‘What about the rest of the time?’
‘I wouldn't know,’ she said. ‘That's when I'm not here, so I never see.’
‘You think I change, look different when you're not here?’
‘Yes, I think you smile less.’
He looked harder. ‘That's a smile on my face?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Well right now it's a smile because I'm here; but if I go out or something it becomes something else.’
‘Something,’ echoed Vern, perplexed.
She dabbed. ‘Something different,’ Lucy said. ‘Like, maybe a canoe or a vagina.’
Vern smiled at himself and thought of paddling and screwing, neither of which he'd done.
‘Or a pig's arse,’ Lucy went on. ‘Or a worm...’
‘Two worms,’ Vern put in. ‘Two worms stuck together.’
‘On a piano.’ She got down from the chair and hunted in her pockets for matches.
‘And the eyes look like planets,’ said Vern. ‘Earth and Venus behind lensless glasses.’
Lucy giggled. ‘Can you see okay?’ she queried.
‘No - I lost Stan this morning, my eyes are so bad.’
‘Maybe he's with Edgar,’ proposed Lucy. ‘Your friend Almeric called round looking for him.’
‘Did he look under the bed?’
‘Look!’ she declared. ‘He's under there now.
Vern got down on his knees and lifted the crumpled sheets. He found Almeric asleep, clutching his screwdriver.
‘Pizza, ‘ said Lucy.
‘What?’ Vern raised his head from the floor and squinted up at the ceiling. ‘I look like pizza?’
‘I hate pizza,’ mumbled Almeric from under the bed.
‘I hate Almeric Jones,’ replied Vern.
Lucy got back up on her chair and began splotching Vernon Planes' complexion.
‘I don't think that's funny,’ he said.
She paused. ‘You're right, it's beginning to look like some ghastly alien man-thing from outer space.’
Almeric's screwdriver trundled clear of the under-bed closely followed by Almeric himself.
‘You're awake,’ Vern observed.
‘I am?’ He pinched his leg.
‘Edgar's not here,’ Vern reiterated, ‘I told you that.’
‘You did?’
‘On the phone.’
‘When? ‘
‘Saturday or Friday.’
‘I don't remember,’ said Almeric. He stood and peered up at the painting. ‘What's that?’
‘It's catching,’ Lucy said. ‘What's it look like?’
‘One of Ed's photographs,’ Almeric told her. ‘Fuzzy.’
‘Fuzzy?’
‘Like you took it with one of your greasy fingers in the way of the lens.’
‘Edgar does that?’ She stepped to the floor again, having spotted a lone match in the bed covers.
‘Yeah.’ Almeric toyed with his glossy screwdriver. ‘Either that,’ he added, ‘or he's on to something.’
‘Something,’ echoed Vern, perplexed.
I recognize the disordered features, but cannot put a name to them. They remind me of the unseen, the faceless city dwellers who crush the breath from pink men and brown ponies alike, who cast fine nets to snare the silver eagles that stray too near their rising towers of despair...
14 - FLAT ROAD
How the mountains sing. Far to the north and south of the mile wide grasslands they raise their proud heads, sheathed in snow and cloud. Water runs from them and gathers into rivers. These cold heights are where the eagles make their homes...
‘What time is it?’ asked Vern.
‘No time to ask,’ Lucy replied.
The road was flat and long. He could not say how far he'd walked, or even how many cars had sped past, and there had been few. How few, he did not know; for him there was only the flat road that was straight and endless and dry and hard and black, lined either side by fields.
A car pulled up, its driver offered him a ride. He didn't know where he was going or where he'd come from, but he accepted all the same as his feet hurt and the man's face was familiar. His name, the man's, was Claude.
‘Where're you headed?’
‘Where's the road go?’
‘Lots of places.’
‘Then that's where I'm headed.’
‘Okay,’ said Claude. He pulled away, accelerating the field's blurred passage.
He watched the miles unwind.
‘I have to pick up a friend in the next town.’
‘Fine.'
‘It must be nice,’ Claude reasoned, ‘to have so much time.’
‘Yeah,’ he said, smiling. ‘It is - I never thought of it like that before.’
‘You seem a man with no worries.’
‘I must be. I don't remember any, at least.’
The fields gave way to low houses.
‘Won't be a minute,’ said Claude. He got out of the car, a gold Honda.
He watched the miles stand still.
Claude returned with another man, a Brian. They drove from the town and were soon dividing green fields again.
Brian sat in the rear, reading.
Claude said, ‘Looks like rain?’
He glanced up through the windscreen at the deepening clouds of grey-white.
Water streaked the horizon, hit the car. Claude tried the wipers, but they refused to function.
‘The motor's jammed,’ Brian told him; ‘got clogged with toilet paper somehow.’
Claude laughed. ‘Kids,’ he said.
He watched the rain come down. It bounced off the curved glass, the wind tearing it back over the roof like a film wrapping.
Claude slowed. He hunched forwards, pushing the steering-wheel against his chest in order to see better.
‘There's another town not far ahead,’ said Brian. ‘If it hasn't washed away.’
‘Right,’ said Claude, ‘we'll stop there till the rain eases off. ‘
He watched the fields turn from green to grey.
The car stopped and they climbed out, running next towards a pub. Inside they sat on stools and leant on the polished bar. He drank beer, listened to music, turned and saw he was alone. The two men had deserted him.
When the rain finally ceased he started walking. The fields stretched to the horizon, each identical to the last. The road was hard and straight.
Some miles on, just as the sun set and the green took on a bluish tinge, he came upon a car wreck. The vehicle had seemingly struck another head on, but of the second car there was no sign. He walked round the mangled Honda and peered inside. There were two bloody corpses, both twisted, smashed, crumpled in the front seats like paper dolls.
The car's boot had sprung open. Lying scattered on the black surface was an assortment of ladies' undergarments, frilly items soaking up the wan sun and the wet petrol. What looked like a mouse cage, bent out of shape. And still in the boot, hidden in the dark interior, was a boxlike container, its ticking that drew his attention to the watch sellotaped to its side.
He shrugged and walked on, unwinding the miles.
‘Seven fifteen,’ said Lucy, giving in.
It is Tuesday morning once more...
15 – ‘I DUNNO’
Vern gets dressed and eats cereal. Lucy stands on her chair and dabs with paint and brush. She is wearing no clothes and her breasts rise and fall with each deft stroke.
The mouse and I chew almonds.
Stanley has not returned. Neither has the man who placed the number three on the door...
‘I have to go,’ Vern said.
‘Good,’ Lucy answered. ‘Get out of my way, and bring some food back with you - no beans or spaghetti.’
‘What do you want?’
‘More paint, more colours, more work, more pay, but I'll get those myself.’ She stepped down, pouting. ‘Southern-fried chic
ken,’ she decided, winking.
‘I hate southern-fried chicken,’ said Almeric from under the bed.
‘Nobody asked you,’ said Vern. ‘Why don't you go home?’
‘I'm looking for Ed.’
‘He's probably at your place looking for you.’
Almeric stuck his head out. ‘You think so? Nah, he would have called.’
‘The phone's out of order.’
‘What? Why didn't you tell me?’ His screwdriver appeared. He shook it at Vern and crawled for the door.
‘Watch the rug,’ Lucy warned. ‘There.’
‘Finished?’ said Vern.
‘Almost. ‘
‘What's to do?’
‘On your face, Vern,’ she informed him; ‘eyelashes.’
‘Just eyelashes?’
‘They're tricky.’
‘How tricky can eyelashes be?’
‘Very tricky,’ Lucy said. ‘They're like caterpillars, and you know what caterpillars do?’
‘Turn into butterflies,’ he replied, the able pupil.
‘Precisely. And then you have to start all over again, using tame ones, which don't fly off, only you look like Dame Edna and that can have its drawbacks.’
‘I know, you turn into Sir Les,’ said Vern, top of his class, opening the door for Almeric who dashed down the stairs like a thing possessed.
He walked to work, perversely cheerful. At the lights someone had rear-ended a Merc, causing great damage and possible loss of life. He didn't stop and check.
Rita scowled balefully when he clocked-in. His section manager introduced him to his new work-mate, Stan's replacement a man named Kevin who said nothing all day, just appeared kind of distant, far away, dreamy and preoccupied.
More than once, Vern saw, Kevin would sneak off to inflate a large yellow balloon with the Stay Fixed logo on its expanding side.
Lucy was glued to the telly when he got home.
‘What's so good?’ asked he, unwrapping kebabs, clinking a bottle of vino.
‘Stan.’ She glanced at Vern, her expression halfway between excitement and disbelief.
‘Stan?’
‘Is on TV,’ she said. Then, ‘They caught him.’
Vern sat on the bed and peered at the screen, leaning back to focus on the black-and-white image. ‘I can't see a thing.’ The volume was turned down so he couldn't hear a thing either. He rocked forwards and nudged the control up.
'...police questioned the suspect,’ the telly said.
Stanley's bemused face manifested.
‘What do you know of your wife's disappearance, Mr Nex?’ The interviewer shoved his microphone at Stan.
‘I dunno.’
‘Can you tell us when you last saw her alive?’ The microphone weaved back and forth much as Vern.
‘I dunno,’ said Stan. He scratched his ear.
‘They must've released him,’ said Lucy.
‘I couldn't get southern-fried chicken so I got kebabs,’ Vern told her. ‘And a bottle of wine.’
‘Did the police say why they were releasing you?’
‘No chicken?’
‘Sorry.’
‘I dunno.’
‘What do you think has happened to your wife?’
‘I'll get glasses.’
‘There aren't any.’
‘Mugs then.’
‘I dunno,’ said Stan. He picked his nose.
‘But they didn't charge you with anything?’ pressed the irate interviewer.
‘I hope you like chilli,’ said Vern.
‘I love chilli.’
‘I dunno.’
‘Is there any further information you'd like to give us at this time, Mr. Nex?’
On the screen, Stanley grinned.
‘These are good.’
‘Yeah, real good.’
‘I dunno,’ said Stan. ‘Can I say hello to someone?’
‘Uh?’ the interviewer grunted.
‘Hello Vern!’ Stan blurted, waving. ‘Hello Lucy!’
‘Hello Stan,’ Vern answered. ‘Can they prove you did it?’
The face on the screen changed.
‘Too late,’ said Lucy. ‘What's for afters?’
‘I dunno,’ Vern admitted.
‘And now over to our crime reporter,’ said the new face, and there was Stan again, being rearrested.
‘Luck ain't free,’ chimed Lucy.
Vern lay back and stared at the ceiling. ‘What's this?’ He heard a match strike and smelled tobacco.
The telly screamed its innocence. Lucy downed the volume and inhaled. ‘What's what?’
‘This splodge next to the Vikings.’
‘They're not Vikings,’ she admonished.
‘No?’
‘And the splodge is just a splodge.’
‘What are they then?’ Vern leaned on his elbow.
‘Norsemen,’ Lucy said.
‘What's the difference?’
‘Norsemen don't wear spiky hats like Vikings.’ She seemed very sure of her definition.
‘In that case,’ said Vern, ‘these are Vikings.’
She blew smoke at him. ‘What do you mean?’
‘They're wearing spiky hats,’ he told her.
Lucy stood on the bed, spilling the remains of her kebab, a ladder in one sea-green stocking. ‘I didn't paint spiky hats,’ she said. ‘It's sabotage.’
‘You must have; nobody else could've done it. You've forgotten, that's all.’
‘The angels!’ She lost her balance and jumped to the floor, dropping ash on Vern.
‘Have moustaches,’ he observed, spotting the cluster. ‘And tattoos,’ he added.
‘I didn't paint tattoos!’
‘You didn't?’
‘Or moustaches!’
‘You got mixed up,’ consoled Vern. ‘See? The sailors all have harps.’
She screamed, mimicking the now silent telly.
Vern stood and walked around, his head thrown back. ‘My face has turned green,’ he said.
Lucy grabbed the half-full bottle of vino and launched it at his head, missing narrowly.
His face turned white. ‘Aaaaah,’ he said.
‘Calm down.’ She lit another cigarette and hunted for her shoes. ‘I'm going away,’ she declared. ‘I'm going on a voyage of discovery. You won't know me when I get back - if I ever do.’
‘Lucy?’ Vern felt sad.
‘Goodbye, Vern. I hope it all works out.’
‘Lucy?’ He folded his arms.
‘I can't handle it,’ Lucy explained. ‘I'm going crazy.’
Lucy, thought Vern, if you go away I'll be all alone with no one to talk to and no one to talk to me.
She paused, the door open.
‘Lucy?’
‘Why don't you get a clean shirt,’ she said; ‘or use deodorant?’
‘I dunno.’
‘I hate men.’
‘Lucy...’ he began, stammering.
‘You end up spoon-feeding them. They're disgusting.’
‘Don't go.’
‘I'm going!‘
‘Lucy?’
‘Vern?’
‘Lucy. .’
‘Goodbye Vern,’ she said again. ‘I hope it all works out and everything. I mean it.’
‘Lucy?’
‘God, I hope you're not going to cry or anything - it's not like we were...’ She gesticulated, rolled her eyes.
‘No,’ said Vern. ‘I know. It's just, well...’ He gesticulated, rolled his eyes.
‘See you around,’ said Lucy.
‘Yeah.
‘Yeah.
‘Lucy?’ But it was too late, her face had gone.
Another replaced it, briefly, and then that vanished, too.
Gone so soon, I say.
Vern picks a stray match from the floor and attempts to set alight the mattress, but to no avail.
He sticks his head in t
he oven, thinking all the while how childish is his behaviour. His mind is confused. I try to faze in again, to reassure, but am unable. It is left to the mouse to tug at Vernon's sleeve and gnaw his conscience.
Hugget sits on her hind legs, shines her little pink eyes, and Vern relents. He reaches to stroke Hugget's snub, furry nose in a gesture of animal comradeship, but the mouse is as short-sighted as himself, and bites, drawing blood...
‘Argh!’ Vern said; then laughed. There was no gas anyway, he needed to trip the meter.
‘A clean shirt!’ he yelled. ‘Deodorant!’
16 - MYOPIC SNEEZE
His eyes go from bad to worse. Vern's that is, his an emotional upheaval, one engendered in confusion. He drops the pliers and loses the screws. Kevin smiles, but says nothing. A lift control panel blows up at his touch, sparks and dazzles, smells of burning wire. Vern blinks stupidly at the resultant destruction, but it is Kevin's lopsided smile that really bugs him...
‘Is that all you can do?’
Kevin winked, had something in his eye. It was too much for Vern, who stomped off down three flights of stairs.
At their foot he sat and contemplated.
He called Almeric.
‘Vern?’
‘Yeah. Listen...’
‘Have you found Ed?’
‘No, Al, that's not what I phoned you about.’
‘What did you phone me about?’ said Almeric, disappointment heavy in his voice.
Vern felt guilty. ‘Lucy,’ he replied.
‘Lucy?’
‘Yes.’
‘I don't know any Lucies.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Vern. ‘She was at my place, when you were under the bed.’
‘What was I doing under your bed?’
‘You were looking for Ed.’
‘And did I find him?’
‘No!’
‘So why are you calling me, Vern?’
‘About Lucy.’
‘Lucy who?’
‘Lucy what's-her-name,’ Vern told him, exasperated.
‘Oh, that Lucy,’ Almeric said, adding, ‘She talks in her sleep - if it's the same Lucy.’
Vern muffled a sigh. Said, ‘She does?’ His curiosity was aroused. ‘What did she talk about?’
‘All sorts,’ Almeric fudged.
Vern was near the edge. ‘Yeah? Tell me, Al?’
‘Why do you need to know?’
‘She left.’
‘Big deal...’
‘I'll help you find Edgar this evening,’ said Vern, ashamed, grabbing at straws.
‘Okay,’ said Almeric. ‘But you don't want to hear.’
‘I do!’ He squeezed the phone.
‘Well you can't say I didn't warn you.’
‘Just tell me, Al.’
‘You sure?’