Scribblings of M E Lucas

The Unknown Writer

Shame, guilt,
hiding fears.
Secret engagement,
private tears.

Learn, gain,
complete enjoyment.
Selfish thoughts,
chase fulfilment.

Steadfast, onward,
gaining ground.
Marked improvement,
knowledge found.

Desire, need,
can’t confess.
Creative drive,
search success.

Scottish Book Trust

50 Word Fiction Competition

Submitted: September 16, 2013

Prompt: Tudor House

Link: http://www.flickr.com/photos/spjwebster/3434671733/

Words: 50

“They say
people have gone missing from here and it’s haunted,” the rich man says.

“Yes, indeed. This
way, mind the step.”

The man’s wife asks,
“Haunted by whom?”

“Just close
this door, goodness isn’t it dark,” a veil of quiet coldness enshrouds
them.

“A jealous
estate agent,” he answers.

Short story, 6300 words, submitted for the second stage of previous Authonomy competition. Now edited.

—

The Gene Collector

My coughing is raw and painful. I dread every hack; full of the knowledge
that with it could come a variety of disgusting consequences: phlegm, bile or
blood. Swallowing what little spittle
there is, I continue.

‘She was beautiful, a real
head-turner. I thought she’d been
looking at everyone, you know, playing the field. It’s only now that I realise I was a target;
her target.’

Along with most of my deteriorating
body, my eyes usage has become limited. Turning
to the inspectors for a reaction, I see nothing but a fuzzy blur; perhaps they
are making notes.

A cough comes again, just one this time. Coughing barely stops between sentences and this
time the substantial whoop brings with it acute stinging.

‘Arghh,’ I let out a groan. ‘My chest, the pain it’s so…’

‘Take your time, Martin,’ a voice apprises
through the haze. I cannot tell whom it
belongs to; but, I do know I don’t have time.
I rally on.

‘I remember the bright LED lights of
the canteen fridge units, illuminating the food in such a way that it looked
healthier than it was. When my overcooked
schnitzel and soggy chips arrived in front of me, it was clear they had escaped
such a presentation technique. Luckily,
they tasted better than they looked.’

Speaking is hard work and I rest for a second,
deciding instead to suck on the Entonox to ease the agony. Apart from the electronic bleeping of various
bedside apparatus, my wheezing chest is the only audible sound in the room.

‘It’s funny what you remember isn’t
it?’

‘Yes, yes it is. Please, continue,’ the same voice calmly instructs
again.

‘It was my own fault for arriving so
late to lunch, as I always seemed to do, and I remember wondering if those dining
earlier had received better-looking and more desirable food.’

Once again, a flurry of coughs and
stabbing pains strike at me. The
painkillers in the IV drip are certainly not fit for purpose, are my thoughts
as I gasp for fresh air. I inflate my
lungs from the sterile atmosphere that fills the room; in contrast, the vapours
and aromas emanating from my body are far from germ-free.

‘Andrea Casprét and I, were discussing
the new recruits at lunch. He often
worked at ATLAS, but today he was at the Large Hadron Collider, he too had
noticed the same influx of unattached women in different departments.’

*

‘OK, I admit we can sometimes be loners
and a little bad with our social skills,’ I point out some home truths to Andrea.
‘…but don’t you think it is a little
odd that suddenly every single man at CERN seems to be getting a date, with
women who, let’s face it, are pretty off-the-scale gorgeous.’

‘Yes, yes of course, you are correct, it is not what we
might expect, we must admit this. But,
you know what? Why not accept, with open
arms?’ Andrea said, pushing an identical
meal around his plate. ‘You should see
Tricia, oh my goodness, she is lovely.
What a horny bint!’

I smiled at Andrea’s grasp of English; someone had
undoubtedly been teaching him some new words.

‘I suppose it is about time scientists achieved a certain level
of stardom,’ I said. ‘We’ve earned a
place on the “A” list with the Oscar winning actors, rock stars and
top footballers.’ Andrea hung on my
every word, but I was still sceptical. ‘My
problem is the sudden following of groupies.
What is that all about?’

‘Martin, you are jealous.’

‘Not so, Andrea,’ I said with a little
smugness in my voice. ‘I too have
succumbed to the good fortunes of the recent week. I’ve a date tonight!’

‘Really, that’s fabulous. With who?’

‘Celia.
Another of the admin interns.’

‘You, too. Good God!
That is really amazing, that’s about twenty seven of us now.’

‘Twenty seven!’

‘Yah, twenty seven; that I know
of. It is unbelievable. So many new girls, all without boyfriends,
and all starting here at the same time. All
wanting to date nerdy dudes dressed in white coats with greasy hair and broken
spectacles.’

‘Whoa, speak for yourself, isn’t that a
tad stereotypical.’ I assumed this was
Andrea’s attempt at humour, although it was not something that this Belgian had
mastered. ‘Still, it’s a bit of a
coincidence, don’t you think?

‘And that’s a contradiction, of course
I think,’ he said, showing a cheeky grin through his unkempt beard. ‘Improbability is one thing Martin, but
probability is another. Let us just say
all our cards came up. It happens.’

He placed his cutlery on the plate of
half-eaten lunch. Any pang in his
stomach clearly not for food and his head appeared similarly muddied with thoughts
of passion. I, on the other hand, could
not believe it was down to something as simple as luck.

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘Look, go on the date, you might even get
lucky, and get some.’

‘Get some! You have to brush up your conversation techniques
Andrea, if you’re ever going to “get some”.’

‘Just a bit, — How would you say? — rusty,
that’s all.’

‘Rusty!
How long’s it been?’

‘Eons.’

‘Come on, how long, Andrea?’

‘Eons.’

‘You’ve been here six years, and I can’t
remember there being anyone, so I’d say you’re still a virgin.’

‘That’s enough Martin, I’ve work to do,’
he said, picking up his takeaway coffee cup, turning to go.

‘Oh, come on, Andrea, I’m only
joking. Anyway, after tonight, who
knows?’

‘Yes, who knows?’ A smile crept over his face as he walked
away.

‘Who knows, indeed?’ I thought, fighting hard not to reveal a
similar grin. Tonight could be fun.

*

Feeling my throat burn, I taste acid; as
I try to control what is going on internally.
I spit some bright yellow bile into a fresh tissue, discard it into a
bin and lie back with a sigh.

‘I had to admit it, but I thought it
would be a bit of a struggle, a challenge let’s say, to actually talk to the
opposite sex without noting calculations and equations, or theorising; talking
about normal everyday things,’ I pause for breath. ‘Of course CERN has its fair share of women,
but they are as focussed and dedicated to the scientific cause, as we are. Besides, most of them, hailing from different
countries and cultures, came romantically paired with similar bred liked-minded
males. At least that’s the story I was
always given; probably just a ruse to palm me off.’

I swallow hard, driving down the fluids
bubbling below.

‘There was this one Intern, a few years
back, whom I had fallen for. An Indian
girl, beautiful eyes, long black hair, flawless complexion, oh and a brain to
match, her thirst for particle physics, my god she was lovely. She looked nearly half my age and I’d said
nothing for fear that she would think I was a pervert, or some lecherous
professor. Anyway after two weeks she
had gone, that was that.’

Twinges shoot down my legs, emanating
from my groin, some kind of retribution for having illicit thoughts about my
attractive student.

‘So, why was I worried? It wasn’t like I couldn’t interact socially
or have interests outside my work. The
only thing was I had reviewed my daily paper read, my weekly movie viewing and
my monthly shop, I realised that everything I did, I did online. Prior to this, I can’t even remember the last
time I actually went out?’

My thoughts returned to that closeted life
before this bed; before the intense suffering, a life that I could never return
to.

‘Not owning a car, or a bike, and living
in walking distance of my laboratory, — which gave me regular exercise — my daily
interaction with non CERN people was limited and only extended to “Bonjour,” or
“ça va!” said in a jolly English accent. Of course, my speed walking would negate any
further discourse.’

The cough returns and my chest cramps,
like a leather belt tightened around my ribcage. Oh, the pain, you have no idea, my lungs feel
like they are collapsing, perhaps they are.

‘Take your time.’

Why would he say that, again?

More cramps, the imaginary belt
tightens another notch. Grimacing, I
wait for the aches to subside before starting again.

‘Celia had been very happy with my
suggestion to meet at CERN’s library. I
thought, if she didn’t turn up I could always find some reference material to
spend my evening with. If she did arrive,
a table was booked at a local French restaurant, in Bourdigny Dessous. Choosing a restaurant, not too far away,
meant the taxi fare wouldn’t break the bank, and, if Celia had to leave with a
headache, I could take a stroll back.’

As I look up from my reclining
position, I notice the light in the room seems dimmer than I first remember it,
perhaps staff changed the settings, having noticed my watering eyes and the
unnatural flow from my tear ducts. I
feel the drying streams on my cheeks.
Then again, perhaps it is my eyes that have become weaker.

‘Apart from eateries on site, it was
the only restaurant I remember going too; a long time ago, some Irish professor
had taken me. Always keen on eating,
drinking, especially drinking, and socialising, Dr Colm Dubh Lynch a professor
in the black arts themselves: dark matter, and I don’t mean Guinness, had taken
me.’

I sense my own black matter is about
escape any moment as a new spasm in my lower abdomen kicks in.

‘Bless him, he was in his eighties when
we first met, but never made it to his nineties at CERN, disappeared one day,
just vanished. Some say he’d managed to
mix anti-matter with alcohol; in a controlled experiment. The professor, his data, equipment,
furniture, the very wall, floor and ceiling finishes all gone from his
underground testing chamber. All
services stripped away including, so they say, two inches of concrete from all
sides of the room, top and bottom, nothing left. Of course, the entire level has been off
limits since, like a disused underground station.

‘Anyhow, The Belle Bateau restaurant. I vaguely remember the occasion, the professor
had been keen to share several bottles of wine and I have no recollection of
returning to my apartment afterwards; only waking, in what seemed to be a restaurant
staff uniform. Nothing further
transpired from that evening. It was
years ago now and I was sure the staff wouldn’t recognise me.’

*

‘Ah, Monsieur Martin, bonsoir. Comment
allez-vous?’

Jesus, it was Anton and how was I? I couldn’t believe he was still here. Memories of the past came flooding back.

‘Oh yes, Anton, bonsoir. I’m good thank you.’

‘We have not seen you for a while, non?’

‘No, I’ve been busy, very busy.’

‘So sorry to ‘ere about Monsieur Lynch.’

‘Yes, tragic, shocking, very shocking. La mort!’

‘Ah, c’est la vie, Monsieur Martin, c’est le vie.’ Anton gazed at Celia, as if recognising
some familiarity. ‘Excusez-moi, how
rude, your jacket Mademoiselle.’

The reason he had been staring, I
concluded walking to our table, was because several of my colleagues were
dining at the restaurant that same evening, with their dates. Each member of the female cohort looked
similar: hair, skin colour and facial features, build possibly, if they had all
stood up at once. Not that I’d normally
notice but their make-up was slightly different as was the colour of each
dress, although the shape identical. I
felt like I’d walked into an episode of the Twilight Zone.

The restaurant building consisted of
several interwoven older buildings, not sure as to the style, Tyrollean or some
similar mountain fashion. Anyway, the
small rooms, the largest able to hold no more than four tables of four,
meandered off each other, similar I imagined to a rabbit warren. Thankfully, Anton showed us to a small
private nook, away from the others and all to ourselves. At that time I couldn’t be sure whether Celia
hadn’t noticed or whether she had chosen not to say anything. Looking back on it now, I’m surprised she
hadn’t been embarrassed with her blatant similarity to the other girls. Yes, they had all arrived at the office on
the same day from the same sanctioned agency; yet everyone had surely
overlooked the “cloneliness” of them
all.

Anton recommended a bottle of Pouilly
Fuissé, to get us started, and I wondered how much more he remembered of my
last visit than I did.

‘Well, this is quaint,’ I said, once
Anton had gone. She looked at me blankly
for a second, as if translating what I had just uttered, before joining in.

‘Qw-a-nt. Yes.’

Ok, so she was brief, that’s just the
way some girls are, let’s face it, I wasn’t really interested in her diction,
or ability to string along a sentence.

Suddenly she came out with it.

‘I love you, Martin.’

‘Steady on darling, we’ve only just
met,’ I joked, realising that the earlier paranoid feelings I had towards Celia
were ill founded.

‘That may sound a little backward, but
I believe in love at sight first, and ever since we meet, well…’ she said.

The disjointed and dyslexic structure
of Celia’s sentences did not ring any bells.
With the knowledge of hindsight, I should have stood up, swigged my
large glass of white wine and run. My
sight however, was blinded.

You can’t really blame me for the way I
felt, married to the career, I’d been celibate for too long. I’d forgotten how it felt to have someone
interested in me and not just for my scientific knowledge. Yet there I sat, across the table from the
most beautiful woman I’d seen, in the flesh. She was immaculately presented, stylish, clad
in a sexy off-the-shoulder dress that gave the appearance it had been fashioned
to achieve a seemingly bottomless cleavage, and capable of only being held up
by nipples the size of half-inch bolts; little did I know what else was
hidden-away underneath; but, she loved me.

Jokes about the Hadron collider kept
coming to mind, but I knew they’d be wasted on her, besides now I come to think
of it, I didn’t remember it being that cold.

Anton had recommended oysters with the
wine, as if Celia, or I for that matter, had further need for aphrodisiacs; she
just exuded lust, full stop.

‘What an interesting feeling,’ she
said, on swallowing her first shellfish.
Not bad for someone who had never tasted oyster before, usual expressions
would compare it to a mouth full of snot!
Her smile at that point seemed to highlight her blatant innuendo and she
reminded me, of all things, a very old computer game I used to play, Leisure Suit
Larry; full of double-entendres as the main character made his way around a
city trying his hardest to get laid.

‘What’s it feel like,’ I ventured, now
fuelled up and catching on to what might be on the cards later.

‘Like an egg fried,’ she said,
nonchalantly.

‘Really, a fried egg,’ I didn’t know
whether to laugh or cry. Who swallows
fried eggs, I thought?

‘So, apart from swallowing fried eggs,
what do you like to do in your spare time, Celia?’

‘I like to swim, read chick lit books
and collect butterflies,’ she said. She
certainly had a strange way with conversation.

‘Butterflies, really. You give me butterflies, every time you
flutter your eyelids,’ I said, trying it on.

‘I did not give you any butterflies!’ She said, in a slightly defensive tone.

I think that I shouldn’t have bothered
with the probing conversation.

‘Butterflies in my stomach,’ I said in
an attempt to calm her down. ‘You’re so
pretty, and I’m so shy.’

‘You eat butterflies?’

‘What. No. It’s
a saying.’

‘A saying.’

‘Yes, butterflies in my stomach. A funny tummy feeling.’

‘Oh.’

‘So, where’d you hail from?’

‘Hail?’

‘Yeah, live, you know? A house?
Apartment?’

‘I’m from, Apartment 6, Stumlass Strasse
197, Stuttgart, Germany. We don’t
butterflies eat in Germany,’ she said, and included the postcode, but I can’t
recall that bit.

‘Stuttgart, nice,’ I said.

*

‘Now at this point,’ I begin, closely
followed by an outbreak of jarring coughs that give me the feeling my brain is
about to explode through the front of my skull.

‘Damn it,’ I say, gathering my
strength; which is ebbing fast. ‘At this
point things turned really obscure, and it kept me quiet for a few moments I
can tell you.’

‘It was as if she was either reading it
from a prompt or had memorised it for such a question. I hadn’t asked for her address, nice and all
that she gave it, but really, why provide such detail?’

I raise my hands in the air
absentmindedly and shake them; they feel prickly from poor circulation, I’m
hoping to kick start the blood within my arms as I feebly waggle them.

‘During my time at CERN I’ve come
across many different nationalities, from all over the globe, and I knew there
was no way she was German; too stylish coupled with a warm personality.’

I lower my arms, tiring from my short
exercise.

‘I stared at her, all forlorn, for some
time. The wine helped, and she didn’t
seem to mind; just stared back. Studying
her face, I could see she wasn’t even European.
East Asia was the nearest I could pin it down to; the ever-so-slightly
slanting eyes and dark hair. Mind you,
she looked perfect, too perfect; nearly unreal, and I suspected surgery.’

My arms tingle slightly and I realise
my legs are suffering the same circulation problem.

‘That was that, great food, great wine,
and bless her, she tried to be so nice showering me with compliments every ten
seconds. With several bottles of wine
drunk I was feeling very warm inside and with the knowledge that, “She loved
me!” I was very content, if not slightly
bewildered. We had only spent a total of
five hours and twenty-six minutes together; I remember calculating, including
the silent and shy taxi drive to Anton’s.
The mystery was how she had come to her loving conclusion in such a
short time. I was sure I would soon find
out.’

My legs feel like lead pipes and barely
bend at the knee. I try to move them,
give in and settle to wiggle my toes under the sheets.

‘The taxi drive back to CERN was a lot
noisier than our initial drive. Despite
Celia quaffing an equivalent amount of alcohol to me, she was able to handle
her drink fantastically well, and I sensed my lewd jokes and clumsiness amused
her, as she seemed to smile the entire journey.’

The coughing returns with a vengeance
and I cannot stop until I breath heavily on the gas and air; too much physical
exertion, I suspect.

‘You see whilst powdering her nose in
the restaurant — I know I was surprised that people still said that too — I
had phoned ahead to my friend Michel. Michel
was the brother of another colleague, whose name I can’t seem to remember, but
I had no relationship with him really, his brother Michel on the other hand, was
much more fun. As the manager of the
onsite CERN hotel, he had given us a top floor room one night for a “Hangover”
party. I mean it was hardly a party,
only seven of us were there and we tried to replicate the film, Michel knew
someone, who knew someone, etc, and stupidly, we all took some Rohypnol. When we woke we were all
still in the same room only with massive headaches! What a fail!’

As I reminisce, I laugh, the first time
for a while, but oh Jesus, it hurts more when I do.

‘So I thought I’d impress Celia with a
room, the hotel often had spares especially the best top floor apartments, and
Michel didn’t let me down.’

*

‘You are funny,’ Celia said, her smile
as wide as her ears as she watched me exit the taxi, with my backside first. The impatient driver had opened the door for
us, as we were taking our time talking nonsense, oblivious to our arrival at
our destination. With all his impatience
he had neglected to catch me as I fell, just standing, looking on. Luckily, my gluteus maximus took the full
force and the alcohol dealt with the rest.

‘Keep the change,’ I said, flapping a ten-franc
note in his face. It had only been a
short drive and our delay had probably cost him as much as the drive.

We shuffled, well I did, Celia
elegantly strutted into the lobby.

‘Bonsoir, Mademoiselle. Ah, Monsieur Martin, ‘ow are you this
evening.’ Michel greeted us with great
aplomb. The ceiling and surrounding wall
lights where all dimmed and the hidden task light behind the long redwood
reception highlighted his face, creating shadows; his features portrayed those
of a manic organist.

‘We’ll take your finest boudoir Anton,
Michel I mean.’

*

As I slowly rub my hands again to
improve blood flow, I feel they are sweating profusely. I feel warmth in my face and my body as heat
slowly flows through me, like an instant fever.

‘The fresh air had invigorated my bloodstream
with oxygen, awakening the alcohol, things started to get hazy at that
point. Evidently some vase in reception
got broken, which is where the gash on my left hand came from.’ I raise my left hand to no more than shoulder
height. I look over to the two hazy
figures through turbid eyes. ‘The cut
over my right eye was from the trouser press in the wardrobe. At least I think it was that, I’ll explain…’

I lower my hand and turn my head. There could be more, or less, inspectors sitting
next to me; the foreign particles swimming in my eyes forbid any clear view,
despite several blinks.

‘…we had arrived at the room, I with
a bandaged hand, Celia with nothing but fondles and kisses; she was
rampant. Michel had left out a bottle of
champagne and somehow, whilst Celia was powdering her nose again, I had managed
to pour a couple of glasses. Knocking
back a solitary flute in one, I thought I’d hide in the wardrobe for a
giggle. Well, like you do! Hence the gash.’

*

‘What have you done? My darling.’
She said, finding me horizontal on the floor. I stared up at her full naked bosom and passed
out.

*

The warm feeling persists and I feel
hot from head to toe. Sweat starts to
prickle the loose gown against my skin.
I haven’t the strength to remove the single cotton sheet that pins me
into the bed; knowing it is not the reason for my temperature rise.

‘According to Michel, Celia had left
me, walked out of the lobby with a formal “Bonsoir,” her face expressionless, and
disappeared into the night. The
following morning of course, was altogether shocking; I just didn’t link the
two together.’

I tried to lick my lips, but I had no
spit to tame the crusty skin.

‘Michel, I don’t know how, had managed
to get me into bed. I awoke with a
Facetime call from Andrea, he looked like shit, I mean really shit. His face was puffy, eyes bloodshot and the
screen shook, it was enough for me to focus on him with the pain in my
head. Despite the look of sheer
overindulgence, Andrea was gushing about his sex marathon with Tricia.’

*

‘Oh my God martin, it was like being in
a porno film. She took me to new levels
and I took her everywhere, and I mean everywhere: in the shower, on the dining
table, out on the balcony overlooking the restaurant,’ he broke off for a fit
of coughing and retching. ‘After the
sex, she did this really unusual thing; she walked on her hands.’

‘Her hands?’

‘Yes, I know, it is odd,’ he sounded
out of breath. ‘She disappeared soon after
that, saying “Thank-you for the impregnation.”
This I am confused by, what do you think she meant Martin.’

‘Did you not use a condom?’

‘She told me that we did not need to-’
he stopped suddenly as a loud damp-sounding fart rumbled down the
connection. ‘I must go! The coq au vin last night. My sto-match is real upset now. Be seeing you.’ Then he was gone.

*

‘That was the last time I heard or saw
him. Now of course it all comes into
perspective, only a little too late.’

I think back to Andrea’s ambiguous expression just before he hung-up, the face of the unknown
creeping up on him and I wonder if mine is now the equivalent.

‘My face was still smeared with Celia’s red lipstick; I had
to at least admire her for trying. I
showered and left the hotel. The canteen
was nearly empty by the time I made it there for coffee; the place was normally
buzzing with chatter. According to the
staff, several stories told of food poisoning at a number of local restaurants.’

*

‘Martan, Martan, listen here to me, Martan.’ Claudine, one of the canteen ladies who loved
to gossip, called me over. ‘You will
never guess Martan, last night, mon Dieu, all your colleagues, they had a great
time.’

‘Tell me about it, I’ve heard.’

‘Not the stories we have heard this morning, zut alors!
Here, in the canteen, the car park, out in the streets, even the Globe of
Science. Mon Dieu!’

‘What?’

‘Partout.’

‘Everywhere. Everywhere,
what?’

‘Faire l’amour.’

‘Love?’

‘Martan,’ she hushed her voice looking to see if anyone was
listening. ‘Putain de les uns les
autres!’

‘Oh, I see, shagging each other!’ I laughed to myself, French is so poetic.

*

‘So, it wasn’t just Andrea then, full of wanton desire and
exhibitionism. Although, I sensed it was
by no small coincidence that the likes of Tricia and Celia were at the bottom of
it. I suspected, that
if I hadn’t been so greedy, polishing off Michel’s champagne, I too may have
had the same debauched evening. I cursed
myself.’

Coughing returns once more; so does anguish.

‘The sexual anecdotes of other
colleagues seemed to be the topic of the day and those other staff members I
did see were surprised to see me in the lab’s.
The day went disconcertingly slow.’

If one of the consultants came in to
the room now, with the best bedside manner, and informed me that I had a
cluster of four-inch nails driven between my ribs, I would have believed them.

‘Evidently, due to their acts being
very public, some of the employees had been arrested and CERN officials had
spent all night dealing with Police
Cantonale de Genève. To make matters
worse, most of the remaining male staff contingent were absent, and
notwithstanding this, the biggest mystery of the day was the missing league of
hand-standing women. Absolutely all of the
most recently employed women had done a bunk, not one had turned up to the
office; admin had been sent into a tailspin.
It was therefore a real surprise when my phone rang.’

*

‘Marty, my darling, are you feeling
better?’ It was Celia, full of lovesick blues,
not bad considering she’d left for me for dead.
‘I must see you my sweetheart, I miss you so much.’

‘Celia, hi. How are you babes?’ Let’s see where this goes, I thought.

‘How about, I meet you at the canteen in
twenty minutes, lover boy,’ she said, it was clear she was serious and in a
hurry.

‘Not the canteen, Celia,’ a thought came
into my head. ‘How about the hotel again?’

‘Yes, oh perfect, I cannot wait.’

‘How’s Tricia, this morning?’ The phone had clicked off before I had time
to finish my question.

*

The nails in my chest have turned into
screws. Every movement I make they seem
to tighten. So much so, that the last
twist brought up some yellowish liquid that some young nurse is mopping up. The yellow is just a hue in my swimming pool
eyes and for all I know the nurse could be older and uglier than–wait a
clearing in the murky water, I was right she is pretty. I close my running eyes, with visions of the
nurse’s pretty face.

‘I called Michel, it cost me a few
favours this time but in fifteen minutes, I was on the way to the hotel, having
disguised my absence from the laboratory, with some lame research excuse.’

The taste in my mouth is disgusting. I signal to the nurse.

‘Could I have some water please.’

‘Pardon,’ she says not grasping my
English.

‘Eau, s’il vous plaît.’

‘Ah,
oui.’

At least I remember the language when I
really need it.

‘I thought it best to arrange a
clandestine meeting; with all the strange stories flying around, of course if I
had thought with my brain, I might not have gone at all.’

The nurse offers up a plastic cup and
manages to pour in some liquid between my crusty lips. She dips a small piece of foam on a stick
into the water and hands it to me, then in pigeon English tells me I can suck
on it when I need to, leaving the cup on the bedside cabinet. There was no point in explaining that I can
barely see it to dunk in my foam anyway.

‘She was already in the lobby when I
arrived, same dress; different colour.
She smiled her slightly abnormal, but rapturing grin.’

*

‘You
look stunning,’ I meant it, she was gorgeous.
Her smile widened even more.

Michel flicked over the electronic passkey,
with a cheeky smirk.

‘Top floor, Romeo,’ he said.

I winked back at him.

She was like a drug, the way she walked
in front of me, her composed and confident step, curves that accentuated her
voluptuous figure, long legs and concave stomach. Her long dark hair, her warm lightly tanned
skin, her come to bed eyes; she was complete magazine fodder.

We entered the lift. We said nothing. By the time the lift had reached the top
floor, I had mentally undressed her and by the look on her face, she must have
done the same.

The second the bedroom door closed
behind me, her lips had planted themselves on mine and her tongue was rooting
around for some company. I’d pictured
some sexy lingerie, I was wrong, she had none.

I had questions that needed answers,
but she had a way of changing the subject in many different ways.

‘Condoms!’ I informed her, following
the first bout of lip wrestling. She
didn’t answer, just shook her finger, like a cross school teacher.

‘Impregnation.’ The word sprung from deep in my subconscious.

‘Ummmm,’ was her reply, she was too
busy. Was that her goal? What did, ummmm, mean? My mind went into overtime. Was this some kind of blackmailing scam? Was she some kind of gutter journalist,
trying to degrade nuclear scientists? Was
a pap about to burst through the door and shoot off a round of photo’s? More and more questions went unanswered.

Andrea was right; she was insatiable,
six and a half hours non-stop.
Everywhere, and every which way.
I didn’t know I had it in me, certainly not for that long.

*

A lone cough rattles my brain, squeezes
my chest and cause the release of some fluid under my bed sheets, I know not
from where.

‘My eyes are so clouded, are you still
there?’

‘Yes, we are still here. Go on Martin, did she answer your questions?’

‘It was no good, the wave of questions
just washed up on the shore of my growing libido. They would have to wait.’

An uncontrollable shiver came over me,
it didn’t stop and I could feel my body slowly gyrating.

‘Leaving with only a towel wrapped
around her, clearly, did not sit well with Celia. Our final session, had slain me. Exhausted, I had collapsed on the sofa, on
top of her dark blue dress. When it came
to it, there was nothing else but to pull the clothing from underneath me, and she
awoke me from my spent state.’

*

‘Darling, I have to go now! Thank-you for a great time and the
impregnation,’ she said, very matter-of-factly.

‘Wait a second! What is with the impregnation business?’ I grabbed her arm as I stood. ‘Also, I’m not convinced by the yoga
explanation, walking on your hands after every orgasm.’

That seemed to hit a nerve within her.

‘I’m so sorry, Marty,’ she said, then
clouted me with her free arm. Jesus,
we’d been at it for hours and she still had the energy to whack me halfway
across the room, she was no ordinary woman.

‘Our job is done,’

‘Our job.’ I said, stumbling to get to my feet. We stood for a second, looking at each other’s
naked body, I nursing my chin, she holding her dress like a soldier’s kit
bag. She still looked fantastic, but I
needed to bypass my brain’s circuitry and get to the intelligent neurons not
the ones related to my penis. ‘What
job? What are you talking about?’

‘We are finished here. So, I may tell you,’ she let out a sigh, as
if she had been bottling it up ever since we first met. ‘My name is Nam Sang-mi.’

‘Like the Korean actress?’

‘You heard of her. I am surprised.’

‘I like watching oriental films; picked
up some Korean along the way too. Naega
sul hanjan sado doelkka?’
I said, asking her out for a drink.

‘Very good, Marty.’

There was a slight falter in her voice,
a chink in her exterior armour. She
seemed surprised that I would know anything about Korea, let alone speak it.

‘I am from the North,’ she said as if
to cut the conversation dead. She
slipped elegantly into the dress and had it positioned perfectly in an instant,
I felt vulnerable.

‘But, your face, it’s not…’

‘I get lots of surgery, for the cause,’
she spoke naturally now, albeit broken, not like the prepared conversations of
earlier.

‘What cause?’

‘For the master gene pool.’

‘I’m not with you, Sang-mi.’

‘It is undercover mission, for North
Korean Intelligence. I not know why I am
telling you.’

‘Because, I’m not the person you were
led to believe I was?’

‘You see my fellow operatives around
CERN.’

‘Couldn’t miss them!’

‘Well, we now have sperm from most of
experienced nuclear brains in CERN growing inside us.’ She tapped her taught slim frame above her
belly button. ‘That was reason for acrobatics,
instructions, I not so convinced it would improve impregnation, but they were
orders.’

‘Why are you telling me this?’

‘Because,’ her face showed some emotion
for the very first time, botox still held firm fighting against any creases,
but her eyes they confirmed raw emotion.
‘because you dying.’

‘What!’

‘We were injected with deadly pathogen,
a virus transmitted through intercourse, and by the experience we just
had. It will be unlikely you survive.’

I felt numb. I had been, and I was now, fucked. My eyes began to itch and I coughed suddenly.

‘It started, Martin.’

‘I preferred Marty,’ I said slumping to
the sofa, unexpectedly fatigued.

‘Why not you, the sperm, I…’ suddenly
I was out of breath.

‘We are injected with antidote, the
sperm are fine, an embryo will soon form.’

‘How can you know all this? We only just…’

‘I implanted with nanotech. Several detectors in my womb, they sent text
to my phone! I know result three hours
ago.’

‘Why didn’t you stop?’

‘I…I think I enjoying it.’

For a second there seemed a truth in
her voice, along with a tear in her eye.
She turned before I could confirm it.

‘Goodbye, Marty.’

‘Wait, Sang-mi. I…’
I, what? She had just admitted to
killing me for my semen. How could I
follow that? What could I say, or ask, or
discuss with her; what?

I could physically feel my body
shutting down, when drowsiness over took me, as she disappeared through the
door, my eyes filled with water and I closed them.

*

‘Seems an age ago now, the agony I’ve
endured since, my God.’ I grimace with
part pain and part fear, the whole of my insides feel invaded. Muscles expand and contract in random
fits. I feel on fire.

‘Michel found me in a puddle of my own
vomit and shit, notified you guys, and here we are. The last, soon not to be, survivor of a North
Korean plot to form a master race of particle physicists and nuclear scientists.’

An excruciating bout of coughing
persists as I hold a tissue to my face, I feel fluid spraying out of my nose
and mouth into it. They stop and my arms
slump to the bedside, numb, as if severed.

‘Lucky for you…I was the last surviving
witness. Now, gentlemen, that is all…my
chest…that is all that I can tell you.’

I can hardly breathe with the intense aching. My hands are shaking like timber shacks in an
earthquake; fingertips turned blue.

‘Please…the…injection…’ I look down at the blood-soaked tissues
flapping in my hand, I feel some part of my bowel collapse, my chest squeezes
even tighter; no room for any air. Electronic
sounds and lights appear to get louder and brighter. I let out a yelp. Chairs grate over the ceramic-tiled floor.

‘You’ve been a great help, Martin, a
great help. The consultant is here,
now. Thank-you, Sir, thank-you.’

My eyes are so swollen and watery, I can’t
tell which of the masked and suited men is talking, I can see them parting,
making way for more white and shiny individuals entering through the unzipped
opening.

‘Relax, Martin,’ a firm voice says.

Relax? Relax!

Ahh, relax…

Short 500 word piece for a competition on the Authonomy Website for The Jerusalem Puzzle by Lawrence O’Bryan – found here.

Made it through to the next stage, here, but no further.

—

My Submission…

The temperature had dropped since I’d left home, dark grey
clouds glowed orange from streetlights, their weight muffling nearby sounds; it
felt like snow.

I’d been walking an hour trying to clear my head. Four deaths in this evolving saga, Alek, Kaiser,
the body in Elliot Way, and now Susan Hunter, all
murdered; too much of a coincidence.

Thoughts turned egoistically to Hunters report. Had she even finished it? It could be another year before we can get it
translated. Beresford-Ellis
is going to be overjoyed with investigations by English and Turkish authorities. Hope to God she didn’t take the manuscript to
Jerusalem; it could be anywhere.

Shoving freezing hands deeper into my jacket pockets, I retraced
my steps back to the house. Perhaps Isabel’s
connections could help, convince someone in the foreign office to extract the
manuscript as a matter of urgency, perhaps then it will be safe.

On passing, warmth and noise of O’Gradys pub spilled out on
to the pavement. Stopping, momentarily
contemplating a pint, my phone buzzed against my knuckles. I pulled it out and opened an email.

From the late Dr Hunter, my heart skipped a beat, except a
different email address.

“Sorry can’t explain, compromised, I not implicage u in last
mail. I AM alive. Be on guard n get out of London. Set up new mail address n contact me @ Gmail my
name is fast food restront where we first met last May. B careful, and trust no one. NO ONE!
SH.”

I swallowed hard.
Getting a message from the deceased is a little odd. The McDonald Institute’s not a restaurant I
thought, ah, McDonalds without an “s” that’s it, but what was “I not implicage
you” about?

I hurried back, suddenly worried about Isabel’s safety. The door was ajar when I arrived at the
house, was she expecting me? Did we have
visitors! I anxiously thought back to news
bulletins and burnt corpses. Listening
for any strangers voices, I entered slowly, all seemed calm. I closed the door quietly behind me and made
my way down the hallway to the kitchen.

The radio muffled in the background. Crossing the soft hall carpet to the hard
timber floor my rubber soles squeaked. My
brow furrowed.
A syringe lay on the white porcelain floor tiles alongside a
splattering of small raised droplets of blood, it looked empty, my heart now raised
from a casual rock beat to a hardcore drum ‘n’ bass rhythm as its thumping pounded
in my neck.

Then I caught sight of Isabel slumped on the kitchen sofa.

‘Sean,’ she slurred.

‘I’m here,’ I said crouching down touching her quivering
shoulder. ‘Everything is going to be
alright, sit tight.’ Tapping the phone,
I called 999. Dry blood streaked down
her arms, black bruised circles forming on her forearms to her biceps caught my
attention.

‘Ambulance please,’ I stood.
That was when I noticed it reflecting in the mirror. I turned.

“Ring-a-round a rosie,” scrawled in black on the wall.