Defiled Earth and other tales Page 7

  A cautious man wouldn’t have forgotten about the muscle at the bottom of the stairs.

  He was still there, and I was splattered with the she-devil’s ichor. No way I could hide it. If I believed in benevolent deities then I would have thanked them, because he didn’t tag me for a moment. Just kept staring down the street, inhaling the cancer-fumes into his tar-ridden lungs.

  Seven days later. Head deposited. Another two-fifty K in my bank account. I should be a happy man, except Satan has a way of barfing over your buffet.

  You see, it was too easy. I should have twigged. She’d ripped the balls off the best hunters in history and I thought a one-thrust kill was down to my superior prowess.

  The tattoo gun was laden with enough of her poison ink to elicit a transfer. She didn’t die, she simply found a new home.

  I suppose I should be grateful. She gives me some head-space now and again. Just to remind me of what I once was. The rest of the time she controls and consumes me. I see my hands create her incomparable artwork on the skin of her victims, before she sucks them dry over the next month or so. Poor buggers.

  Top myself? I hear you ask. Do the dutch? I’m denied that luxury. She has an iron will and the use of all my skills as well as her own. No, the only way to tolerate this living hell is to numb myself, view what we do as an art of sorts. Art expressed through the twisted kaleidoscope of her mind. We don’t have a viewing public to our objets démoniaque of course, so we just appreciate it for its intrinsic quality. Art for art’s sake.

  Kat Von D, Gautier and 10cc would be so proud.

  ~ ~ ~

  Author’s note

  My daughter got her first tattoo the other month. I think it looks kinda cool and I’m sure it will be the first of many. She’s into anything by Tim Burton and got her upper arm decorated with a skeletal mad-hatter.

  Anyhow, it struck me that tattoos are very personal things—from the point of view of the tattooee AND the tattooist. The idea that something could be transferred through the process other than ink got me thinking ...

  ~ ~ ~

  Head

  Life is an experiment. From start to finish.

  If you don’t believe it, then think for a minute. A time ago—some would say two billion years, but hey, in God’s reckoning that’s only a piss in the ocean, life began. The Creator’s great hypothesis: I create beasts, plants and man—and I see that it is good. Only someone threw a spanner into the gear wheels. The Hebrew story says it was Nachash. Anyway, he was the fucker who got the blame. Personally, I think it was planned obsolescence. Disease, cancer, genetic deformity.

  You’ve got to admit it’s some cosmic fuck-up however you look at it.

  So who can blame a guy for trying to remedy the situation? The Ministry that’s who.

  “Are you ready?” says the red-jacket who’s come to collect me. I stare at his polished boots, then his breeches, ironed to form creases that stand to attention; and finally his spotless jacket emblazoned with the Ministry’s motif.

  Establishment guy. Aren’t they all?

  Conform or be cast out.

  Him and me, we’re opposite sides of a dividing line, looking at each other through reversed telescopes.

  He has a protocol to follow and continues. “Voluntary, number #657483, you have chosen not to exercise your right to a last request.”

  Voluntary. A propagandist term, coined to emphasise I have consciously chosen to rebel against the established order and face the consequences.

  “You don’t want a last meal, or an alcoholic beverage?”

  That’s what I said at the prelim’, yeah,” I say.

  “Are you sure about that?”

  I think for a moment. “Actually, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “You have?”

  “I’d like to sing a song when I’m up on the scaffold.”

  He looks at me skeptically. “Which one?”

  “One billion, nine hundred and ninety nine thousand green bottles standing on the

  wall,” I say. I can’t help grinning as I look up at him.

  He clicks his tongue, lifts a paper on his clipboard. “Nice try. There’s been no last minute reprieve, you’ll not be surprised to hear.”

  “Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

  He steps out of the cell and calls two more red-coats. “Escort the voluntary to the yard.” They come in, check my leg and wrist shackles, then guide me through the door. All by the book.

  I’ve never been one for the rule books. Not for my own selfish gain, you understand. You can’t advance as a civilisation without cutting a few corners. And I cut plenty. Genetic manipulation, designer babies, Frankenstein foods? These aren’t terms thought up by scientists, they’re media headlines; shrieking shit-semantics created to instill fear in the populace and sell a bit more copy.

  To me and my kind, these techniques are the tools of progress. It’s just a shame the ethics committees had to snarl things up for years. Agents of the conservative-thinking establishment is what they are; pawns for the clergy and right-wing interest groups. You’d expect this attitude if it was the Victorian era, but this is 2045 for Christ’s sake.

  So I got to thinking, what if I throw away the rule book? What if I really push the technology to the limit and show the world what can be accomplished? Eradication of ninety-nine per cent of cancers, cystic fibrosis and haemophilia eliminated, diabetes reversed with gene therapy. Surely, when they saw these achievements, my decisions would be vindicated?

  The judge didn’t seem to think so.

  OK , so my experiments on embryos produced freakish results. If I’d been able to keep things under wraps one more year I could have shown them how the benefits outweigh the costs.

  Again, the judge didn’t seem to think so.

  I’ve got to hand it to my lawyer, he put up a good fight. I got two stays of execution, but in the end, the luddites were always going to win. An example had to be made. It’s too easy for anyone with a degree in genetics or biochemistry to set up a lab in their room and let Pandora out of the box. Who’d have thought playing God could be so easy? My mistake was carrying out research in a country that re-instituted the death penalty.

  I shuffle, almost tripping, along the corridor. Damn circulation takes a while to get going.

  They unlock a series of three doors on the way and I smell a cocktail of sweat, disinfectant and human misery. Each cell I pass houses a potential deterrent to those wishing to subvert the machinations of the Ministry.

  We approach the outer door. The baying of the crowd, like hyenas, pumps through the two inch steel. The red-jacket’s electronic key sends tumblers falling into place and the door slides open with a heavy rumble. I feel the coolness of the autumn breeze on my face for the first time in one hundred and eighty days, and know that my experiment nears its conclusion.

  There’s fear, of course. A dread that writhes darkly in the pit of my stomach. But there’s also fascination, an intense curiosity corkscrewing like a worm through my mind.

  As I’m led up the scaffold steps, the noise from the crowd crescendos. There’ll be millions across the nation, cheering and ululating in front of their LCD screens. Some will be watching in 3D. Live camera feed will give the thrill-hungry consumers their meat, and the media company their ratings and revenue.

  The executioner’s name is Dan. I met him yesterday at the prelim’. He explained what would happen very professionally, and assured me he took no pleasure in his duty.

  It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.

  He told me his son was training up for the role.

  Chip off the old block.

  Speaking of blocks, the one where Dan places my head, gently but firmly, is overlaid with a PVC sheet.

  Sanitised state murder.

  “It’ll all be over with soon,” he says, and locks the upper beam into place, clamping my arms and head. My mouth is dry as I stare, face down, at the bucket
in front.

  The Elder finish his speech with the words “... and hereby announce that justice has been done. May the Lord have mercy on your soul.”

  A hush falls on the crowd. I’d like to think it’s respect, but I know they just want to hear the sound of the guillotine slicing through the gristle and bone of my neck. I’ve seen it a hundred times before over the feed. Now I’ll get to experience it at the business end.

  The experiment reaches its conclusion.

  There’s no pain when the blade falls, just a brutal jolt. I see the sky flip over once and then I’m looking at the black plastic that must be the bucket’s side.

  So it’s true. Consciousness continues after severance.

  My vision clouds over; I no longer see anything, not even a circle of light ahead. But I can sense the pressure of the boards under my body. I experience the loss of fluid from my neck. There’s one for the theorists—awareness exists beyond the cranium.

  I am not my head.

  Not entirely.

  If you’re absorbing this then I trust you’ve recovered the biosensory nanochips implanted in my body. The procedures for downloading the data files are in the transcript I left in my will. I hope they yield insights which generate further exp...

  Author’s note

  They say you can lose your head through medication, meditation and decapitation. Voluntary #657483 had tried the first two. He hadn’t counted on trying the third, but sometimes life makes choices for us.

  This story arose from reading Sam Harris’ book ‘Waking up.’ In it, he describes the practice of Vipassana meditation and reaching a plateau of experience where one has the feeling of ‘losing one’s head.’ It raises the question: Does the centre of our being lie in the organ that exists behind our eyes, or is our spiritual nexus a much broader entity than this? I don’t know the answer to this question, and apparently Voluntary #657483’s nanochip lies in a high security vault at GCHQ – so I’m not likely to find out in the near future.

  ~ ~ ~

  Lusus naturae

  Chapter 1

  The search engine homepage loaded on the screen and I tapped in the question:

  Where can I buy a monster?

  There were only three pages of potential hits, the last of which stated:

  Some results have been excluded as they are marginally relevant.

  Page 1—links to films or film reviews of B-class movies.

  Page 2—zoos animal parks and animal refuges.

  Nothing useful.

  I hit the link for marginally relevant results and waited while the page loaded.

  I yawned as the blue line crawled along the top of my browser. The desktop clock read 02:10.

  I needed to sleep, the sensible, protective part of my brain told me. Go on, you can play another youtube video after this, said the other part that was addicted to the Blue-Screen.

  When it finally appeared, there was one lone entry:

  Mandrake’s Lusus Naturae Emporium. Appointment by invitation only ...

  I clicked on it, bemused. The link led to a pdf document. It was only two pages long—an abstract from an anthropology journal I had never heard of. I eventually found the words in the brief bibliography. There wasn’t a web address or contact number, but the curious Latin phrase had embedded itself in my receptive mind. I took a screenshot, saved it in a word document and swore I’d look at it in the morning.

  I stumbled wearily down the landing, opened the first door I came to and fell forwards onto the quarter-size bed. As my face pressed against the cool coverlet, I was vaguely aware that I was in the Viscount suite—a fitting place for a lone aristocrat to crash for the evening.

  ~ ~ ~

  So why would I want a monster?

  I would counter the question with another; what do you understand a monster to be?

  It’s funny, the answers I got. The boys from the Wilshaw Club gave their views when we gathered together, and I gained insights into their minds.

  Geoff: “The greatest monsters are human. Stalin, Hitler, Pol Pot. You don’t need to conjure up anything fantastical to find that monstrosity of the soul is the heart of evil.” Typically verbose and romantic.

  Devonshire: “A monster doesn’t have to be evil. Take the elephant man. He was simply deformed, cast out by society, but he was a gentle soul.” A cultured sentimentalist.

  Oscar: “A monster is a construct. Through the ages, man has tried to put a name to his deepest fears, woven images into his stories and oral traditions. These are our only monsters.” An analytical Philosopher.

  There were other views of course. All embellished under the influence of port and fine cigars at our Tuesday night sessions.

  After I broached the subject for the third time running, my companions ascertained that I was treating the subject with more than a passing interest.

  “Charles, you’re obsessed,” crowed Oscar. “Here you are, rattling around this mansion on your own, growing tired of polishing your Bentleys and Aston Martins. Is this going to be another of your expensive whims?”

  Geoff waded in. “I fear Oscar is hovering over the truth. Remember your ill-advised foray into taxidermy?”

  “And the position you took up on the Cathcart Asylum board of directors?” put in Devonshire. “Flights of fancy, both of them.”

  “Guys,” I replied “I can’t help it if I have broader horizons than you. I loathe the mundane and the ordinary. My previous pursuits have been preparing me for more noble projects, and it’s important that I leave my stamp on the family history. Great Grandfather Ewing had his vast aviary, Grandmother Brimicomb her museum, but what legacy am I to bestow upon my descendants?”

  “Some working capital and a disposable income might be a starting point,” said Oscar. They’d laughed at that. A deep, throaty mirth that meant no harm. Yet there was a barbed point to it. I had frittered away my inheritance, much to the chagrin of my cousins, on vanity projects galore. And, while not bankrupt, I had more than a few cash flow problems. I had even contemplated selling some properties to continue living in the style to which I had become accustomed.

  Devonshire blew a smoke ring from his Montecristo—his only talent, apart from writing romantic but bizarre poetry. “Remember also, my good friend, that in order to bestow an inheritance, one must first procreate descendants.” This met with more hilarity, but I wasn’t to be dissuaded.

  “What if I told you that the acquisition of beasts or monsters is not as far-fetched as you would think? In fact, I have found a source which may prove quite fruitful for my endeavours.”

  More quizzical looks and smirks.

  “Scoff if you must, but I am fully committed to following this lead and starting my own collection of live specimens.”

  “Charles, Charles,” said Oscar, putting his hand on my shoulder. “Put your energies into finding a good woman. I fear you’ve been toking too much of that home-grown marijuana of yours. Monsters? Beasts? Next, you’ll be telling us you’ve bought a unicorn.”

  “Where is this source of yours to be found?” enquired Geoff.

  “Ah, therein lies the problem. There was no address given in my reference. Simply the title: Mandrake’s Lusus Naturae Emporium. This necessitates a modicum of research on my part. But where to start? That is the conundrum.”

  I expected my compadres to break down in laughter again, but Oscar, bless his soul, held out an olive branch. “I may be able to help you there. As you know, my father has an old boy network going back many generations. It’s a repository far more voluminous than any online database. Shareholders in Lloyds, memberships of Gleneagles and Wentworth golf clubs, freemasons and one or two other such secret societies. I’ll put out some feelers for you.”

  “Gad, would you do that for me old chap? It would be awfully decent of you.”

  “Think nothing of it, my good fellow. I derive much entertainment from your foolish pursuits. If I can help enable a further whimsy of y
ours then I will have a grandstand seat to observe the manner in which it crashes and burns.”

  At that, my churlish friends could contain their laughter no longer.

  Chapter 2

  The following day I was much surprised when Oscar called me while I was out shooting. Garstang, the gamekeeper, held my Purdey while I took the call.

  “Charles, old bean, I think I’ve hit pay-dirt for you. My father’s actually a good friend of Giles Mandrake. When I mentioned the name, he immediately came to attention. The surname isn’t common and he ventured there could be no other by that name in his rarefied social circle.”

  “This is spiffing news,” I said. “Did he volunteer anything?”

  “That was a tad more difficult. At first he was reticent to reveal more information.”

  “At first?”

  “I used my not insignificant charms to weedle the address out of him. But he made me swear not to divulge it to anyone but you. For reasons that escape me, he seemed to hold you, or I should say your late father, in high esteem.”

  Pater was generally thought of as a good egg. Over three hundred attended the occasion of his interment, so I was not as surprised as Oscar.

  “But here’s the coup de grace,” Oscar continued “he’s furnished you an introduction to the man. I don’t have to tell you this is a very high honour indeed. Mandrake is spoken of in very hushed tones.”

  “I am forever indebted to you sir. When and how shall I make contact with the good fellow?”

  “You have been granted an audience tomorrow at four o’clock in the afternoon. I’ll text you the address.”

  “I’ll have my chauffeur drive me in the Bentley. I must ensure the best of appearances.”

  “Charles ...” Oscar hesitated. “I wouldn’t be your friend if I didn’t warn you. Father said you should be very wary of your transactions with this man—if indeed you enter into any agreement with him.”