‘I'm watching it melt,’ he told Vern groggily. ‘And it hurts. Can you come over?’
‘Isn't Ed back yet?’ asked Vern. It had been a week.
‘No,’ said Almeric. ‘But someone's stolen his camera.’
‘Maybe Ed stole it himself,’ Vern posed.
‘How could he?’ Almeric countered. ‘It's his. Besides, he'd have left a note or something.’
Vern wasn't convinced.
‘Bring some food,’ Almeric said, and hung up.
Vern cannot sleep. Lucy's hammock never got off the ground, its orange net irregular and stubborn. There was nowhere to hang it and she was disappointed, moody, taking it out on Vern. He paced, ignoring her.
I sit meditating with Hugget the mouse. We have become good friends, staunch allies in the war against the roaches, the insect's surreptitious activities widespread by night. We set traps for them, devise new ones. The mouse eats as many as she can catch by herself and I vanish the rest in the childish hope they will harass, via some unimaginable means, the faceless city dwellers who bear down on my kin; but there is no end to the armour-plated marauders...
22 - WAITING FOR SUNRISE
Birdsong is not to be heard. The city is near, the battle, the dying imminent. It is night and the campfires are muted. Through the trees the mountains rise, ever first to see the dawn...
‘What the?’ said Vern. ‘I should've brought my wellies.’
‘They'd only leak,’ said Almeric. He sat naked on the window ledge, legs dangling.
‘Brrr,’ shivered Vern. ‘It's cold.’
Almeric shook his head. ‘It's too warm, it's nearly summer.’
‘Too warm?’
‘All my ice melted,’ Al explained, adding, ‘Did you bring my supper?’
‘No,’ Vern said, climbing on a chair. ‘There's nowhere open this late.’
‘This early,’ corrected Almeric. ‘You could've stolen some milk, or brought something from your place.’
‘It's too early for milk,’ Vern answered, ‘and it's too late to bring anything from my place.’
Almeric rapped his screwdriver on the window-frame. ‘I can see a fire,’ he said.
‘Yeah?’ Vern shuffled his chair closer and peered over Almeric's head. ‘Isn't that Tom's Taxis?’
‘Nah, too far; it's a couple of streets on.’
‘Whoosh!’ said Vern. ‘Did you see that? The flames just burst through the roof.’
They watched in silence a while. The fire climbed unchecked into the night sky, blotting out the stars.
‘I packed my job in,’ Vern told Al, yawning.
‘Good for you,’ said Almeric, transfixed.
‘I was thinking about going away, somewhere different.’
‘Everywhere's the same,’ Almeric proclaimed. ‘I think Edgar had a similar idea.’
‘And he left,’ Vern reminded.
‘Yes, but he'll come back, you'll see. I'd put money on it.’
‘How much?’
‘How much can you afford to lose, Vern?’
‘Zero.
‘Okay, it's a bet.’
‘A bet for zilch, nothing?’
‘Pounds sterling,’ Almeric confirmed. ‘Payable in denominations not exceeding naught.’
Vern frowned. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘that looks like my street, where the fire is.’
‘Hard to say exactly,’ said Almeric.
‘Must get my glasses fixed,’ mumbled Vern.
‘Put the kettle on, eh?’
‘You want tea?’
‘Black, there's no milk.’
‘Right, it's too early for milk.’
‘Too late,’ corrected Almeric. ‘It's probably been stolen by now.’
Vern splashed into the kitchen. He checked the fridge, but it was empty. He plugged in the kettle, wary of frying his bones in the general dampness.
‘I can't find the tea-bags,’ he shouted through.
‘There aren't any,’ Almeric said.
‘Then what am I doing?’
‘You're looking for tea-leaves.’
‘Artefacts,’ said Vern.
‘What's that?’
‘Tea-leaves always seem old-fashioned to me,’ Vern explained; ‘like wind-up watches and things.’
‘You're ahead of your time, Vern,’ said Almeric.
‘Don't I know it:’ He located the caddy and prised off its lid. ‘There's only money in here, Al.’
‘That'll do...’
‘You want a cup of money?’
‘Yeah, why not - I can see a fire engine!’
Vern tore several large notes into little pieces and dropped them in the teapot.
The kettle boiled, or rather the water in the kettle boiled. Either way, he poured scalding water over the shredded money and left it to brew.
‘It crashed,’ Al said to Vern when he emerged from the sodden kitchen.
‘The fire engine?’
‘Yeah. It swerved to avoid a cat or something and drove right into the wall.’
‘Of the house that's burning?’
Almeric nodded.
Vern laughed. He waded back to the waiting teapot and stirred its contents. He found mugs and filled them. Almeric was gone when he came through again and Vern thought he'd fallen out the window, but he appeared behind him carrying a pair of rubberized binoculars.
Almeric proceeded to give Vern a running commentary. It went like this: ‘He lost his hat. No, yes, no...The fireman's...This is nice money, Vern...They can't get the upstairs window open; it must be nailed shut against burglars. They broke it. Smoke is billowing out. Wow! There's this naked girl, she's tied up. The fireman's…What notes did you use? One of them just fell, he's hanging upside-down from the ladder…The fire's spreading. All is lost! Hah-haaa…The naked girl's a redhead. Or maybe her hair's on fire. Yes! No! Is there anymore in the pot? One of the hoses is stuck...The mechanism must be jammed...oho...heee-hee, Vern! Ow! There's this crazy woman, she's fighting with the - no, it can't be...Look out! The wall's going to...’
But Vern, overcome with excitement, had fallen asleep.
The sun appears, a radiant sphere, its light to colour the land and decorate the sky...
‘Rise and shine!’ yelled Almeric.
‘What time is it?’ Vern demanded.
‘Who cares? It's Saturday, the world is made anew, the clouds have eaten breakfast, and all is not well...’ Almeric vanished into the bathroom.
Not well? pondered Vern. I feel okay.
‘You're lucky I have a spare room,’ said Almeric, appearing once more, foaming at the mouth.
‘I have to go to work,’ said Vern, struggling to his feet, the sofa lumpy, rocking.
‘You packed your job in,’ said Almeric. ‘You told me so.’
‘I did?’
‘Yes.’
‘When?
‘Last night.’
‘What day was it last night?’
‘What day is it today?’
‘Saturday,’ said Vern. ‘You just said.’
‘Then last night was Saturday.’
‘Saturday night?’
‘No, tonight's Saturday night.’
‘But how can last night be Saturday if tonight's Saturday.’
‘Last night was left over from Friday.’
‘So it was Friday night then, last night?’
‘No, Saturday morning.’
‘I feel seasick,’ Vern said to Al.
‘Not well?’
‘No.’ He lay back down, increasing his nausea.
Almeric said, ‘You look okay.’
‘I do?’
‘Yes.’ He ran into the bathroom and unfoamed.
‘What time is it?’ Vern demanded a second time.
‘You missed the best part,’ Almeric told him, appearing again.
‘The best part of what?’
‘The f ire.’
‘Y
eah?’
‘Yeah. After they rescued the redhead...’
‘What redhead?’ Vern jumped up, suddenly afraid.
‘The naked one,’ said Almeric. ‘The fireman's...’
‘Was she wearing a long grey Mack?’ Vern tottered dangerously, taking hold of the swamped table to steady himself.
‘No, she was naked,’ reaffirmed Almeric. ‘She was all tangled up in this orange rope and...’
The door slammed.
‘Gone so soon,’ said Almeric.
The noise is terrible. The arrows fly. In my heart I know the day to be already lost.
The brown ponies throw their riders in panic...
23 - PARTY
Amidst the blackened ruin of the end terrace Vern thought to spy the melted remains of his portable. The TV's screen had exploded, looking like a fractured space helmet, the sometime astronaut boiled to astro sludge. The whole place steamed and sizzled. Its ill-defined shapes were painful to the eyes.
A cockroach appeared at Vern's feet. The insect circled twice and set off down the street to found a new colony. Vern's thoughts turned to his mouse.
The postman arrived.
‘Is that for me?’ asked Vern.
‘Ah,’ the postman said. ‘It says here,’ he added, digging in his pocket and extracting a dog-eared booklet. ‘Let's see. It says that in the event of fire or other act-of-God the letters, parcels etcetera, should be returned forthwith to the main sorting office until such a time as - that is to say...’ He grimaced, tilted his hat back on his head.
‘Is that for me?’ Vern repeated, wiping his hands on his sole remaining shirt.
‘It's for a Mr Planes,’ said the postman. ‘But I can't deliver it, there being no letterbox.’
‘That's me,’ said Vern.
‘You're Mr Planes?’
‘Yes.
‘And you live at this address?’
‘Until recently,’ Vern told him, a vague attempt at humour on his part.
The postman adjusted his belt. ‘You've moved then,’ he said. ‘What's your new address? I can deliver the letter there.’
‘I haven't got one,’ said Vern. ‘Can't you just give me the letter?’
‘No. No, can't do that; it's against regulations.’ He studied the booklet again.
Vern snatched the white envelope.
The postman's hat fell off.
‘It's the wrong address!’ shouted Vern. ‘I don't live there. It's not even for me.’
‘You're not Mr Planes?’
‘Yes! But the address isn't this one.’
The postman stooped to pick up his hat and dropped a package from his sack.
Vern handed the letter back but the postman refused to take it, saying, ‘Sorry, sir, you'll have to post it again.’
‘But it isn't for me,’ Vern argued.
‘Well, I can't help that,’ the postman said, straightening his tie and retrieving his package. ‘The regulations are quiet strict on the matter. Once a letter's been delivered it becomes the addressee's responsibility and...’
Vern stuffed the envelope in his sack. The postman jiggled expertly and it popped out, floating to the pavement.
‘You couldn't have delivered it,’ said Vern. ‘There's no letterbox.’
‘Ah,’ replied the postman, toting once more his booklet. ‘It says here, in black-and-white mind you, that in the absence of a letterbox or other such suitable repository the postman - that's me - is perfectly within his rights to deliver the letter, parcel etcetera, it what manner he deems fit.’
‘Rubbish!’ said Vern. ‘You're making it up.’
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but the regulations are quite clear on this point.’ He sniffed the burnt air and padded off.
Vern picked up the letter and opened it with his finger. There was a single photograph inside, the kind used in passports and ID's. It was a picture of himself. He was smiling, wearing a funny hat. On the back of the photo was the same unfamiliar address as on the envelope together with a date. June the third; which, thought Vern, was exactly a week away.
Just then a car rumbled up the road. It seemed to wobble, as if he was seeing it through a heat-haze.
Parking at the kerb Almeric regarded the burnt-out dwelling and shook his head.
Vern was nonplussed.
‘What happened to the roof?’ he said.
Almeric looked puzzled. ‘The flames burst through it.’
‘Not that roof,’ Vern said. ‘Your roof.’
‘My roof? Nothing's happened to my roof. At least it was still there when I left.’
‘Not that roof - the roof of your car.’
‘What about it?’
‘It's gone.’
‘I know,’ said Almeric, ‘I sawed it off.’
Vern stood back from the Beetle, amazed. ‘Isn't it unstable?’
‘Nah,’ Almeric said; ‘it's fine.’
‘Why'd you do it?’
Almeric shrugged. ‘It's a nice day,’ he said, ‘and I didn't have a sun-roof.’
Vern, remembering the picture, showed it to Al. ‘What do make of this?’
‘It's you. Where'd you get the funny hat?’
‘I know it's me; but look at the date on the reverse.’
Almeric turned the photo over. ‘You made a mistake,’ he told Vern. ‘It's only May.’
‘What about the address?’
‘Yeah, I know where that is.’
‘You do?’ Vern was intrigued. ‘Can you take me there.’
‘Sure,’ said Almeric. ‘I need to do a few things first, though.’
‘Right.’ Vern got in the car. The door was stuck, so he had to climb over it.
Almeric wiggled his screwdriver in the ignition and they were moving.
Wobbling, corrected Vern. It was no illusion.
They drove around in circles for hours.
‘I thought you knew where it was?’ said Vern on more than one occasion.
‘I do,’ Almeric would reply. ‘I'm just having trouble getting there.’
They drove and drove, eventually stopping outside a pub whose windows were sheathed in black.
‘I don't like the look of this place,’ Vern said. ‘Why did we have to stop here?’
‘I've run out of petrol,’ Almeric explained.
‘Is that why we're in the middle of the road?’
‘Yes.’
‘So what now?’ Vern folded his arms.
Almeric pondered a moment and then jumped out. He lifted the bonnet and produced a length of tubing.
Vern slid down in his seat as he saw what Almeric intended doing. Outside the pub were six motorbikes, stylized machines with elaborate handlebars and chromed engines. Almeric pulled off the petrol-feed on the nearest machine and replaced it with his own tube. Sucking furiously he then disappeared under the bonnet once more.
Vern heard the gurgle of siphoned liquid. He cringed in fear of possible violence.
Sure enough, the pub doors opened and out marched several bikers in denim and leather, clutching their crash-helmets like bludgeons.
Vern clambered into the driver's seat and started the engine, scooping Almeric from the road as he pulled away. The bikers roared as they realized what was happening, their prize machines toppling like glittering dominoes as the first was still connected to the car via the tube.
Vern put his foot down. The car veered left and right. He couldn't see where he was going. Almeric's eyes stared at him through the bonnet grating.
‘Take the next right, Vern!’ he howled. ‘Okay, now right again and then the second left.’
They narrowly missed a letterbox, two old ladies and a dog with a ball in its mouth.
Vern steered, following instructions. The engine thuddered and died some eight miles from the pub. Luckily it stalled on a hill and Vern was able to coast down into a driveway at the bottom, catching a gatepost on the way in.
Almeric got
out, grinning. ‘That was fun,’ he said.
‘They would've killed us!’ Vern retorted. ‘They'll probably still kill us!’
‘They have to find us first,’ said Almeric. ‘Anyway, we're here.’
‘Here?’
‘The address you showed me, this is it.’ He pointed to the house in whose driveway the car had come to rest.
‘Yeah?’ Vern was impressed.
‘Yeah,’ Almeric said. ‘I wonder what time the party starts?’ He walked up to the door and rang the bell, obviously meaning to ask.
Vern got out, shaking. The car had warped badly. One of the front wheels hardly touched the ground. The body panels were either misshapen or out of line.
Almeric tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Nobody home,’ he said, pouting.
‘I don't get it,’ said Vern.
‘It's easy,’ Almeric replied. ‘They get your picture, send you the address, and you come to the party.’
‘Yeah?’ Vern was mystified.
‘Yeah. And you can bring a friend, too.’
Vern glanced at his nails. ‘How do you know all this?’
But Almeric wasn't listening. He was counting down the hours till midnight when his bomb was set to go off.
There were eight left.
Then seven.
Then six.
‘I'm starving,’ said Vern, stretched out on the grass. ‘Al?’ He sat up. ‘Where are you?’
The door opened and Almeric appeared carrying a box of wine and a plate of sandwiches. ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ he said. ‘Thirsty as well.’
‘You were right,’ said Vern. ‘Is there someone in?’
‘No.’
‘No?’ Vern expected the worst. He wasn't disappointed.
‘I broke the kitchen window,’ Almeric said. ‘It was easy.’
Then five.
A screech of brakes brought their attention to the sudden rush of traffic.
Bodies dived over the hedge and tripped up the driveway. They hammered on the door, which Almeric had graciously closed, shouting and swearing, waving cans and bottles.
‘About time,’ said Vernon Planes, whose stomach ached. He stood and put his shirt on.
Then four.
‘Aaaaeeee-eeeeggghh!’ screamed a blonde girl, vomiting over the mantelpiece.
The music was loud and mean.
The mouse and I stand on street corners and in bus-stops. We wait for Lucy, who appears along with Harriot, and then follow them in the hope they'll lead us to Vern.
The cockroaches started the fire. They rubbed together used matchsticks and set ablaze the bathroom rug, having drenched it first with after-shave. It was a devilish trick, but it has given me an idea...