The Kimota Anthology (31 page)

McGee strode across the hall, and seemed to make a few signs at the men in the adjoining room. He turned to beckon Sheila over, and pointed at the screen in front of her.

The main lights in the hall dimmed. A spotlight started circling, both in the room and on the screen - as if trying to find her. A Russian waltz came from somewhere.

And there, on the screen, was Sheila’s lover, waltzing partner-less in the spotlight. Yet - she looked desperately round - he wasn’t with her in the room: in the real hall, the spotlight was empty.

“You see, Sheila? We built up his image from photographs, and the computer makes him waltz. Quite simple, really.” He hesitated. “Afraid, though, it’s not really what you were looking for, eh? He’s dead and gone, Sheila - dead everywhere but on T.V.”

Sheila was crouched on the floor now, crying - whilst, on the television, Stalin danced straight through her. McGee stepped over and patted her on the head.

“Look, I’ll leave you here for a few moments alone. I’ll be back when you’re ready to go.” With that, he strode away as fast as his little legs would take him - though not towards the corridor and lift, but instead through another door which led into the studio. He was rubbing his hands together and grinning a toothy grin that looked almost diabolical. He knew what was needed here.

Meanwhile, Sheila cried - and would have soaked the sofa if she’d been on one. She cried - and would have short-circuited any dictator who’d come close. She cried - and heard a different voice to McGee’s and Stalin’s.

“Eh? Is that you, luv?”

She looked up, drying her eyes.

“Oi, Sheila - am I going to have to stand here all day?”

Her husband - rather slovenly dressed for the occasion, and looking rather lost - had replaced Stalin in the cone of light on the screen.

“Why are you here - or there?”

“Some bloody advert just popped up on me telly - out of bloody nowhere, like - saying, ‘You can dance with your wife today if you type in this code!’ - and there was a bloody picture of you in this bloody hall on your own. You could have knocked me down with a bloody feather, you could - a bloody bloody feather in fact. Well, what was I supposed to do?”

She glanced around the real hall. “But I can’t dance with you. You’re only in the hall on the television in front of me. You’re not here, in the real hall.”

“Well, you’re not
here
in our bloody sitting room either, luv. Whichever lazy bugger set this thing up didn’t bother to do it the normal way, so as you can sit back and just watch yourself do things without any bloody hassles. But, since I’m here (or there or wherever the bloody hell I am) - let’s think about this. If you can see both you
and
me on your telly, and I can see where both of us are on my telly, then - I suppose we could give it a whirl, as I s’pose they say.”

She was sobbing again, now, as she positioned herself in the spotlight, keeping her eyes on the television in front of her: next to her in the real hall, there was nothing, nobody; on the screen, she was standing by her husband.

On the screen, she was almost holding her husband’s hand; on the screen, he had his arm around her waist; on the screen, he was stepping on her toes.

On the screen, they waltzed (ever so jerkily, awkwardly) together.

“Damn,” she thought, “I bet he’s forgotten to video this.”

{Originally published in Kimota 12, Spring 2000]

BEHOLDERS

by Trevor Mendham

George and Ian trudged across the field, gloved hands in pockets. Both middle-aged men were well-dressed for the cold night with heavy boots, raincoats and scarves. A thin frost was beginning to settle on the grass and the clear, Scottish sky was lit by a bright half moon and innumerable stars. The silence was broken only by the running water of the nearby river and the occasional hooting of an owl.

“How’s the family?” George asked. The two old friends made this journey once a week and over the years their conversation had become as predictable as their route through the fields.

“Not bad,” replied Ian “The wee one had a touch of the flu but she’s over it now. How’s Anne?”

“Fine, fine.”

Both men stopped talking as they clambered over a wooden fence into the next field and began to walk uphill.

“John really must get round to putting that gate in,” grumbled Ian, as he did every week. “He’s been promising for months.” George just grunted in agreement, saving his breath for the climb.

By the time they reached the top of the hill both men were puffing, their breath forming white clouds in the air. “I swear that hill gets steeper every week,” George murmured, then sat down on a conveniently positioned log. Ian stood on a half buried rock and looked down at the town in the distance. He glanced at his watch - ten to one. From his pocket he brought out a pair of binoculars and focussed on the bridge. A young couple were walking across, arms around waists and laughing at some shared joke. Other than that nothing moved.

“Ian, why don’t you...” George began, then stopped and looked around. A high pitched whistle was cutting through the air. Ian clambered off the log and stood besides George.

“What is it?” whispered Ian as the noise grew louder.

“I don’t know, but it’s definitely coming this way.”

“There!” Ian pointed. A bright yellow light hung in the sky, growing gradually larger. As it approached the two men could make out more details of the silver shaped object. It was a classic saucer shape with a series of translucent portholes around the sides. The pulsating yellow light came from a dome on the top. Around the base were a series of markings in a language not of Earth

The craft flew over the town and straight towards the hill on which the two men stood.

“What is it?” Ian repeated.

“Hang on,” said George, swinging the binoculars up as the craft passed over their heads. “Got it! It’s an old Centauri Type 40 transport, serial 762915.”

“Must be running late,” muttered Ian as he pulled a notebook out of his anorak pocket and flicked through the pages. “Damn it, we got that one back in September.”

“Not to worry,” said George, “There’s an Altarian pleasure cruiser due in an hour. As I was about to say, why don’t you pour us some cocoa.”

[Originally published in Kimota 16, Spring 2002]

TRIPLE GLAZING

by John Travis

Well, I
did
tell him. Of Course, he never listened; he just used to rush in, act first, consequences later… and look what happens. Anyway, I suppose I’d better start at the beginning…

My name’s Arthur Adams. My brother, Colin, was five years younger than me. I’m 44. We had different fathers; nobody knew who his father was. I suspect it was someone who had an equally volatile temperament; Me - well, anything for the quiet life. That’s how all this got started.

I needed new windows. The old wood frames were starting to rot, and the curtains used to blow about in the winter. And you’re always getting those calls, aren’t you; “Hello sir, I’m from suchandsuch windows, we have a representative in your area, blah, blah, blah.” And for once, I said yes and the next thing I knew was the salesman was coming round at ten thirty on Tuesday morning. I wanted Colin to be there that day, but he couldn’t get the time off work.

I suppose it sounds pathetic, a grown man ‘wanting his brother’, but he knew the world much better than I did, knew the lying and cheating that went on. I’m a soft touch, taken in by any old sob story. And double-glazing salesmen do have something of a reputation...

Anyway, Mr. Savage (highly appropriate, as it turns out) walked down the path just as I was brewing the tea. I didn’t like the look of him then; seemed to have too many teeth in his head. He peered in through the windows at me, tapping the mouldy frames, then walked round.

That’s another thing; he just walked in - didn’t knock. “Mr. Adams? Good Morning, I’m Mr.Savage, Conu windows.”

“Yes, good morning. Would you like a -”

“Just been looking at those frames. Bad. Very bad. Don’t know why you’ve left it so long, to be honest.”

“Well,” I started, “what with one thing and another, you know how it is...”

“Not really, no. Anyway, I’m here now and that’s all that matters. Now, if I could just show you these brochures I’ve brought with me...”

I’ll cut out the rest, if you don’t mind. It was boring enough at the time. The only thing of interest was when Mr. Savage rolled up his sleeves, and revealed a rather singular tattoo on his left arm. He was half way through telling me about the guarantee when I asked him about it.

He looked a bit annoyed that I’d spoiled his mind-numbing mantra. “Oh, that. Yes, I’m part of a black magic group. Now, about this guarantee -”

I interrupted him quickly. “Er, excuse me! I don’t think there was any need for that. It was a perfectly civil question.”

His bearded face bristled as he looked down at me. “I wasn’t joking, Mr. Adams. The Satanic Order of Hucksters. Now, if we could get on, I do have another appointment in...” he looked at his watch.

Fascinated, I butted in again. “Are you serious? Good Lord! Oh... sorry…”

“I’d rather not discuss it if that’s all right with you, sir. Now, do you want new windows or not?”

And so on and so forth. Anyway, to cut a long story short, I felt like I’d been backed into a corner, and apparently I was buying new windows. Only I hadn’t agreed on it yet. Despite this “other appointment” he told me he’d wait until I decided. I just didn’t know what to say, and sat there like a fool. He stayed for three hours.

I have to say that Mr. Savage was an incredible man; in three hours he never
directly
threatened me, but had me in a sweat and made me feel like something from the bottom of a fish-tank. He’d look at me out of the corner of his eyes, and I’d get sharp stabbing pains in my chest. He knocked over two cups of tea I gave him, and crunched a biscuit into the carpet. He kept telling me he’d “have to be going soon” but never did.

In the end, I told him I didn’t like being put under pressure in this way, and would prefer it if he came back another time. He stared at me, and I felt like a well-prodded voodoo doll.

At that moment Colin came down the drive. He’d passed Savage’s car, and was squinting in at me. I guess the expression on my face told him that something was amiss.

He came through the hall and looked at the salesman suspiciously. “Got here soon as I could,” my brother said, his eyes never leaving the salesman’s. “Who this?” He asked him. It was like two alley cats squaring up. “I’m Savage. And you are...?”

My brother never answered, but kept on staring. I spoke for him. “Oh, this is my brother, Mr. Savage. He comes round every day to see how I am.”

“This bloke bothering you, Art?” he said, arms folded.

I could feel Savage’s eyes boring into me. “Er, no, no. Everything’s fine.”

“It’s just that you hear so much about these guys, you know. Always on the make—”

“What did you just say?” Spat Savage.

Colin stepped back slightly. “Well, I don’t know what kind of a man you are, do I? Are you sure you’re alright, Art?”

I gulped again, the tension in the room unbreathable. “Yes, yes, fine.”

“Okay, that’s all I wanted to know. But you have
any
trouble, and you give me a call, okay?”

I was ready for passing out now. “Yes, I will. Of course. B-but it won’t come to that, will it?” I tried to smile at both of them. Colin stared at him a second more, then went to his own house, five minutes down the road.

Savage stood there in fuming silence for about a minute, and then turned on me.

“Now. I don’t like being told I’m corrupt, Mr. Adams, even if he is your brother. I think the least you can do is look at these brochures again, and see if anything interests you.”

I don’t think I’ve ever been as scared in my life as I was at that moment. I couldn’t think straight; I never can when I get like that; and after turning the pages too quickly to even catch the page numbers, I blurted out those regretful words that salesman love to hear; “Where do I sign?”

He grinned at me with that dark assortment of mouldering teeth. “Excellent, Mr. Adams! And what day would be convenient for you?”

That day, a Tuesday, I made sure Colin was there. Or rather, he made sure he was there. He sat there in the living room with me while a few shifty - looking workmen got on with it. Colin stared at them all the time. “
Stop
it.” I kept mouthing at him but he just ignored me. Then, if that wasn’t enough, Mr. Savage turned up, grinning from ear to ear.

He invited himself in after a word with the workers. “So, how’s it all going, Mr. Adams? Looks pretty damn good, don’t you think?”

“Why, yes,” I mumbled. “very n-”

“They’re a bit slow,” my brother butted in. “I’m sure I could do it quicker myself.” The workmen glared back at him, which he missed, and then added as an afterthought “they’d better be good for the money its costing.”

And that’s when it all changed. A simple (if offensive) remark like that seemed to start the whole thing going. I could feel my pulse jumping along as I watched Colin stare at the salesman, and the salesman and the workers staring back at Colin I’d only ever felt an atmosphere like that once before, at a Christmas midnight mass. That particular service always gets its fare share slightly the worse for drink, and well, to cut a long story short, one of the congregation stood up and called the Lord a name that I could not possibly write down. Needless to say, I don’t think He would do anything like that, and to then suggest that the Vicar was also involved was reprehensible.

And that’s what my house felt like at that moment; as if some unholy taboo had been breached, and normal civilities had been dispensed with.

Then Mr. Savage
smiled
, surprisingly enough, and left the house, calling the workmen over to his car at the top of the drive. They stood in a circle around him and mumbled something in unison - a disquieting, silly-sounding noise to come from grown men. One of them turned round and laughed at us, and they all joined in. Savage drove off soon after and the men got on with their work, and eventually it was done; nice new windows to protect me against the ravages of winter.

And things passed well enough for the next week and a bit, and I was pleased one afternoon when I saw the trees blowing outside and my nets staying put.

After a while though I noticed something rather strange. I get cats coming through my garden sometimes, and I always like to watch the way they carry on. But that day, in the space of an hour and a half, two cats passed through, looked in at me and hissed viciously before racing through to next door; the next day the same thing. Curious, I got out of my chair and looked around. I saw nothing, and was just about to sit down again when I glimpsed a peculiar thing in between the two panes of glass.

It was a small globule of clear fatty liquid, perhaps two inches across, like a small dollop of fast-sticking glue or something like that. It must have got in when they were fitting the glass, but it was strange how I’d never noticed it before. And at the far end was a moth, or the remains of one. The latter was nothing unusual, but I couldn’t understand what that globule was. I didn’t make any connection with the cats odd behaviour at the time. Who would?

Well, over the next few days this blob got bigger and bigger; and by the end of that week it was nearly six inches along the glass in both directions.

Of course, knowing what his reaction would be I didn’t mention it to Colin. He’d have kicked up a fuss, and God knows where it would have ended. It wasn’t until one Saturday morning later on (by which time it was about ten inches across and three inches
high
) that Colin saw it. He stood at the window and called me in the kitchen. “Hey, Arthur, come and look at this! Quick!”.

So I ran in and saw him pointing down at the window frame. “Quick, you’ll miss it! Bloody nora!”

And I got there just in time to see the trail of slime
pounce
yes,
pounce
upon the remains of that moth, and when it moved away,
the moth wasn’t there
!

The thing was, it kept getting bigger; started climbing
up
the way; and within two weeks it was nearly two feet high and five feet across. It rippled slightly when the sunlight hit it. I think the word is ‘opalescent’. I do know it put me right off iced Cointreau.

In a way I was lucky. My house is at the bottom end of the road, and nobody bothers me. I also noticed that from a distance this
thing
had no real form or substance, and from the street it just looked like any other window, but one smeared with grease, the way they are in empty properties. It’s not much fun though, having what looks like a Portuguese man o’ war as part of the fixtures and fittings. But the spectrum of colours it brought to my carpet in the sunlight looked very fetching - until they started to burn holes in the Axminster.

And of course, Colin had been round. He was as flummoxed as I was about the window, and when he saw the scorch-marks in the carpet he chucked an almighty mental.

“What the
hell
is going on? It’s that bloody salesman’s fault. It’s like the damned thing’s possessed or something.”

“My God! That’s it!” I said. “He said he was in a black magic club or something. Remember I told you? Satanic order of something—or-other?”

Colin shot me a look I can only describe as contemptuous.

“What? Are you saying that Savage
bewitched
your double glazing? Oh come on!”

“It must be,” I replied feebly, “there’s nothing else. I think we should get in touch with him.”

He still hooked at me rather sadly “Listen, Art. You’re my brother. But you’re talking crap, man. You’re right though. Savage should be told about this.”

Colin phoned up, and even after the words “I want to make a complaint” had no trouble getting through to the salesman. My brother sat there with a puzzled expression on his face, and eventually hung up. “He’s says he knew what I was calling about and he’ll be down first thing in the morning.”

I’ll say that about our Mr. Savage; he kept his appointments, and was knocking on my door at half past seven the next morning. Between the knocks I could hear a slow, deep chuckle.

I had all my questions prepared, but neither of us had a chance to say anything as Mr. Savage spoke without prompting. “So... it worked then, he looked at the window, “wasn’t sure y’know. But, there it is.”

“It’s not a very nice thing to do to someone, is it,” I said lamely. “to put
that
in there. It’s awful. I hope you’re going to get rid of it.” From me that was quite a petulant outburst. Savage looked from me to my brother as he said “Or else there’ll be bother.
Big
bother.”

Savage’s grin was wiped off. “No. No go. It stays. ‘Cos I’ve had it - with your sort - never satisfied are we? I try and do my job, but it’s never enough. And I’ve taken as much as I’m going to. Pass the word around, that anyone who messes with
this
salesman will get more of that!” and he pointed at the glass.

“Oh no they won’t.” Colin said, eyes blazing, face the colour of beetroot. “I don’t know how you’ve done this, but it’s going today! You hear me? Today!” and he marched over to Savage, who stood his ground.

After a few seconds the salesman grinned at Colin and said, “I’ll see you both around. Incidentally, I really should charge extra for it.” He looked around my living room “it brightens the place up no end…”

With that he started for the front door. Colin was furious, and seeing that Savage had left his briefcase behind, hurled it at him with incredible force.

The briefcase missed its target, smashing against the wall. It can’t have been shut properly, because as Colin threw it something shot out of it past my face. It’s sound was deadened by the bag smashing the wall.

It had been a tape measure. It sat on the windowsill, and maybe a foot above it there was a long hairline crack running along the glass.

Savage’s eyes bulged. “No!” he yelled “you stupid fool! That glass won’t take any knocks - It’s not proper glass- OH MY GOD!”

And at that moment a small piece of the defective glass chipped off the whole, dropping next to the tape measure, leaving a half-inch gap in the pane.