Author: Alexander Fawn

He had been institutionalised for his own good.

That’s what the press said and that’s what the memo from the Ministry of Defence said. For the press it was a great story about a mad scientist, but for the government department, and the government itself, it was something far greater. The man was a government scientist and had made several amazing discoveries. It was when the director of the country’s main research facility found out what he was working on that things took on a serious turn. It was apparent that the professor had taken his research to an advanced stage and could be very close to developing an airborne virus capable of being delivered in the form of a hypnotic vapour. It would be a world shattering breakthrough. Nothing like it had ever been produced before. Its effect would be to subdue any recipient into a zombie-like state, making them completely compliant.

His plans for the design of a capsule that could be fitted to the warhead of a ballistic missile were well advanced. Quite naturally, the government was quick to see the potential of such a thing, as a weapon, and decided that in order to keep the research irrevocably secure, the scientist should be strictly confined. He should be able to carry on with his research, but without any unauthorised contact with the outside world. It was with this in mind that in the early hours of the morning he was transferred from the facility and placed in the largest cell in the country’s most secure prison. He would be monitored twenty four hours a day and provided with all of his original notes and apparatus that had been transferred from the research facility. This interruption to his ongoing research had been annoying, but beyond that he was happy to go along with the imposed security arrangements.

The specially appointed guards that were running full video and audio surveillance, were required to report hourly directly to the Minister of Defence. Tapes of any communications were part of such reports. On the understanding that the scientist could have anything he wanted to further his work, those monitoring him throughout the day were on a constant standby, waiting for any requests he might make. So far, the professor’s mumblings, which were fairly constant, consisted of comments that would be listened to and interpreted by a panel of military experts. These comprised of statements concerning the globalisation of servitude, taking control of the new world order, of promoting the self-indoctrination of compliance, the blocking of DNA identification, removing restrictions on the engineering of chromosomes, and the bringing about of a brave new world…

None of this seemed at all relevant to those digitally capturing such musings for the reports they were passing on. In fact, their working hours were long and arduous and held little of interest. That was the case up until the point when the professor crossed the cell and stood looking up at the main camera. After a few seconds, he spoke in a clear and purposeful manner.

He said, “I have a question.”

There was an immediate stir in the observation room, with the team leader giving instructions to one of them. “Get the governor down here; quick as you can.”

He then took up the mike. “We understand. One moment please.”

The professor ran his fingers through his hair and waited.

The prison governor arrived in short order. He picked up the mike. “This is the governor, what is your request?”

“What time’s dinner?”

 

She spent as much time studying as was possible.

Her work in the supermarket paid for the rent and food for the week. She worked four shifts a week. She actually liked working on the checkout. She made sure that boredom didn’t set in by slotting her customers into categories. Much of it was based purely on guess work, but that was OK. They were assessed by how big their shop was, their age bracket, the nature of products being purchased, how healthy the selection was, how healthy the customer looked, whether they were happy about shopping, whether they were married, how many kids, etcetera. This might have seemed a lot to some, but she managed to do her silent categorisation while ringing up the items without making too many mistakes.

She was coming up for a break where she could think about what she had observed during the morning. The guy in the suit only had five items. Should have been in the fast checkout. Obviously not used to shopping, probably single. Lives with parents, maybe. The old lady with the new hairdo. Bought mainly basics. Healthy selections. The teenager shopping for someone else. Probably his mother. Wasn’t happy about it. Oh! Yes. The young woman who wanted to discuss whether she should return the canned soup, realising it was spicy, maybe too spicy… in the end decided to buy it. They were the only standout customers worth thinking about so far.

She occasionally wondered whether any of this was going to help her with her online study towards a degree in psychology.

Surely, it couldn’t do any harm.

At first, nobody noticed the odd looking character sitting at the back of the café.

He had a Mohican haircut that sported all the colours of the rainbow. His cheeks, forehead and neck where tattooed. His tattered pilot’s jacket was covered with badges and stickers. His skin was sickly pale and his eyes were bloodshot. His general appearance was strange, yet this was what he had deliberately created for himself. Before he managed to escape the family home, his father used to say he looked like a parrot. This would never deter him. It was his life after all, and he would live it his way. He had a windfall that morning, begging outside of the bus station. He hadn’t had a decent meal for days and it was hunger that had taken him there, this was supposed to be a real treat.

However, the fact was, he was eating too fast when it happened. He had barely started on his chicken and chips when he began to choke. Whatever it was, it was stuck fast. He tried desperately to cough it up, but it wouldn’t move. For the first minute or two he tried desperately to keep the embarrassing situation to himself. When he realised he couldn’t swallow or cough he began to panic. He got to his feet and began soft grunting noises. His eyes were now bulging and he was flailing his arms around wildly.

Other customers couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. Not because he was choking to death, but because he was obviously demented. Most figured drugs were involved. It was a sad reflection on society that it was becoming so common. Nobody seemed to notice that the blue of his face began to match some of the colours in his fanned hair style. After a few minutes of this performance he slumped back into his chair. His arms dangled on either side and his head slumped with his chin buried in his chest. After a few more twitches he remained still.

It was sad to think that he had always thought that his startling appearance would make his life more interesting for him.

Alas… it had robbed him of it!

It had been a very busy day.

Sitting on the bus, finally on his way home, he had so much of it still swirling around in his head. He was sure he was not alone in this. Other people must experience this same feeling of needing some sort of panacea to bring them out of it all. Something to let it all just drift away, even if it’s only for a short while. Some little piece of heaven. Of course, he mused, there were so many different ideas about what this could be. There must be so many different kinds. Surely, whatever ideas a person comes up with, these are necessarily coloured by their own personal preferences. Could one of them be some sort of intellectual repast? He smiled to himself.

As soon as he got home, he prepared a mug of coffee. He took it to his study. From a shelf he selected a CD case containing multiple discs. He opened it and took one out that contained works by Tomaso Albinoni. He fed it into the player and selected the track for his Adagio in G minor. He put it on pause. From another shelf he took down a large, hard backed book and placed it on the desk. He picked up his Bluetooth headphones. Once he’d settled into his comfy armchair, he adjusted them. He started the music.

Sipping his coffee, he picked up ‘The World’s Finest Art’ book and turned to the section devoted to Italian Renaissance painters. He opened the chapter showing some of the masterpieces by Sandro Botticelli. He turned pages until the painting Primavera appeared and almost immediately lost himself in the hidden mysteries of the artist’s work.

He let out a long, soft sigh.

Heaven!

The thick, weighty letter turned up in his mailbox.

He was a man who didn’t like surprises. Since childhood, he had avoided them. He liked things to be entirely as expected. Fewer unpredictable things had come into his life since retiring and he was happy about that. He thrived on the commonplace, he relished the mundane. He had a strong preference for what others might consider boring.

It was obviously more than just a letter, it was stuffed with something. The envelope was a strange turquoise colour, with a delicate blue filigree around the edges. It looked expensive. It was postage-paid with no stamp. It had been only partially franked by some postal authority in what looked like a foreign country. Although some of the letters were missing, he felt sure he’d never heard of it.

He took it in and dropped it on the kitchen table. He pushed his cross-word to one side and sat looking at it, while the kettle boiled. The address was certainly correct, handwritten in a bold script. He would have to admit to a mild curiosity, but that was all. What could anybody possibly want with him? He turned it over. He read ‘Sir Reginald Asquith’, in a similar script. It meant absolutely nothing to him.

The kettle clicked off.

As he poured his tea, a vague memory came to him. He felt sure he’d been at school with a boy named Asquith; Tim was it or Tom? He couldn’t remember.

After putting his cup down next to the newspaper, he picked the letter up, went to his waste recycling bin, lifted the lid and dropped it in.

Back looking at his cross-word he mumbled, “Where was I? Ah! Yes. Three down, five letters…”

Was it previous to this?

I’m looking for more.

It may have been earlier,

It’s mainly before.

–

Before any of this.

Previous, if you will.

Going back and back,

Or earlier still.

–

Much prior to this.

More than a touch beforehand.

Was there a much earlier time,

That tense could command?

None of the boys knew exactly what it was that lived in the cave.

It was quite common to hear strange growling sounds coming from deep within it. It was probably some wild animal that had made its home in there. Nobody knew for sure. All three of them stood at the entrance. They peered into the dark tunnel as far as they could see, which wasn’t very far. They were debating who should go in first, just to check it out. As none of them were actually volunteering, they decided that the oldest of them should do it. After some hesitation, the boy made his way in slowly, while the others looked on. Gradually he disappeared into the blackness with only his footsteps being heard. A minute or so passed before they heard the growling. Then it stopped, followed by a distant conversation.

After a few minutes the boy re-emerged, inviting them in, as the old man and his dog never minded visitors.

As astronauts go, he had always been regarded as one of the best.

Despite this, when the ship’s electrical systems began to fail a couple of weeks ago, he found himself struggling to compensate for some of the strange readings that were coming up on the screens. None of the readings had made any sense. Then, a short time ago, things got a whole lot worse. He was fiddling with one of the compass controls when all monitors suddenly went blank. He wasn’t sure; maybe he had pressed something. In short, he had no idea where he was and no idea where he was going. He remembered what his old flying instructor had told him all those years ago. He said that if the cockpit’s instruments play up, go back to basics. Look out of the window to see where you are and to orientate yourself.

He stretched across and lowered the radiation protection blind and looked out. He saw a whole lot of black with a lot of twinkly specs. He noted that some of the twinkly specs were more twinkly than others. He couldn’t see how knowing that would help. As he settled back into his seat, his clumsy space boot kicked something. He looked down at the bottle. In that moment, the irony of knowing more about the drink that came in that bottle, than what he knew about what any of the ship’s backup manual navigation controls actually do. He knew, for instance that the amber fluid that he had polished off was an eighteen year old single malt whisky that had been matured in Spanish oak. He knew that!

Looking down at the empty whiskey bottle, the one he’d smuggled on board, he remembered what his first motor vehicle instructor had said. He had made a point of stressing that one of the fundamental basics regarding driving a car is, don’t drink and drive.

He giggled.

He was running late and would probably miss the bus.

The wintery air was chilly and he was walking into the drizzle. He didn’t fancy having to wait around in the wind for the next one. But, sure enough, at a distance he watched the bus turn up. A few people climbed aboard and it moved away slowly. As it did, he became aware of a woman rounding the corner. She too had missed it. She didn’t look at all happy. She was rugged up against the weather as he was. He stood across the street knowing that he had no choice but to stand around in the cold for several minutes. As he crossed, he saw the woman huddling in the shelter. Ducking in beside her he smiled, saying, “Never mind, there’ll be another in ten minutes.”

She smiled back.

The day in the office had been tiring and she was hanging out for five o’clock.

When the time came she packed up quickly and caught the earlier bus. On the way home she thought about the story she was reading. It was definitely what you’d call a cliff-hanger, but she was determined to have an early night. No television, she decided. She would read another chapter, then go to bed. She had tea and cleared away quickly. She made herself comfortable and went back to reading her book. When she opened the place at the bookmarker she had a job reading the print. The type face seemed to be faint. Was it her eyesight, did she need glasses? Just tired, she thought. She moved around on the couch so that the book was in the light. That was an improvement and she read for a while before going to bed.

In the morning she was tempted to take the book in with her, but she decided against it. She’d never been comfortable with that, so she left it. It would be something to look forward to when she got home. It was an exciting story, full of surprises, some of them quite disturbing, but she couldn’t wait to see how it ends. That evening she watched TV for a bit, then went to bed with the book. She decided she’d read two chapters. When she opened the book at her place, it happened again! The print was pale grey. Although her bedside light was strong, she could hardly read the words. She had no idea what made her do it, but in her frustration she shook the book. To her amazement the print on the page turned black!

This went on over the next few days; turn the page, shake the book, read some more, turn the page… it was disconcerting to say the least, but the story was really good, so she persisted until it was finally finished. She had decided she wasn’t going to mention the problem she’d had with the book. Would anybody believe her? On the evening she returned it to the library the woman at the counter said what a great story it was with all its twists and turns. She had agreed, without saying any more.

As she left the library she wasn’t completely comfortable with the woman’s comment that the book had shaken her up!