The Kimota Anthology (35 page)

Leaving the bed covered in his brother’s blood and his tears, he climbs out of the bedroom window, down the side of the house, and runs all the way back to the television studios. There, he lets himself into his dressing-room and takes about sixty-nine
Vitafaith
pills in one go.

Wishing they would make him more like Jesus, more like Leonard Lincoln.

Wishing they would stop him getting turned on by Jezebels and naked, beaten-up brothers.

Wishing, in fact, for the coma he got.

Is your holiness rent full of holes?Is
your
faith often faithless? Is
your
soul too soulful?

Then take
Vitafaith
: the Viagra for Christians.

[Small print at bottom of screen: No more than one or two tablets to be taken daily. If symptoms persist, please consult your doctor and vicar. The manufacturers of
Vitafaith
take no responsibility for abuse to their products.]

[Originally published in Kimota 15 Autumn 2001]

REMEMBER, REMEMBER

by Kevin K. Rattan

This year clan Smith-Donaldson provided the Santa for the Fawkesfeast, and so uncle Albert, who had our nomination, has to wait at least another year. He didn’t seem very sorry about it, I must say. Mummy says its indecent of him, that he ought to have more respect for tradition, and at least pretend to regret missing out on the honour. I said as much to him, one day when I had nothing better to do. Any other clan-uncle would have got mad, especially blood-kin, but not him. He just laughed and took another swig from the jar of mummy’s brew that I’d sneaked for him.

I remember when I told Aunt Elisabeth something mummy had said about her, she just told me to watch my tongue. I was only little then, and I stuck out my tongue as far as I could, but even straining I could only see the tip. Aunty did not see the funny side. It must have been nice in the days before the clans, if there really were such days. Imagine it, only a few grown-ups in every family!

When he’d finished drinking, Uncle Albert said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. It makes me think that I was right on the night of the feast: most people don’t really feel traditions, not even when they have important parts to play.

‘Well,’ he said. ‘If they’re worried that I’m some kind of heretic innovator, why did they single me out for the honour in the first place? Perhaps they wanted to kill two birds with one stone? Not very devout, eh, or traditional?’

Then he drank some more beer. It’s a pity he wasn’t Santa. His big red nose is just right for it.

I didn’t take Uncle Albert’s comments back to mummy - I have some common-sense, even if I do let my tongue run away with me (and no, I’ve never tested that one to see if its possible).

Why do I want to write about the feast, though. Why did I risk stealing paper from the meeting-hall, and almost getting caught, too? Because this year I was chosen as Inky Dev! I always used to think it was fixed, because the other Inkies have all been boys, and older ones at that. But maybe it is fair - or maybe Santa made a mistake - you could tell he was excited; he was sweating a lot, and I’m sure it’s not all that hot, even in his Reds.

All the children lined up (even Billy 3-Fingers, who’s normally not allowed to join in, being a border-liner. I think it would have looked worse for Dr. Jones if they hadn’t let Billy in. It would have been admitting that there was reason why Billy should have been exposed, and that he only passed him because he was the chief’s son). Then we marched up to Santa in the old way - nothing’s ever changed at a feast. They’re one of the things that haven’t changed right through all the times.

Little Danny (my brother, and mummy’s pet) got a tin for himself, and I was jealous till I got the tinder box. (Actually, I didn’t need to be at all, because I came out best there, too. Daddy let him use his knife to open it. It was full of little pale bean things in a red sauce. He was very pleased with it, but when he’d given daddy his knife back, and we’d gone off with it, I said they looked like rat babies in blood, and he wouldn’t eat them. They were delicious).

But that was later. That night I was green with envy watching Danny turning his tin about, looking for something to tell him what was inside. All the time I was wondering what I was going to get, knowing it was going to be as boring as the needle I got last time. Then it was my turn, and I was holding the tinder box. Everyone was shouting and singing, and making a fuss of me. I hardly noticed, though. I was too busy trying to wake up.

I recovered when Chief Morgan came over and ushered me to my place, congratulating me and at the same time warning me not to let the clan down. He’s always like that, grudging when he has to be nice. Then again, he’s always grudging about walloping you, too. Perhaps he just doesn’t like being made to do things, even if he only has to do them because they’re expected of him as chief.

There was one thing I noticed when Santa gave me the box, though. I wasn’t too surprised for that. I was going to thank him, and then I saw the look in his eyes, and I didn’t say anything. I think he was as reluctant as Uncle Albert. He looked just like uncle Andrew the day his first daughter (after five sons) failed the tests and wasn’t opted in.

I stood in my place, proud as can be, smirking at my brother and cousins. They glowered back, which was about the best thing they could do as far as I was concerned - it showed I was winning for a change. My only worry was that I’d make some mistake and give them a chance to get back at me. I concentrated on checking out the box, then, just in case.

It’s just the same as your usual box, complete with flints and tinder, but it’s made of metal, and its old. It was part of the ceremony even in the days before the great change. It felt really strange to hold something like that, and to think that other children must have held it on the same day through centuries. In all the changes at least some traditions hold true, and through them we remember what we are (that’s what daddy said in the meeting hall when they were honouring him for the prize catch of the season).

When all the presents had been given out, the marshals went over to Santa, and helped him to his feet. They’re supposed to be there in case Santa is possessed by the will-to-chaos, and won’t complete the ceremony, but I’ve never seen them have to deal with any trouble. The only thing they ever have to do is help one or two along when, like this time, the excitement of the occasion’s become too much for them, and Santa’s not up to making the journey on his own.

Once he was properly in place the singing began. I joined in at first, till I saw Chief Morgan shake his head at me. I enjoy singing so much I’d forgotten Inky isn’t supposed to. It was embarrassing, especially because I could see the boys smirking,

but I knew that it wasn’t much of a mistake. They can’t take it away from me with that.

The singing came to an end at last. The night was cold, but still, not like last year when it was windy and rained, almost putting out the fire. Everyone was tense, waiting for the bonfire to be lit and the fun to begin. The chief of Clan Smith-Donaldson came over with the torch, and put it on the ground in front of me. I bent over it, and set to with the tinder-box. Everything was dry and ready, so it didn’t take long to set it alight. Then he took my left hand and I picked up the torch with my right. I felt like the May Queen must do, but without the fear. Everyone was looking at me. I was special.

It was a shame I had to end it and become ordinary again, but if I hadn’t had to do something to bring the moment to an end, I wouldn’t have been special in the first place, I suppose. I threw the torch into the bonfire with as much strength as I could muster, wanting to look really good.

It had been quiet before, but now there was complete silence. Then the clan chief held up my arm, almost lifting me off the ground. The bonfire was alight. Noise erupted all around, everyone shouting, laughing, knocking wooden bangers together.

Then something terrible happened: Santa started to scream. It was awful. Everyone would hear. The ceremony would be ruined. Clan Smith-Donaldson would never live it down, and neither would I. I wanted to crawl away and hide.

Then, suddenly, the screams stopped. And everyone else was still celebrating. No-else could have heard it, not even chief Smith-Donaldson who was right next to me. He must be a bit hard of hearing. I cheered up at once - everything was alright again. My ceremony hadn’t been spoiled.

Once that moment was over, I just let the night wash over me. I seemed to forget myself entirely, to become just the Inky Dev, the same as all the other Inky Devs there have ever been. After a time I pulled away a bit. I felt separate from what was going on, and the people there. For them this was just a feast, done in the proper way, for me it was more. I don’t know how to write down how I felt. But it was like there was magic about, and I knew that all the Fawkesfeasts are really the same one, happening in a time of its own. There is only one Fawkesnight, and we’re all there, around the same fire, people of the past and people of the future, all bound together by tradition. That’s what makes us human and special, and those of us who can really go out of our time, and feel that past and future with us on such a night, we’re special, too.

[Originally published in Kimota 3, Winter 1995]

THE SIMULATOR

by Paul Finch

It was the best offer Belper had had all week. What, a free bottle of booze and an afternoon off lectures to drink it. What was the catch?

As the young inspector led the way into the hangar-type building at the back of the police station, he repeated that there was no catch. It was part of an official experiment, and there was nothing to worry about. All the student needed to know was that he’d be enjoying himself and at the same time, helping save lives.

Inside, the hangar was more like a laboratory, with graphs on the walls and long tables arrayed with jumbled electronic equipment. A group of people were waiting there. They consisted of several more uniformed police officers, among them a tall stern-faced man with superintendent’s pips on his shoulders, and two civilians in white lab-coats. In the middle of the room, an old Escort, minus wheels, was propped up on metal struts, amid various banks of computers. Cables snaked into it from all sides.

“This the chap, Perkins?” asked the superintendent, stepping forward.

The inspector nodded. “Mr. Belper, sir. From the college. He’s got a rough idea what it’s about.”

Superintendent George Matthews sniffed. He didn’t like students much. They were useful for ID parades, but he knew they could turn into Rentamob overnight if they wanted to, and he’d been infuriated once, when driving past the college gates in his command-car and seeing a whole bunch of them throwing him big cheeky salutes.

“Well, Mr. Belper,” he said tightly. “Enjoy yourself by all means, but please behave as naturally as you can. The object is to drive the car around the simulated city as any normal person would, the only difference being that you will be consuming a bottle of spirits as you do. Please do not attempt any silly games. Our aim is to study the progressive impairment of the everyday driver’s abilities during alcohol consumption. We’ll be tabulating the results. We hope to have built up an impressive dossier in time for our Christmas drink-drive campaign.”

Belper nodded, grinning. He had just noticed the brand new bottle of Jack Daniels on a cabinet beside the car. When they’d asked him which drink he’d prefer, they’d apparently meant it. This was too good to be true. Inspector Perkins opened the bottle and poured its contents into a flask, which he then fitted with a flip-top lid. “Get as drunk as you like,” he said, handing it to Belper. “Just don’t think you can go off and drive a real car until at least mid-day tomorrow.”

The two policemen then stepped back and the lab-coat men took over. One was an older man, but the other was young, bearded and scruffy, and he took charge. This was the Simulator, he said, as he helped Belper slide into the driver’s seat. Virtual Reality at its most advanced. It contained state-of-the-art graphics: three-D and digitally colourised. It wouldn’t be hard to imagine he was following a real road-system, because to all intents and purposes, he would be. It existed only in the computer’s memory of course, but it was there. All normal rules would apply - pedestrians got injured if you knocked them down, cars got damaged if you pranged them.

Belper looked round, briefly perplexed. He’d expected to find the interior of the Escort rigged up with all sorts of gadgetry, but it seemed perfectly ordinary: pedals, steering wheel, brake, gear-stick and so on. Through the windscreen however, he saw the police officers now gathered beside a blank TV monitor. As the Super had said, they’d be tabulating results.

“Put these on,” said the young scientist, leaning in with a helmet and a pair of padded gloves, wires trailing away from them to the equipment outside.

The gloves were heavy, while the helmet was globular, with a visor which covered his eyes and nose, and made from some fibre-glass-type material. It fitted snugly, but was opaque and shut off all light. Once he’d put it on, Belper felt isolated and for the first time, slightly nervous. He sat there uncertainly.

Then someone placed the neck of the flask at his lips and a voice in his ear, which sounded something like a Dalek, instructed him to: “Start drinking, hero!”

It was the young scientist, speaking through some sort of transmitter. Belper grinned and took a long swig. It hit him in the gut in a delightful burst of flame. He sighed, then placed the flask down and reached out to find the steering wheel. As he did there was a sudden humming sound, then a loud click... and the Virtual World blossomed in front of him.

Before he knew what had happened, he was inside another car, parked in an open garage, with a wide concrete area in front of him and beyond that a road. In the far distance, he could see tower blocks and a church steeple. Everything looked bright and metallic, but aside from that it was stunningly realistic. His arms were now clad in the sleeves of a business suit, and his hands bare. He glanced sideways, and found the whisky flask perched on a tray on the passenger seat. A faint rumble revealed that the engine was running.

“Keep drinking please,” instructed the voice. “We’re monitoring and it’s imperative you start to get drunk.”

With a chuckle, Belper placed the flask to his lips, taking several deep slugs, before breaking off, coughing. Then he slammed the car into first, and gently pressuring the accelerator, pulled slowly away, leaving the garage and crossing the open area towards the road. He gazed around, fascinated. The sensation of movement was uncanny. On all sides, images were shifting in perfect synchronization. Behind him, he saw that he’d just driven out of a large nondescript building. To the front there was a net fence, but he noticed a gate and zeroed in on it.

“What sort of car is this?” he asked aloud.

“Anything you want it to be,” replied the voice.

Belper laughed. “But nothing I can burn rubber in?”

“Anything you want,” said the voice again. “Just remember what we’re trying to achieve here. At least, while you’re reasonably sober.”

Belper took another long pull at the flask, then accelerated towards the gate. “Always did fancy a Mustang,” he said to himself. “Hah... I wish!”

He had no trouble getting out into the slow-moving traffic, though the sensation of driving while even mildly intoxicated felt odd, and several horns honked at him. He stuck up a general V-sign to them all. The other drivers were visible only as dim, featureless shapes, but it seemed a natural thing to do.

He swilled some more bourbon and gunned the engine hard. He was now moving along a simulated dual carriageway, with what looked like a busy intersection ahead. There was a wall of stationary traffic in front however. Belper cursed under his breath. They even had jams on bloody computer roads! Well... not for him. Not when he could do basically whatever he wanted. He spied a narrow street on his left, leading away onto a housing estate, and took it immediately. It was empty of cars so he stepped on the gas.

The simulation was incredibly vivid. As he sped along, he saw children playing in gardens, figures moving behind lounge windows. There were even birds passing overhead. “It’s impressive, I’ll tell you that,” he shouted, then he chugged some more Jack.

Not far in front, he saw a row of shops and a red postal van parked outside them. He approached it at speed. There was nobody in the cab, so he assumed there was no danger of it suddenly pulling out.

Then the postman appeared. Stepping out from behind his van in that very last second when braking was simply impossible. Belper hit him square-on, at full speed. Then had to fight the wheel to avoid swerving off the road. The car still went into a skid, but eventually he managed to right it and pulled up by the kerb.

Absurdly, even though he knew it was only a simulation, his heart was thumping. He turned and looked behind. A crumpled shape was lying on the tarmac, a mass of what looked like envelopes fluttering about it. Figures were hurrying over from the various houses. Belper felt a chill run down his spine, and he quickly put the car back in gear and drove on. “Hey lads,” he said. “I’m sorry about that. Christ, it’s a bit much!”

Oddly, there was no reply.

He glanced at the flask. Through its semi-transparent skin, he could see that it was still half-f. He suddenly didn’t feel like drinking any more, though. One thing this Virtual Reality lark would prove good for was rehabilitating drunken drivers. Christ, he hadn’t expected anything like that.

He turned left at the next corner and found himself in a cul-de-sac, with maisonettes on all sides. He made a three-point turn, then pulled up to think. The postman incident had almost knocked him sober when he was supposed to be getting soused. But it had been so real. Even down to the spilled letters. Eventually however, knowing he had no choice, he picked up the flask and in a single mouthful, drank a good quarter of it. It exploded in his head and for a moment he went dizzy.

Once things swam back into focus, he drove out into the road again... and instantly collided with the back wheel of a cyclist he hadn’t even seen. It wasn’t a heavy blow, but the machine went careering over the pavement and deposited its rider in someone’s flower-beds. Belper took off at speed, this time not bothering to look back.

He made it to the next junction without further incident, but realised that now his vision was starting to falter. He was waiting by a busy road, but though he looked in both directions, was too fuddled to make out which vehicles were coming or which were going. Eventually he chanced it, and in a shower of sparks, shaved the wing of a speeding Jag. It screamed to a halt, but Belper took off in the opposite direction, narrowly missing other vehicles and braving a barrage of angry horns and sirens.

“Bastards!” he spat, glancing into his rear-view mirror. He was unnerved to see a long white vehicle pull out some distance behind him, with what could have been black and white flashes down its side.

Surely it wasn’t a police car?

Worried, though unsure why, Belper pulled off the main drag into a side-street, but only when it was too late did he realise that it was the drive to a house. He had slammed into the garage doors, crumpling them to scrap, before he managed to brake. Hurriedly, he backed out, bouncing off a concrete gate-post and finding himself skewwhiff on the pavement. Everywhere he looked, groups of people now seemed to be standing watching him.

He swerved back into the traffic, and met a blue Austin Maestro front-on. The Maestro veered to one side, tyres shrieking, mounted the kerb and crashed into a garden wall, which promptly collapsed.

“Jesus Christ!” Belper swore, jamming his foot down to escape.

Now he wasn’t even sure which side of the road he was on, let alone which way he was going. He came to another junction, but carried straight on across it, slugging more whisky. Ahead of him he saw the graphics of taller buildings. Even in his drunken state, they looked incredibly clear and real. He glanced into his rear-view mirror again. The distance was fogged, but closer up he saw pedestrians running across the road to an object lying on the blacktop. Had he just hit someone else? Had he hit someone else and not even noticed because he was so pissed?

Belper didn’t like this at all. Surely it shouldn’t be this real! Onlookers helping casualties, imaginary drivers who honked horns and waved their fists. A horrible thought was starting to occur to him. “No,” he said aloud. “They couldn’t... they wouldn’t do that.”

Reaching for the flask, he saw that only a few drops were left, and necked them. Then he looked to the front again... straight into a fast-approaching brick wall. With horrible shock, he realised that he’d left the road altogether and driven onto a boulevard. Shoppers were scattering ahead of him as he slammed his brakes on. The car seemed to skid for minutes before coming to a halt.

When it did, Belper looked weakly around. He’d driven blindly onto a pedestrianised precinct. Flagged walkways led off in all directions. But what was worse, he thought he recognised some of the shops. Not just the brand-names, but the individual stores themselves - their distinctive frontages, the advertising hoardings they had in their windows. An icy hand gripped Belper’s heart. Jesus H. Christ... this was the town centre! His own town centre! He stared slowly up. Towering above everything else, was the town hall clock - the one he saw every morning from his bedroom window.

Then he became aware of the various figures milling about the car, their voices raised in anger. Terrified, Belper got his foot down again. He didn’t care any more, he just had to get away.

Dear God, why had they done this to him? Why?

The pedestrians cleared in front and he slewed back onto the road, his mind racing. Escape was all that mattered now. He had to get out of town... find somebody who’d believe him... God, how had this happened?

A figure stepped into his path and Belper struck it with terrible violence. Tears burst from his eyes as the casualty cart-wheeled away, going head-first through a shop-window. He hadn’t even seen them, Christ...

In the far distance now, he imagined he could hear police sirens. It spurred him on, and he rammed down the accelerator. The road, at last, seemed clear in front, and he tore along it. Ahead of him, he saw that the carriageway crossed a suspension bridge. Salvation, he thought. That was the river. Beyond that lay only the outskirts, then freedom. He’d hide out somewhere, then sober up and try to work out what had happened. Those bastards... those bastards, doing this to him. If they had. Could he recall who they were, or if they’d even been real? He hadn’t dreamed them, had he?

He cast his mind back, trying to remember what it had all been about... and only at the last moment, did he see the old lady push the pram out into the road. Belper’s cry of warning strangled in his throat, but his hands stayed locked on the wheel. Determined to avoid at least this atrocity, he wrenched the car to one side, hurtling over the kerb like a bucking bronco, crashing into the railings.

Something struck him in the chest with gunshot force, and he threw his head back in agony. Then he heard only the wind. From far below, rocks and rushing water loomed up towards him...

They tried artificial respiration on him for several minutes before giving up and laying him out on the lab floor, next to the Simulator. They were stunned.