood on his suit and that the same smartly dressed young woman was holding the lift door and looking at him expectantly. His office; the stamping ground of the executives. He felt more tired and disorientated than ever before, fragmented. After the last couple of weeks and collaring Patric the night before he knew he should go and sleep. His boss was waiting to tell him just that. He started on another journey, home. The headlamps of his Ford scoured the road, a series of regular central white lines highlighted, they would flash as if out of nowhere but you would know where they take you. If you followed them long enough they could change colour, disappear or lead you anywhere. He was scared of sleeping. He should start the interrogation while Patric was fresh, before he had time to dig in. He was scared of dreaming. What did the brass know? The promotion ladder went from detective to manager then to executive. They couldn't do this job. Their world was perrier, professional toys and privilege. His flat keys felt oily. He fumbled his clothes onto the floor. Maybe the dreams would stop now they had caught Patric. When you're this exhausted you're close to madness. Dreams had meant death for a long time.

Long-term memory

He surrendered to a deep dreamless sleep.
He dreamt that he was present in a foyer of some kind facing a waiting lift and a set of stairs that rose out of sight. A voice that he had known all his life but was difficult to recognise advised him
"Make a choice
Awareness grew with him. His time must either be spent in the lift or on the stairs. The thought of either; an endless elevator shaft or an eternal spiral baulked, as no destination existed for him. The lift seemed appropriate as he could sit and not work at his elevation but be whisked higher and higher by this machine and there would be music, gentle and soothing although perhaps looped and maddening. He could sleep comfortably on the deep shag but there was a problem. Should he be lulled and drifting and there actually was a destination then it may pass him by and he would continue, in his box, forever. This train of thought made the stairs seem favourable. He would not be contained and would grow fit from exercise although, maybe, exhausted. Every step he took would mean there was one more behind him. His destination would never be missed and after all the energy he had invested, be a great reward. The difficulty came when he began to think of practicalities. At night how would he get comfortable on those thin cold hard steps and would he not roll back down in his sleep. Could he ever rest with the thought of the destination possibly fifteen more steps around the next corner? He may be trudging wearily onwards to no end, all of his effort and sweat for nothing. He knew it was time to choose and that the voice was waiting. The only facts of the situation were the proof of what he saw before him. At the attempt to accurately predict the outcome of this important decision he visualised only the unknown that when probed released a fear that drove him to chaos. He stood confused and worried. A hundred thoughts born of conflict each struggled for supremacy, each wearing the false colours of clarity but none stronger than the other.
The need to choose became looming apparent. He could not choose. How could he choose? He must choose. He looked at the two openings in front of him. The pressure to choose was unhappy and enormous but a wrong choice would be committing him to a nightmare. He felt words rising up in him unbidden. He knew that the responsibility for his future was being drained slowly and that a decision would be made for him. The words of default fought their way into his throat. He swallowed strictly and croaked
"I choose choice.
He cried, the pressure lifted, time seemed his again. He turned around and saw a road with trees and houses. As he followed a frog a man appeared by his left side. The man explained how he had decided to become a crack dealer as there wasn't one in this street and that if he didn't someone else would who was less scrupulous than him. He looked at this man to the left of him and said calmly,
"That's no reason for you to do that
The man was not there any more but he had not seen him walk away. His son Chris stood on his right and began to speak about how he had decided not to become a street cleaner as someone else would come along and do a better job of it. He looked at his son and said angrily,
"That's no reason for you to do that!
His son had gone as enigmatically as the man. This seemed a nice road with nice trees. Children began to come out of the houses and play in the street. There were no cars and he decided to live here. His house was lovely as were all the houses and his neighbours friendly as were all the townsfolk. He met a young woman and they watched time fly as their children grew and smiled. Friends lengthened their tables and stayed warm long into the nights. A garden of wonderment shared beauty and patience with its two legged charges. The township grew smaller as the people and places they knew increased. All kindness was infinitely returned and always in mind. The couple had found love and no one had started it.
The family had finished lunch and it was night. His young wife had been quiet since she had returned from work. He went outside and sat on the top step to reflect on how he could cheer her up. The moon was very bright and very close. Unable to remember when he had ever needed to lift her spirits before he was at a loss. He noticed the normally spruce trees lining the road seemed limp. They looked so thirsty he knew they needed water. He was just about to get some when he heard a roar approaching him. It got louder and louder until he turned and the first car he saw in the town raced past him and hit a child. She looked like a china doll lying broken next to a sledgehammer. Grief overcame him and he felt the urge, for the first time in his life, to go for a walk by himself. His feet led him. Walking in this way he found places he had never seen before. He had believed the town completely explored. In a narrow side street he found a bar that was open after 8pm! It was completely empty except for a tired looking barman who stood pulling pint after pint. He chose one that wasn't so flat from the queue of beers developing on the counter. The barman smiled ruefully, stretched his arms, wiped sweat from his brow and continued to work. He sat down at a small, wooden, round table and was about to think when a newspaper caught his eye. The front page led with a disturbing article about Mayor Valerie Johnson. It implicated him in a long string of incidents involving various folk from the town, one a teacher he knew at the children's school, and calling for justice. He felt sick and ran from the bar. The barman, impassive and indifferent, topped up another glass. He kept running until he found a road he knew. Familiar sights balanced the shocks. This was the main commercial road. Here you would find nice, expensive things to amuse and delight. All the shops were shut now but just looking in the windows made him feel better. He started compiling mental notes of what he wanted and needed. It organised his mind and stopped him thinking of the unpleasant issues surrounding him. A large bus pulled up behind him and drew his attention to the reflection in the window. One by one all his friends alighted from the bus transparent and laughing. They were all dressed in clothes he had never seen them wear before and gathering in front of the hotel. His instinct to turn and wave was countered by a deeper unlearned sense to stay anonymous. He just watched. Last of all his wife stepped down and sauntered into the centre of the group exchanging carnal kisses and investigatory fondles with some while others straightened her mink coat, combed her hair and replenished her cigarette holder. Stunned he walked back to their house and left her a note. He did not say what he had seen or where he was going but stated he would be back. There was no sign of the little girl but the car was still in the road. It was empty and all the doors were open. He drove out of the street. As he hit the countryside he began to wonder when she had started smoking. There was an old man in a house in a wood. The more he concentrated the more his memory eluded him.
It was winter when he returned to his house. Natures daggers formed on the window ledges and the deep snow would be starving people of their milk supply. He slipped on the first step but found purchase on the delicate unruffled coverage of the third. The lock was the same but as he crossed the threshold a crow flapped loudly out of his pocket. It felt like there was still something in the pocket but it was only warmth. The house sounded empty but a delicious smell intoxicated him. Lovely food was here, his favourite. The family was there in the garden. The woman looked at him and smiled. She explained how although it was cold the children had wanted to eat near the Christmas tree. It was too big to fit in the house and they were afraid it would get lonely. She looked just the same as when they had first met and, that thought in mind; he stared at her with a fixedness that defied emotion. She didn't seem interested in where he'd been. The sun made a spectral appearance and the snow softened slightly. He told himself he was different now. Perhaps he should not have returned but when he searched his brain there was no where else to go. Everything was here. The world seemed small and empty. The children had gone and he and the woman sat in the kitchen. She was stroking a small dog he had not seen before. He made up his mind to finish this charade so that he would not be sneaking around it forever. Every time he opened his mouth to speak it was as if the words were being blown back into his throat by a strong wind. He had intended to be reasonable and discuss the matter levelly but the wind would not let him. Frustration squeezed him and he tried to snap at her but the wind made him gag. She sat sedate stroking the dog and whispering to it. He needed to know why she had been unfaithful. Anger bloated him and he tensed to shout but the wind pushed the emotion deeper down. He screamed loud and tearing. She jumped to her feet and stared at him. Their friends ran into the room looking worried. He took them aside one by one and tried to speak to them. He tried everything to get the answers he wanted without knowing what it was he wanted. At first he was friendly and cajoling. This didn't work and the targeted friend returned to the mass, whispering, concerned. He attempted being submissive, upset, threatening, confused. Each time the silent mass eyed him warily and he met with an equal and opposite force of whispers when the current delegation returned. Still he could not look her in the eye. He now accused them directly and they made for him, their eyes sad. His arms and legs were grabbed and he struggled violently. His leg caught someone in the face but the leg was re-grabbed and they doubled up on his limbs. They carried him though the streets like a hero. He convulsed fitfully but they took turns at restraining him so as to keep fresh. People turned to stare. Cars full of critical faces slowed to observe this mass of humanity. They released him in a large building with no windows and a high pulpit at the far end. His captors filed in and the woman sat looking not at him. A man wearing a bathrobe and stethoscope mounted the pulpit and took in the scene dispassionately. He lifted his little finger and the captors queued up to speak to him. They spoke of his delusions of persecution and conspiracy. How they had each spoken to him within a ten-minute window and he had been in a different mood for all of them, almost a different person. Another presented a dull new black eye. Every one of them questioned how he could change like this overnight. The man in the pulpit asked where they had been that night. Each looked confused and replied that they could not remember but the confusion soon passed and was forgotten. The man in the pulpit straightened, cleared his throat and proposed to pass sentence. No one had asked the defendant anything and all had averted eyes. He felt vacant and lost but something awakened his senses. He knew this man in the bathrobe or rather recognised him. It was Valerie Johnson erst-while Mayor of Here. He was furious and shouted at the Judge. He named him a disgusting parasite and described his crimes to the court. A velvet hush descended on the crowd and he began to feel strong again. Surely this farce would end now. His friends looked up at him with eyes sadder than ever and the Judge flicked his pinkie angrily. He found himself in a small Cell with barred windows. The sunset glowed warm outside. There was a cupboard he remembered in the corner. All the things that made him happy that he had always owned but had never seen before were there. His wife smiled at him from the bed. This was not the woman he had left in the courtroom but someone closer and more significant. He knew he was home. He opened his eyes slowly.
He awoke wondering where the TV guide was. The bedroom was filled with sunlight and an intricately soft ballet of motes. Sleep soothed and comfortable he lay. He had not dreamt. Maybe he was free. The alarm had not been set and he was late for work. He would just rest for ten more minutes.

Red Shift

After he had made a full transition from bed he rose to seriously wondering where the television guide could be. It had always been a conundrum to him. His final conclusion was that it must have been, although fully denied, the actions of his family. Now that he lived alone he didn't have the luxury of assuming their responsibility. The paper containing the listings arrived on a Tuesday. It would head for the living room on a route taking in the kitchen and occasionally the bathroom. Usually he estimated that it would be where it should be by the TV. If this supposition was wrong then at least he knew the path on which it would be. Some days, as today, it seemed to be nowhere. This was impossible but at least he could predict fairly accurately when he would get his hands on another. His wife had always known the location of things. It was her instinct indelible in his mind. She had been late home from work and he had sat down with a cup of tea and ,rarely, initiated a conversation with his son. His second mistake had been to ask the twenty year old what he was thinking about. The boy replied that he was puzzling under a paradox that a friend had sent him that he subsequently passed to his father. It read: A woman approaches you and says "Everything I say to you is a lie. Is she telling the truth or is she lying? He thought for a while and sipped at the warming tea. Always he did his thinking with a cup of tea. He came to the conclusion, which he in turn shared with his son, that as he had stated it was a paradox. The boy seemed at an age given to scorn that he now could barely conceal. He stated
"It's the truth. His father could barely conceal his pleasure but had had lots of practice. He returned
"It's only the truth given that on this occasion she is lying, it's a paradox. He smiled. The older generation still had something to teach. The boy said
"No I don't think so, but that was really what I was thinking about, I was trying to define a lie. His dad thought he detected a subtle form of secondary behaviour. Lots of interrogations had honed his senses to the sly and evasive. His son saw the look on his father's face and continued
"I was thinking that a verbalised lie was in essence born of deconstruction. His dad made a passive, but not positive, sound and said
"Go on. His son carried on.
"This woman asks the question of our true being, inside. So¦ he thought for a moment as she only exists in our minds surely any action she is permitted or undergoes contravenes the definition of a falsehood. His face seemed to mirror his father's in confusion for a while until he said.
"Of course it would be necessary for us to agree that we exist in a true reality first. The older man didn't fully understand and wasn't going to leave it there. He wondered what they were teaching him at University. He could feel his temperature rising and realised, once again, that this was why they didn't talk. It often ended in conflict. He had been the catalyst for learning before, now, he was the Devil's advocate. He proposed
"How about testing your idea, using an example?
"Ok, I need to take something apart he reached out and handled his dad's tea mug "this is a clock¦that works. He continued as though thinking out loud
"Although we must mutually define value first, but that aside¦anyway he frowned and relaxed, his hands square on the table before him.
"If we take apart this clock it will no longer work. Our deconstruction will disable it from realising its true purpose. Not a very good example as I don't like clocks, but anyway¦ if we take a clock apart in our minds each cog removed is actually an act of creation as it had not existed before and then he began to get excited and talk more speedily "it would not take much of a leap of imagination for a fully dissembled clock to still work perfectly, also¦each stage of the clock being taken apart still exists for you whereas in reality you just have a clock in bits¦so an internal action has many more implications than an equal external act. His father interrupted here
"What if you were taking the clock apart to teach someone how to make many more clocks in the future, surely that would be hugely creative?
"Well yes...but you are deconstructing the clock piece by piece so the learner will recreate for themselves the action in their minds¦and then at a later date they will make more clocks but you don't believe the end justifies the means anyway, do you? His father was silent and was about to answer, vague and non-committal, when the front door opened and there she stood. He was saved from another of his son's confusing tirades. He was sure that Chris wasn't correct in his assumptions but after a while he became so lost in the maze of words that he forgot what they had been talking about. He wished he could rewind at his leisure to ascertain the truth of what had been said but he could not ask his young son to explain it again and wasn't sure if he was even interested. Julie looked good in her suit but she was late and he was hungry so he said
"You're late, where were you?
"I was put on green shift, I got there early but didn't see the point of coming back just to return, how about a kiss and hello? She replied
Her boss had been to some managerial conference by some business evangelist in Norway. He had returned with a 'mind schema' of employee's needs in the workplace and had set about, among other things, organising the work roster into coloured segments so that the workers could feel and see as well as know what time wasn't their own. He stood up and pecked her on the cheek and smiled
"I know you can try harder than that.
Hearing his name snapped him back to his apartment. Now, whenever she said his name he realised that it meant there was something needed. Even though recalled in his mind, her voice created a nagging sensation, which inclined him to resist. He knew she wanted what was best for him and their child but history got in the way. What they had shared had hardened and condensed into another time and place. Their new lives rising immediate, expanded. With every hope of her return came renewed the fear of the loss. They had recently been speaking more but his impatience always hung in the air. There was so much he wanted to say that the thoughts rushed disorderly and had little context in their new lives. There was budding value here in their new beginning but what taunted was the detachment of it all. She had smiled ravenous in his arms but now sat composed across the table from him. The two instants, measured, seemed to contradict. When they merged the image of her was of fantasy, exciting, difficult to obtain. He replayed his name in his mind and it soothed but reminded him ethereally that there was something to do. He knew he must go to work. He had driven almost unconsciously the night before but now he had rested the car felt incredibly responsive in his hands. A new set of traffic lights had been erected. They both settled at a red. For the first time he was grateful for this. It gave him time to compose himself. Glancing at his hair in the mirror it was obvious that he had not conditioned this morning. Would anyone notice? He pressed the right button and fresh air tempered the car. His workplace seemed to loom much larger this morning. The receptionists smiled meaningfully at him. They were always the first to hear the big gossip. He wondered if it were they who really ran the building. Photocopies, faxes, in and outgoing mail all passed through their moisturised hands. They must have heard that he had lost the interview, the career maker. He often wondered what else they knew.
He strode illustriously past them; swelling and befitting his rank only to stop cold and effaced at the elevator. Its chrome veneer repulsed and he stepped back. He suddenly felt very focussed. The receptionists were looking over. Self consciously straightening the tie he mimicked studying his reflection in the doors. The image he received was scratched and tarnished by the years of countless greasy fingers. At this picture he started and moved toward the stairs. These resisted him also. They had been polished scrupulously and as he looked down to take the first step saw a slight glimpse of himself. With this view the elevator quietly opened. A jumbled mass of forms emitted, each suited figure filling in around him. He knew some of these people. Before they spoke a file was thrust roughly into his hands. He felt their eyes stick to him. A large woman with sharp glasses cut a harsh figure in the lead. She waved her hand high as if dispersing the group or summoning a carriage. They stayed and she began. He knew whom she meant.
"He won't speak to us. These people are the best. And he just sits there. Asks for you
She looked at green narrowing her right eye and explained,
"Says he'll only speak to you
She pirouetted and the group dissolved into varying portals. This would take a lot of smoothing over. This was great news. This is his.

Interview
As this was an unplanned-for situation it was after midnight when the necessary paperwork had been done. With a gift of insight Patric had been moved to the top floor as per Green's instructions. A well-designed interior giving out on to an open view relaxes. This informal approach would work. He was gently confident. He knew that if you catch a suspect off balance and gave them a lift then they cannot refuse and are set to accord in many ways. This then creates confusion, which resides.
Patric had been found at a hospital with a degree of self-harm, which bordered suicide. The relevant authorities were contacted. A+ blood was discovered on him that did not match his own. His condition was now stable. A helpful aide filled Green in as he followed. The prisoner had inexplicably disfigured his appearance. No fingerprints could be taken. No hair samples collected. Patric to many intents and purposes had dipped himself in acid. Little recognisable form was left except the main features. Green wasn't certain how these now functioned but he would have to see. At moments like this he wished he could turn down the volume. This office was near the top. The receptionists often joked it was a long way down, to which he replied that it's half full if you're filling it up. They always smile meaningfully then make more noise. It was very important that it did not disturb him. He needed all his energies for this and could feel the concentration in his forehead. Two scary looking uniforms guarded the door. He took a deep breath and caught sight of an arresting pair of legs in a side room. His vision had been swayed by the new pathologist who obviously sensed his attraction, crossing her legs away from him in reaction. Facing forwards to collect himself he borrowed another deep breathe. It was easy to forget to breathe. Successfully failing to breathe in excitement or failing successfully to breathe, as a means to hold onto what you had was empirical. The officer on the right pointed to the side of his head in salute without making eye contact or changing expression. He felt often that this was a movement to make him feel self-conscious but now it did not. It meant secure knowledge of unity. He was on his own but it was a sign they had similar direction. The door wouldn't give so he booted it and it wind-flew open. It crashed into the wall. It, made him, jump. Professionally he composed himself by ordering the notes. A small man sat clothed in soft white bandages. Strange to think this was the object of his dreams. Green must feel nothing at suspect's pain. The cushion had eyes that did not look up as he sat down. The snowman was slowly doodling circles, a profoundly meticulous pattern most complete. These arcs and junctions that enclose a formless serenity, of which, closer inspection juxtaposes their symmetry. Green was about to give voice to this when the bandage looked up. Patric's eyes seemed to steal green's wards making them heavy and old. The eyes seemed satisfied and coughed, discolouring the mouth gauze. Patrics voice was the one he recognised from the dream. He spoke at Green pointedly with vociferous detachment
"I shouldn't have been given this pen
"I know
"This tea's very weak
"I know He repeated himself!
"I asked for you he sounded like he was smiling "you came
Green knew he was being led, gently removed from his body word by word.
"You're so young more discolouration "but it may be I can still make you see
Green felt soft blurred and sick. He could hear himself faintly thinking mad, mad, mad but whether it sailed whence was unclear or to neither shore.
Patric moved his hands rhythmically.
"Fine, you're your own man Green appear in the tree at summer the sun rises on¦ his hands rose an empty sky
Green's mind cleared. He tried to insist on the ownership of the confusion just so as to have control. Should he be lead blindly or gaze back in bewilderment. Control over a confusion was still that. He just needed to resist Patric, who now controlling him, saw. Patrics eyes seemed benevolent. He spoke patiently,
"I will speak he gestured minutely "on that you're clear
Green was clear. He felt attending, transparent.
"Sit down¦. that's better¦there's still some tea left he added kindly "that's good.
Green's lips twitched as he was considering uttering but patric cut in.
"I will speak clearly seeing as you're so young, although, I have met Romans who were younger than you at your age, yet now of course, they're much, much older¦ah he coughed you must excuse me it's a long time since I have spoken thus he reached a padded hand up to his face but noticed that it was covered at the last second. Green did not move.
"I see our dreams were not easy on you. I was asleep then too. All my actions were not synchronised with your shut eyes. Ah yes, the words will flow better now. We were having the same dream my friend but of course, that being, they were markedly different he paused "that is not relevant though is it? Green sat tongue-tied.
"You perhaps do not realise what a luxury this is. To have someone listen, I will be as short as possible. There has been no one for such a long time. No one real, they were but figments of me, ghosts of the people I have been. Now you will be dredged from the soul of sleep into a cracked symmetry of wakefulness. Perhaps I will become your parent now too, although you are fulfilling the role. This garden of time would be long then to everybody it seemed to Green as if he was in a garden dawn-braced and sweet smelling.
"They will be here soon to remove me. The DNA sample your colleagues took will ring some bells. I must be quick. Green knew this could not be the case and felt control of his faculties returning. He was still tongue tied but once again sat in the office. This was his interview and it was against procedure for anything to interrupt. Why was he listening to any of this?
"I am very old and soon I'll be gone patric continued I have had many names and have forgotten the beginnings. I am not sure if there was a time before but there are many becomings' sometimes from the most vacuous destructive events. I remember some way back though. I think that I just wanted to live. I remember Hatshepsut the Egyptian Goddess her cats would follow her everywhere. I was young and given to the dark. There are now other ways to watch history unfold. The first name I took was Tuthmosis the third. This Egyptian civilisation was weak and proud. My powers were still slight but the people agreed that I was the stronger and I succeeded. The nearby nations were suspicious of revolution but indiscriminate trade had weakened their borders. I went to war fairly successfully but I was playing. To suddenly have that power in your hands is unnerving but when it is wielded by others on your behalf you do not have so much of a weight He sighed or laughed quietly "but I learnt the dangers of high status and fame and took to smaller more subtle manipulations. I talked Lycomedes into killing theseus. These roles were more affective but took time to develop. I gravitated to the brightest civilisations flowering in awe of their glow but the time would come for the twist and there always seemed to be a twist. I was still experimenting but had gained an insight into the form of humanity and the paths of consciousness. The world was shaping up to my design. Plato and Socrates were impressive, possibly my biggest rivals but they too are now assimilated. That was a time. I can still feel when I recollect that era. I became Xenophanes, founder of a certain school of thought and tutor to Parmenides, who did all the legwork. 'The Achilles' became a problem for a while later on but all these things you can learn from so long as you live. Yes¦.Parmenides¦he was the mother to my bastard son 'Logic'. 'The fix was in' as you put it. To beguile many different cultures with many different systems of belief, even thought, creates a perfect deconstruction. Nation was against nation each containing castes with factions and heirs. 'Divide and conquer', that's one of mine. Chaos¦but ordered down the ages, nudge by nudge. People could control their own minds. Nature no longer dominated with its facile urgings. Evolution was under man's control. Nature was no longer the guide - man was. This was greedily absorbed but now they spent less time evolving and more time wondering if they're able to direct it. Nature had not planned for that but there are a few patterns I have observed and Nature always spawns expensive ways. The Romans were very difficult for me, adopting Christianity and spreading it across the known world was tiresome but a challenge. Unified belief and something that fed the initiated inner emptiness was contrary to my plans but as with most new movements, the Julii were over eager and forceful. 'You can lead a horse to water'¦another. They were over extended and the hierarchy was corrupt and I watched as Rome was vandalised. This may interest you.. a phone rang obliquely in the room but it sounded distant "¦the Romans were severely hated, some aspects were now engrained in these cultures but¦you look a bit like Voltaire in this light¦the Romans left less of their idealism and more desire to conquer and to debauchery. It was a very good play though. Yes they caved didn't they he appeared to glow through his bandages So dramatically did they implode- and I had nothing to do with this, took a century off and became some actors. I was middle aged then I guess you could say, began to get a conscience, started thinking am I doing the right things? Where is my existence heading? he coughed and lifted up his arm to his head, just remembering the padding in time. "Well¦.that is not too important my point seems to be getting a little diluted Green began to concentrate again, this change was apparent to patric. History is a very small thing if you can see it in the right way¦patric took on a forensic tone of voice that made Green clouded, robotic and incompatible with himself "¦otherwise you're not involved but surrounded. Green saw that patric's eyes were near jade. "The Romans were defeated and their star imploded, everything they had built began to work against them but only for a while, people look fickle when you view them down the ages. Christianity calls Jesus a Son of God and Islam calls him a prophet but those Celts hung his image on a cross and paraded it at the front of their armies as they drove the Romans back. You see what happens when you try to force something on someone? I thought I had won. Only a few people know the sacrilegious nature of those idols but it turned out that people will make what they will of something. It's a very exclusive joke now. They go somewhere with a common feeling to a particular end and it is generally done, historically speaking. Someone may find it unpleasant to be told that they 'can't' do something whereas the next day they may discover it meant they 'can-not', empowerment Green, just not yet. It shall all take a lot of swallowing, chew carefully. Winston Churchill said 'History will be kind to me as I intend to write it' and he did, I mean¦say that and¦have his say¦ then he spoke as if to himself although he borrowed that from someone¦who was it? Well in a scenic route it was I. He looked at the clock "they'll be here soon. You see¦first I was a God then I became a king then Duke, Prince etcetera but never have I had so much power than as an anonymous citizen. At first we crave visibility and attention. This becomes rather more dangerous than productive. If everyone knows you then everyone has an opinion on you. Two like-minded people meet and you have a faction one way or the other. I can continue my work best, discretely, but that is what has gone wrong. The event was such a long time ago but I remember the advice constantly. It helped a lot to have guidelines in the most chaotic eras, tides and places shift constantly. Something that works is inestimable. I allowed a colleague from a large multinational company to see me working. This was an insight and a drawback. This, it was apparent was how a prophet is made. He peeked through into my world and¦it was such a simple routine piece of work¦but it made sense to him. A history that seemed sporadic and cyclical, divisive yet not directionless suddenly took form in his mind. My method seemed to link in well with something he had been thinking about. He was interested in the Egyptians he coughed badly "...and was interested in reports that some of their rulers had been significantly taller and paler than they. Now, knowing how aggressive people had been to those who were not like them, wondered at how a nation would accept another culture as its guiding force. He did not stop there but went on to link up other events in history all under my nose. There have been other spiritual leaders and prophets¦yes¦some not too distant in the past but it is not important for you to know. Just, that once you work out the formulae they're easy to spot. You look for factions and then for opinions then use a kirlian, putting it extremely simply. This one though I had created so he popped up unawares and is the reason I'm to be 'collected'.
Green shifted slightly in his seat. He had listened with rapt awe but a little sense was returning. Should he call through the door?
"Still¦it is funny how things go. It is almost as if I'm reacting to myself down the ages. I went a bit far with slavery, everything was a bit too organised, that was counterbalanced with slow burn feudalism but everything seemed so secure and God-given. I have been and done everything¦except¦I've never been to a couple of the modern South American countries. It's strange becoming a counter reactionary stereotype that has never existed before but that is taking it too far. Ah! yes they're in the building now. This old colleague of mine¦.he¦informed a certain political advisory body, that in my secretive way had been assisting, of what he believed was the state of play. They, of course, thought he was mad. That was until a certain breakthrough was discovered, which my research had initiated, that showed beyond most doubt a link. The way history was clustered and the most thoughtful accusation correlated. They did not like it. Hardly anyone knows this. Some deny it, others go with it but the ones coming here they've chosen to fight. Of course I do not have to go with them. I can stop this any time I like but they have my respect. They're trying to break away. It's precisely what I would have done when I was young. In this respect they are new. Something I have not seen for a long time. Everyone has been mine for such a long time that I have just been tweaking systems and knowledge a little, taking the odd decades off. A little confusion goes a long way. Have you ever really left the country? Is it possible that the plane just banks, so insignificantly, but enough to go full circle and return? There is a long journey and a change of culture but same landmass. I'm joking but you get my point. People go to churches wearing Nike¦hilarious. I would have been interested in bringing out dzpthkltbw tklpsq it would have been..ah.. revolutionary. Of course you would have to have understood the language first and to learn it you need to know it already, strange concept for you I'm sure. Each person is broken down into series of interdependent opinions, thoughts, experiences¦.most originate from me and the ones that don't reacted to mine so who's who? Is everyone me? Or who I was? Or would have been if taken on to the end of my conclusions? This is all a bit stream of consciousness now but¦You like tea! I incorporated that. We are linked. These men in the government who are 'taking me away' have interest. They have compromised everything to come here and do what needs to be done. They are a small minority but they have hope. Just think of everyone you know. Nietzsche, Locke, Pierce, Singer, Foucault. I'm exceptionally proud and entertained by the Trappists! My escort¦they're nearly here. If you don't believe me go to this address and you'll see what I was doing. So say what you want¦but what you really want¦or should I tell you what to think Green was bewildered but said,
"¦¦
Patric spoke easily
"You are not hearing any of this, are you?
The door opened and four suits arrived and spread out around the table.
Patric said
"Cue cumber
They had a sheet of paper that looked correct but Green didn't examine it. They were gone with his prisoner and he was unsure if they had ever been here. Everything was 2D and so cheap. He fumbled numbly for the tea and missed. This could not be true, surely. Surely everything could not be false.

Flight

They called a taxi at reception. I knew there was a private fleet of drivers but they must have all been on jobs. It arrived in next to no time hinting that there was a service cab rank too. Bundled in the back the driver took directions without saying a word. Perhaps he felt the gravity of the occasion too. The enormity of what had just happened was indecipherable. Maybe this wasn't the end of everything and was some kind of colossal joke but surely not all that copper for this. I snorted with a humour that quickly fizzled with the complexity. Perhaps one of my closer colleagues had thought I was getting too big for my boots, too superior or knowledgeable. Maybe it was a late induction of some kind into a secret society I had, unbelievably, overlooked. This feeling was sudden and unexpected. This situation could not arise in the world I had nurtured and defended. The taxi slowed, jammed in, next to a bus stop. I looked up briefly, nervous of the world that no longer belonged to me. A couple stood within reach of the car, kissing leisurely. I couldn't look. An unremitting pulse of hurt reverberated through me. It felt not totally mental and not absolutely physical but was excruciating and definite. Here though, here was something I remembered. Here was something bravely undeniable, unquenchable in its historical ubiquity. 'Love knows no bounds' had once been said. I looked again, hopeful at this new world. The couple were snogging- now and indiscriminate. I felt stirrings of sentimentality that I believed had been long fired out of my form. A sudden need to be close to another prompted tears but in my job repression was automatic. Honest responses had been replaced by what was expedient and then by what were required. Honesty was what was expedient and required. I allowed myself a crooked smile but still unable to relinquish control it appeared lingering and forced. The man, seeming in a dream of wistful emotional abandon, opened his eyes. He glanced at me deliberate and calculating, the way you watch a cat after placing its open box on the groundwork for the vet's trip. His eyes knew were to look and there was no surprise, only cool engaging method. The taxi jumped and shuddered into action the engine seeming loud enough to support the motion of the surrounding traffic as well. Were there more people involved? I cast repetitively furtive glances around. In one car the driver discontinued talking into his phone as I looked. In another a child's wistful look turned chill and I looked away. Was this paranoia? With a strange dividing sensation I half hoped so. Otherwise it was choreography of metaphysical dimensions. The taxi turned to another direction. No longer did I stare out the window. The cabs meter was now all. The pausing red digits seemed to carry the only regularity I had but that was systemized and increasingly expensive. The meter wasn't changing. The driver turned around. We had arrived.
I got out and paid the lady. She sat rigid and didn't make eye contact. I didn't wait for my change but anxiously hurried towards the terminal with my briefcase. How did patric know my name?
The airport was a world between worlds, an overlap in circles, whose boundaries shift, the closer you stare. Once on a plane you were valuable cargo, sold. Now, you must stack neatly and wait. I belonged to neither. The dissociation was total.
I wondered who owned this enterprise. Whether each shop had a stake or the car parks owned it all. The world outside had seemed too big to think but here I could not. Everyone seemed so far away. I must have looked harried and self-conscious the way I moved, as I drew some attention. If I could reach out to someone and have a mundane conversation it would be a relief but suddenly everyone looked as if on rails. It was an empty feeling to realise that the love of my life, football, was a stabilising reaction to something else that Patric had implemented. Patric or Tuthmosis or Zeno or xeno or whoever else he was or had been and whose face I had only seen in dream. Yeah, the beautiful game, I wanted to believe it was about national pride and often projected that it might, one day, be the end to war. That would be amazing. All conflicts settled on a football pitch. They'd get paid even more. A woman passing by laughed. It startled me. Had I said that out loud? I needed a drink. I had been standing in internal dialogue, looking around but not taking anything in. A kiosk was open, the coffee machine was on and a girl in uniform stood there looking at me. I ordered an espresso, maybe a double. My whirling brain needed a kick-start. She said that she couldn't serve me for three minutes until she opened. This was fine by me. I was a customer now. No longer floating I had temporary status and was legitimate. This afforded me a closer inspection of my surroundings. This place was geared towards processing people. If you have a ticket you belong. Here, the definition of your being was in the bag and in the small book you carry. It was 3:00am. The time reputed to bring death and night sweats. The time your body is at it's lowest and I was here, a no man's land of variable function. Planes arrived and landed at all hours but at this time I could not buy a ticket. This huge temple of travel filled with queues, scans and checks. If you could fly there is a clear route above all the zig-zag lines, barriers and uniforms. A steaming coffee was placed next to me and I had the right change. It tasted hot. The seats were moulded to fit the average body but ended up fitting no one. The huge glass facia showed night but inside was bright perma-day. It was nice to put the briefcase down. Over a ticket booth a light flashed on, it was a good sign. The place was waking up and beginning to show the fundamental signs of function. Airhostesses in between flights sat at another table like starched marionettes. They talked but hardly moved. One turned in a graceful fluid motion ' above your head is the oxygen. She laughed quietly at a casual huddle of travellers. She hops from here to there where they go to stay. In the air when they want to stretch their legs she's doing it on full pay. The subject of her amusement was oblivious. I had just drunk the bitter dregs of the coffee and was wishing I didn't feel the need to do that. Next time I wouldn't. Now I no longer belonged. Aware of the commercial drive to cycle customers there was a distinct pressure to move. It certainly didn't come from the small pretty girl behind the counter. She looked as if she hadn't quite woken up yet. No, the pressure probably came from headquarters. Not a maintained signal that made a small red light flicker, as a constant reminder, beneath the till. It was more a subconscious throb, an unremitting signifier of attitude. Still, I moved with such a weighty thought. Standing next to a bin I used the empty cup as a prop. No one was watching me but when you are floating and directionless you often take large face saving comfort in a small action. I threw the cup away. Being here was like lying in bed awake with the light on watching the clock. Two police people walked by. Their automatic rifles hung loosely from around their necks but always steadied and actionable. A group of security guards, dressed in black, hung around outside smoking. A tall man lethargically pushed a trolley of cleaning materials across the floor. The floors already glowed with a dull reflection. The small disparate groups had gone, moved on to resorts and beaches. Two men had been leaning against a barrier opposite to me for a while. They were still there. They talked sporadically, gazing around they were too comfortable. They may have been born and schooled in an airport but that was unlikely. A bad picture was building in my head that made it harder to think straight, relax and act normal. I tried to do all three at the same time and it came off unnatural. My training had gone out the window. Patric had trained me. He had trained us all. All my lifestyle decisions and opinions, my favourite team, colour, food, lager, ex-wife they all had one thing in common. An unscrupulous and, if he is to be believed, eternal man had been pulling the strings through the ages. A small arrangement of events millennia ago had people dancing still. He had wanted us separate from our commonality. My enemies are not of my own choosing. No doubt he had coined diversification, which seemed to be a universal name for growth and variety but appeared now as a formula for evolution. It would seem that patric had won. Man had realised his own ability to define the future but had stunted it and taken it from his fellows. That is if patric was to be believed. It seemed a preposterous idea but so much had been strange and imposing that I had to hold on to something. Denial of one fact would bring into doubt my very senses. The existence of this was in conflict with what I had once known, which now, seemed fraud and dissolute. I tried not to think but to create a feeling of wavering compromise with this emergency. A man had sat down at the table I had left. I looked again and he was looking at me strangely. I looked again and another man had joined him. I needed to sit down but I required fresh air more. Outside made you want to be inside. The airport was the end of several motorways, once the taxi arrived and sped off impersonal; it all felt dreadfully one way. An advertisement jeered; have you called home? Who could I call? My answering machine could remind me of how I had felt a year ago. It was too early to call anyone I knew and what would I say? That none of them were real and that I may be because I knew I wasn't? That coffee hadn't helped. An empty taxi pulled up next to the curb. A streetlight flickered across the road to the hum of distant traffic. I sat outside. A memory; playing in the park when I was fourteen, my girlfriend of three days and no future leaned over and whispered that she loved me. This recollection had been coveted and stored. It had been contrived and almost preordained by someone who had no knowledge or care of its existence. I felt a gut wrenching separation. I flailed around in my mind attempting to touch on an event that was incorruptible and absolute. Every time I headed myself off. I had been trained to pry and investigate and, here I was, unravelling my own life. A memory of watching my first film with my grand-dad, this was false or rather it no longer belonged to me. Marriage, sailing boats, getting drunk, sex under the stars, walking dogs, loyalty, pride all seemed a vicious trap set by an amorality and now it had been sprung, amorality had given up and ceased to be.
I had the piece of paper. The address looked real. I felt defeated. I was now on rails, the same as everybody else, only I knew it. The airport was now fully operational. I got a ticket with little fuss and joined the rest. Such a small piece of paper graced me with a slight anonymity. Our rails met to pass X-rays and metal detectors. Those hungry filed, together but apart, into cafes and restaurants. If unsure then you could look at a signpost and see what you would like to do most. Considering you would be here for a while it would be plausible to get more money out. The others appear confidently unaware of the rails. They ignore, diverge, meet and mingle with apparent ease. I was unsure how to proceed. With my life as memory slipped away, I now knew it was burning hot and was learning how not to touch. I wondered briefly about the place where all rails met but it was too much. This situation was a return to something he recognised, people do ignore each other and eat when they're hungry. I was conscious now of my dislocation, of knowing that a huge minute build up of choices led you here, most of which were realised before you were born. There was normality in drinking a beer in a bar with other passengers but they seemed to know there was something different about me. They kept their distance and so did I. For the first time in my life the beer made me feel a little sick. Maybe I don't like beer. The flight was called. I had a row to myself so I spread out. Wondering anxiously if I'd have to pay for all three, I fell asleep.
The plane was circling lazily when I awoke. There was the river. There was the coastline. Both were the shape they were represented by on the map. Patric had been joking. Another airport, this was easier as I only had to follow other people on a single track. We were processed, observed, checked and released, rivers joining a stream. It was easier to pretend it wasn't real now and that I was just impulsive in holidays. The taxi driver was thickset and stern. He looked at the paper but feigned a misapprehension of my dialect. I got angry. We drove. Hitting a main road fast we blew a tire. It sounded like a gunshot. If we'd been going any faster it would have been bad. Another car was called. The driver didn't look at me. Ten minutes later my nerves still hadn't settled down. I cried on the hard shoulder.

Literal translation

I paid quickly and the taxi drove off. The driver gave me an encouraging smile. She'd dropped me on the right road but wasn't sure how far along it was. It looked partially commercial. I passed an Internet café, eyes down. There was a group of Microsoft widows outside, disinterested, waiting for overdue boyfriends. I remembered sneaking a go on the arcade machines with someone else's credit, I went to smile but the memory evaporated, rendering another piece of my old puzzle scalded, inexplicable. A passing car slowed down next to me for no reason. A man from a second story window ducked inside. A dog sniffed my leg as its old lady peered suspiciously. The air felt static like when standing next to a fast flowing river. Time drags when you're being watched, the world and yourself seem to twitch at each other's every move. The world was building into a fearful cacophony; I didn't know where to look. People's voices were magnified and intrusive, a pneumatic drill began to chatter and bit at me through the air. A wrestler's embrace to a reed. A sign caught my eye. It was my old favourite colour, the one I had as a child. It had a name that matched the one on the paper. It was good to get off the street. I was breathing normally again and calmer. Standing outside the address I caught a full blast of the afternoon sun, a relaxing trickle of warmth touching the tension of travel. I leaned against the door. It was locked and sturdy. There were strong hinges and it had a good frame. Going in was going to be loud and messy. It would attract a lot of attention. I looked up and down the corridor twice. I looked out the window at the waning street. There was a TV on somewhere. There was a doormat. There was a key. The flat was dark but very orderly. It was open plan and eclectic. A sunken floor and what could only be described as a podium. Metallic surfaces gave way into wood. It occurred to me that I had, in my desperation, revealed every positive memory I had to be the product of someone else's action. The same was true of the negative. I was suddenly lighter. My divorce, the arguments, the man I'd shot while working, in fact, all the things that had held me down or kept me back peeled away. I wasn't the harassed spent up policeman I had been mimicking for years. I felt a surge of feeling that I almost left unchecked; now, there would be time for that. I smiled and walked around. There was one letter inside on the floor. A separate toilet and bathroom conformed to the overall scheme. It was a modest size but there wasn't anything out of the ordinary here. No false walls or hollow echoes. A programme guide laid unopened next two empty beers. An armchair sprawled fully reclined a scratch where it had recently been moved. A cupboard contained a games console I hadn't seen before and some headgear. Cabinets- socks, pants, cups, plates, saucepans. Nothing interesting was hidden anywhere. The fridge- (beer tomato, lasagnes)¦The fridge was a cooled walk-in room one side was lined with ampoules, packets and bottles, the other, with rows of epic looking ring binder files that extended to above head height. The room was probably 6 foot in all dimensions. All the hundreds of bottles and jars were chemicals. Formaldehyde, Demerol, Lysergic acid Diethlemide and many I didn't know to exist. They were all liquids, powders and gases and all contained. The other side was much more revealing. A volume taken at random made me stagger. As I struggled with the weight it contained, my elbow flew out for support and I felt an impact and then coolness against my cheek as if something had been released. A vial lay on the floor smashed, something in the air, sweet and overpowering. The door was open and the air cleared. At first it was indecipherable, rows of names to an immense amount of columns that held seemingly random numbers. A complex key on the back page was revealing. It was an archive horrific and sublime. The book I had opened was a catalogue of reaction times to drugs, sounds, facial expressions and a myriad of other 'affective devices'. This record was hideous and desperate in its research. The indexing was labyrinthine and it was all aimed at confusion, manipulation and death. At random- A thirty year old male, ex-smoker 30 a day, works 22 hours a week in DCM, there were cross linked codes for ease of use which reported psychological and physical strain required by employment, 4 children, divorced, frequency of toilet trips, distinguishing features ad infinitum. There was a separate folder for masturbation habits that went into a detail far beyond anything I had seen from psychodynamic analysis. I was unable to be surprised but was sickened as all this information was for an obscene demographic. That man had been killed so patric could see when that 'target audiences' optimum relaxation point was when in a bath of mean 28 degrees Celsius. It appeared that lots of this cold store was set aside for these annals of assassination. The first records had been translated from papyrus and it looked obvious that they had been kept for sentimental reasons. Another folder contained symbols I did not understand but had been titled Vocus next to the original script. A yellow sticky label attested to this as being a new language, commercially expressive but almost dumb to imagination. There were techniques on how to speak to both someone's head and heart at once. There were cures to diseases that he hadn't released yet and cures to cures. Footnotes attested to cures for various diseases being more easily fostered and researched with this tongue. A postscript attested that the development of an aids vaccine had been too simple to take up any of his time and hinted that there was one already. Appendices listed schematics for bizarre new musical instruments. There were diagrams of power lines that made my head swim. Predictions, problems and solutions all outlined some heavy with detail, hypnosis of varying forms, regression, ingression and egression. One folder made the world crystallise around me. It was a list of names. Mine was included. It had every statistic about my life I could myself remember times, dates, people, places. I filled my briefcase. The letter on the mat was addressed to me. It just said- 'How do you shake when you meet a left handed man, thank you' - and contained a cheque. Bewildered and harried I ran into the street. With the information in that my briefcase you could save or damn the world. A world leader would pay inordinately for one folder or be toppled by another. I couldn't think straight. Where was my mind?
I snapped around in horror.
" it's mine said a little girl as she snatched the chocolate back.
I express myself. Why? The greed.
Two old ladies met at my elbow
"Hello one said
I stumbled down the street just hanging on to the briefcase. It was everything but it was all I had. Snippets of conversation pursued me, hounding.
"I'd die for a cup of tea
"I'm just going down the road
I stopped at the corner of the street and stared hopelessly at the traffic, A police car whizzed by.
"Please don't let them find the fridge I whispered under my breath. Fear gripped my heart, a wire mesh, as a car pulled up beside me and I heard,
"I've done it this time, haven't a clue where I am, I've got us lost said the man harshly
The man was speaking the words into my mind, speaking for my mind. I was lost. How could I carry the responsibility? Why me? I was down-cold-sad-twisted-squashed-crushed. A woman sitting in the car with a map said
"We're actually a lot further on than you think, I think her voice was warm and conciliatory.
"Why don't you ask that man?
The man in the car turned around grumpily and called out to me,
"Allow mate, we're not from round 'ere, jus' wondering where we are?
I felt that I hadn't spoken to a soul in years. I coughed, nervously clearing my throat,
" I'm new here too, where are you going?. I asked.
"To Brighten, holidays.
I pointed weakly in the right direction, the human contact slowly restoring my senses. The man smiled and his wife nudged him encouragingly,
"See we are right she smiled, relieved. The man nodded and then looked back to me and said,
"Cheers, we can give you a lift?
"Brighton? Yes.