The Kimota Anthology Part 29

Sheila was surprised to find that 'out' was where it had been the last time she had been there: in the kind of 'willing suspension of belief' induced by the Television Net Directory, she'd begun to think it might just be fiction. She was nervous, but also exhilarated at the thought that someone somewhere might now actually think her channel was worth looking at.

She'd decided where she was going without even knowing she'd decided. After three hours of walking, she managed to find the place.

"I wish to speak to Mr. J. Stalin," she said to the receptionist.

"Which department is that?" asked the receptionist, not bothering to look up from her monitor.

"I don't know... I just need to speak to him."

"I have to know which department he's in so I can contact him, madam."

"I told you - I don't know." She was fl.u.s.tered and out of breath.

"Well," said the receptionist, slowly and distinctly, "you tell me his job, and I might be able to help you."

"Is this lady bothering you, Gladys?" asked a security guard who'd sauntered up. "Are you bothering Gladys, ma'am?"

"No, I..."

"Because if you are - and if you have no security pa.s.s, ma'am, I have a right to escort you from the premises."

"It's all right for the moment, Clive. Please, madam - tell me what this Mr. J. Stalin does."

"He's President or something of the U.S.S.R. and Chairman of their Communist Party - or he was, a hundred years ago. He took over after Lenin died. He told me that was what Lenin had wanted. Now Trotsky..."

"Right, that's it. Come along with me. We're going to get you some nice fresh air."

"Please..."

As Sheila's arm was taken by the guard, a tiny man who had been listening from across the hallway trotted over and interposed.

"Wait a minute there, Clive. We don't want to be unfriendly to our customers do we?" The tiny man had a large head, thick spectacles and eyes that blinked too often.

"No, sir, no, certainly not, Mr. McGee."

"I tell you what. Let me take care of this lady. You two get back to your work, and leave her to me."

The security guard relinquished Sheila's arm, with a parting scowl in her direction. She looked at McGee, worried that he would try and escort her away from Comrade Stalin like the others.

"You're Mr. McGee?" she asked. "You don't look anything like this on your adverts."

"Don't I? Afraid I wouldn't know. Afraid I don't watch them myself. I'm quite happy for someone to stand in for me. Between you and me, I don't watch much television full stop." He was guiding her gently towards the elevator, though she hadn't really noticed. "Sheila, is it? Yes, I guessed as much from the description the wife gave me. The wife watches all my programmes (afraid, like I say, I don't) - and told me you danced wonderfully. You and the great Russian despot made a splendid pair, she said. Might have made a decent man of him, she said - though, personally, I think she might be stretching the point there."

They were now in the lift going up.

"Yes, well," she said, shyly. "That's... well, that's really what I've come here for. I didn't want to cause any trouble down there, but..."

"Mmm?"

"I wondered if it'd be possible to... well, to see Mr. Stalin."

"But you have seen him."

"Yes, but to... to meet him."

"You did meet him."

"But I wondered if it'd be possible to meet him actually, really, if you see what I mean."

The lift stopped and they wandered into a pa.s.sageway - a pa.s.sageway which led directly into the very hall where Sheila and the 'Father of Children' had danced. Unlike McGee, the hall was as it had been on television - apart from one wall which was made of darkened gla.s.s. Behind this window, technicians could be seen, playing with computers and other gadgets; in front of the window, a large television screen displayed the room, with Sheila and McGee in it, like a mirror.

Sheila forced back a cry of excitement. "Where is he, Mr. McGee?" She was shaking with the effort of controlling herself. "Oh, Mr. McGee, if you only knew how charming he was, how gentle, how... If you knew, you'd understand why I had to come here."

"Sheila, I understand perfectly. You're not the first to come."

"You mean he has other admirers?"

McGee paced away, over the chequered floor. He hated having to do this - and he could have delegated the task - but he felt that he should shoulder the responsibility for the drawbacks of his enterprise himself.

"Sheila," he started slowly. "Sheila, I understand how you feel. But you must know that Josif Stalin has been dead a hundred years."

She stared at him, wide-eyed. "I know... I know, but... what about the man you get to play him?"

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 b.l.o.o.d.y advert just popped up on me telly - out of b.l.o.o.d.y nowhere, like - saying, 'You can dance with your wife today if you type in this code!' - and there was a b.l.o.o.d.y picture of you in this b.l.o.o.d.y hall on your own. You could have knocked me down with a b.l.o.o.d.y feather, you could - a b.l.o.o.d.y b.l.o.o.d.y 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 b.l.o.o.d.y sitting room either, luv. Whichever lazy b.u.g.g.e.r 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 b.l.o.o.d.y ha.s.sles. But, since I'm here (or there or wherever the b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l 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, n.o.body; 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.

"d.a.m.n," 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 gra.s.s 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 cla.s.sic 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 pa.s.sed 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. "d.a.m.n 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; n.o.body 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; "h.e.l.lo 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 b.u.t.ted 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.