Ceramic DM, Round 1, Match 3: Gabriel vs. Berandor
Seeing is Believing (or, the day the pictures cried – not really)
--
Pain blurred my vision, my knees gave in. The uniformed skinhead lifted his baton and stepped towards me. And yet, neither did I think about blood spurting out of my nose and onto my aquamarine jacket, nor – I would regret this a few hours later – did I lift my hands to protect my face. Instead, I raised my fist and shouted,
»Run, Forrest, run!«
And that wasn't even the most bizarre thing to happen that day.
–
I first met Forrest when I left the tube in Paddington that morning. He stood on the platform wearing shorts, a t-shirt and a goofy grin. You know how beggars come in three types? Type I ended sleeping rough by some sort of crisis and are now trying to get off the streets again. Type II are the crazy ones, unable to live a regular life. Type III aren't really living on the streets. These are the scammers, and since they're the cleanest of the three, also the top earners. Forrest looked like a type II, albeit a happy one, not one of the angry cursing madmen so prevalent on saturday nights.
He approached me with a wobbly gait, as if he wasn't used to using his legs. I fished for my wallet with my right hand and held out my left arm to keep him away. My suit was fresh out of the dry cleaner's.
»Help home?« Forrest spoke like a common drunk, which made me fear even more for my suit.
»Right,« I said.
That story. »How much's the ticket?«
»Need diamond.«
I laughed at his grinning face. »Yeah, right. What for?«
»Transport broke. Diamond repair.«
So he was a type II. Never one to mind my own business, I asked, »Transport to where?«
»Home,« he said, pointing upwards. »Crab nebula.«
Oh, boy. Bullseye. What are the odds of a shipwrecked alien hitting up a paranormal investigator for diamond fuel? Considering my past experiences, I guess the odds are pretty good – there are more of these loonies out there than you'd think.
That's what I do, by the way. Sam Jardine, paranormal investigator. I work for Psi-Eye, one of the better agencies in England – our motto is "we believe it when we see it". We've debunked every case we ever worked on, and with each case the number of our customers has dwindled. People don't want to hear the truth.
When I tell people how I earn my wages, they usually react in one of three ways. The most common one is amusement: "Wow. The stories you must be able to tell." And then they want to hear a story. This is simply annoying, because this line of work is more boring than you'd think. In fact, I like to call it the "most boringest" job there is, though sometimes it's more like the saddest. The second reaction is incredulity: "That's a real job?" This is how my mum still talks, even after five years. The third kind of reaction, though, is the most troubling, and always makes me feel like a doctor on a dinner party. When people who believe in paranormal phenomena hear about my job, they immediately want to prove the existence of these phenomena to me, or demand an explanation about some thing that happened fifteen years ago. There's no sense arguing, there. So I usually nod and smile and turn away, though I might hand over my business card first.
Turning away was what I should have done with Forrest, too, but I was on my way into the office, where I would pour over paranormal magazines and waste my time trying to build a perpetuum mobile out of paper paper clips. I thought I could spend a few more minutes with the alien du jour. Consider it field observation.
»Crab nebula?« I repeated his statement. »That's a long way to go.«
His grin got even wider. »Yes! Help?«
»How big a diamond do you need?«
He indicated with his fingers, roughly half the size of a penny. »Help?«
I pretended to think about it. The next train arrived at the station, and people milled about. He was anxious to stay close to me – I was probably the first to give him the time of day.
»What would you do with the diamond if I got you one?«
He gleamed. »In belt! Then repair.«
I looked at his shorts. He didn't have a belt.
»Not with,« he exclaimed. »Covered in park.«
I wasn't surprised he didn't have his magical belt with him, but I was disappointed. It would have been funny to take a look at it. Anyway, I had to leave.
»I'll see what I can do«, I promised, thinking I'd never see him again. »If I happen upon a diamond, that is.«
»Yes!«, he exclaimed. »Forrest!«
He might have been talking about where he hid his belt, but somehow I immediately took that to be his name. I never learned different.
–
The human eye is easily deceived, so it is not without irony that my boss, James "Mac" Guyver chose our motto. Mac founded Psi-Eye after he had been blinded by an unknown assailant seven years ago. The police had been unable to arrest anybody for the deed, and Mac became known among Ufologists as the guy blinded by an alien raygun. Mac, who had been a chemicist for a government lab, used his insurance payment to start the company, and two years later I came on board. You wouldn't know Mac was blind – that is, if you had no fashion sense whatsoever. Mac insisted on buying his own clothes, and dressing himself. Today he wore a hideous orange suit with a shirt that had escaped some nightmare vision of the seventies. Not at all like my bright aquamarine suit, I assure you.
»How's it going?« Mac asked when I entered the office we shared.
»And you?«
Mac shrugged. »Have you seen Brandy?«
»Nope. She's probably late.«
Brandy was our personal assistant. There are not a lot of things that could get you on the wrong side of this cheery, care-free woman, but describing her as secretary or reminding her of office hours were two surefire ways to do so. Not that it mattered. There were no calls she could field, anyway.
»What's new?« Mac asked, looking past me. He could see vague shadows, but these didn't always correspond with people's positions.
»I just met an alien,« I said. May corrected his gaze. Then I told him about Forrest and his request.
Mac laughed. He had a hearty laugh, and a belly to go with it. His sense of humor had been legendary at his old workplace, and I sometimes wondered whether he purposely dressed so hideously.
»That guy sounds harmless enough,« he said, shaking his head.
»I guess so. Still, so close to Notting Hill, it won't be long before the bobbies show up.«
»Pfft,« Mac said. He held the inhabitants of said chick-flick-annointed part of London in almost as low regard as our clients.
The phone rang. For a moment, we were both shocked. I put my hand out to take the call, but a sudden premonition of dread made me hesitate.
»What's up?« asked Mac. »Answer the phone, Sam.«
I did, and found my fears proved right when the cheeky sing-song voice started speaking before I even announced my name.
»Hello, Ms. Walker,« I said dejectedly.
–
There are three kinds of people who claim paranormal abilities. The first kind makes me angry and nauseous. These are the scammers, who abuse other people's gullibility to fill their own pockets with millions of pounds. The second kind makes me shake my head and roll my eyes. These are what we call "true believers", who see a spot of light in the night and are secure in their interpretation of a spaceship passing by. You cannot convince scammers of the truth, since they already know what's up. You also cannot convince true believers. The more you insist, the easier they disqualify you as part of the conspiracy. And there always is a conspiracy. The third kind of people, however, is the one we might be able to reach. It's also the kind of people who make me sad and depressed when I don't reach them, and it's the kind Ms. Polly Walker belongs to. They are desperate, and they turn to pseudoscience when real science can't help them.
Ms. Walker's husband died a year ago. Marc Walker had been an inventor. He invented the toothpaste-filled toothbrush, for example. Their house was full of gadgets and thingamagobs of various kinds. Ms. Walker was adamant that Marc would find a way back to her, or invent one. So she drifted into the realm of spiritualism and flim-flammery. But just as Marc Walker's ingenuity drove her to believe he'd be able to contact her, his scientific mind led her to contact Psi-Eye. She wanted to believe in paranormal phenomena, but she'd learned from her husband that belief is not a matter of truth. So she demanded proof, and asked us to provide it.
Ms. Walker hadn't really explained what her call was about; she'd just said she wanted me to come see for myself. I was apprehensive when I entered her street. Visiting Ms. Walker always made me drown myself in cheap whiskey in the evening. I liked the woman, quite a lot, actually. She was always so happy at whatever she'd learned or experienced concerning her husband, and you could see her heart breaking all over again when you debunked it. Once, I even offered to lie to her, just to make her feel good. She almost threw me out that day. No, Ms. Polly Walker wanted the truth, even if it was painful. I admired her, which made breaking her heart even more painful.
She answered the door shortly after I'd rung the bell. She was dressed in a green shirt, a blue skirt, and a light blue accordion. She greeted me with affection.
»Hello, Sam. Come in, won't you?«
»Ms. Walker,« I said curtly.
»Polly,« she insisted for the umpteenth time. And for the umpteenth time, I did not take her up on the offer. She was a client. At least, that's what I had to tell myself in order to make the heartbreak at least somewhat bearable.
»You had something to show me?«
»Follow along.«
She led me to the garden. Having a garden is one of the true signs of affluence in London, and one of the reasons why Mac always sent me back to Ms. Walker. He liked her money. The garden itself was lush green, and there was a goat in the shadow of a tree, nibbling on grass. The goat wore a t-shirt.
»Marc, say hello to Sam,« Ms. Walker said.
The goat bleaked once.
»See?« Ms. Walker asked me with big eyes. Any other customer, I would have laughed and left. But this was Polly – Ms. Walker.
»I'm not sure I do,« I said instead. »Why is the goat wearing a shirt?«
»It's his favorite,« Ms. Walker explained. »Don't you see? It's Marc. He's come back to me.«
I rubbed my forehead. »Ms. Walker–«
She interrupted me. »Watch!«
She began to play the accordion. She played
Like a Virgin. And just as soon as I recognized the melody, the
goat stood up on its hind feet and began to sway to the music. There was a quote printed on the front of its shirt. It read,
"We demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty". I desperately wanted to leave.
»It's his favorite song,« Ms. Walker said. Her eyes were gleaming.
»It's probably just a circus goat or something,« I said, my mind clutching Ockham's razor so tight it might cut itself.
»Probably, shmobably.« She laughed.
»Listen...« My voice trailed off. I didn't even know what to say. »I'll see whether someone is missing a dancing goat, alright, Ms. Walker? I'll come back soon as I know.«
I left the garden just as
La Isla Bonita began. Apparently, Marc Walker had been a Madonna fan.
–
Brandy's desk had a sign proclaiming her to be out for lunch. The sign hadn't been there when I left, so she must have come in while I was gone. Not that any paperwork had been done.
»What was it this time?« Mac wanted to know.
»Her husband got reincarnated into a dancing goat. With a t-shirt. With a Douglas Adams quote.«
»Ha! I'll believe it when I see it.«
»I saw it, Mac. I still don't believe it.«
I fell down into my chair. I googled
missing pets. 150,000 hits. I refined it to
dancing goat – 15,700 hits. I groaned. Mac grinned.
»Stop laughing,« I said, »or I'll buy you a braille keyboard and have you do the research.«
»Pfft,« said Mac. We both knew it was a hollow threat. Even with a braille keyboard would he let me do the work. After all, he was the boss.
I clicked on the first link and turned the radio on with my other hand. Everything's easier with music.
»...suspect is considered extremely dangerous. We repeat: A terrorist wearing a suicide belt has just robbed a jewelry store on Portobello Road. The man, who spoke English with what witnesses described as a thick Arabic accent, threatened to blow himself up. Allegedly, the terrorist only took a single diamond the size of half a penny. Police is out in full force to find the man, who was described as pale-skinned and dressed in shorts and a t-shirt. Listeners are urged to stay inside until the danger has passed. The suspect is considered extremely dangerous.«
I practically flew out of my seat and began to pace the room.
»That's gotta be the guy,« I said. »Forrest. They're gonna shoot him.«
»You think he's a terrorist?«
»No. Of course not.« I stopped in front of the roadside window. »If only I knew where he was...«
»Now, don't make a mistake,« Mac said. »I know the woman is getting to you, Sam, but you don't know nothing about that kid.«
At that moment I saw Forrest crossing the street at the far end. He was wobbling merrily along.
»There he is. I've got to help him.«
»Sam, don't. If you leave now, I'll call the police. What if the guy really has a bomb? You ever thought of that?«
I crouched low behind the desk so he couldn't see my shadow.
As I snuck out, Mac was still berating the air in front of him.
–
I had to run for several streets until I saw him. Panting, I caught up to Forrest and stopped him by laying a hand on his shoulder.
»Hey!« he said. He was grinning wide. He'd slung a large belt over his shoulder, and another one around his hips. Several lumps of black plastic were fastened to the belts. Wires connected the lumps. In the middle of the belt buckle Forrest had fastened the stolen diamond. The whole contraption really looked like a suicide belt. My throat went dry.
»Repair!« he exclaimed, pointing to the diamond.
»Great,« I said meekly. Police sirens were closing in, seemingly from all around us. »Listen, Forrest, we need to get off the streets.«
»No! Nononono! Move.« He turned and wobbled along the road. I followed.
»The police is looking for you. They're going to arrest you. They might kill you.«
»Home«, Forrest said, gazing upwards. »Move. Home.«
»We need to hide,« I insisted. »Stay put.«
He shook his head. »Move. Energy. Move, energy, transport. Home.«
Suddenly he hit his legs. »Slow!« He looked at me. »Help?«
»Alright. You need to keep moving. And faster.« It was one of the rare occasions where I regretted not having a car. That's when I noticed where I was.
»Come on!«, I said, pulling at Forrest's arm. »Follow me.«
He did. All the while, the sirens grew louder, accompanied by the sounds of running boots.
–
She had been crying. Her swollen eyes looked first at me, then at Forrest, then back at me.
»Sam?«
»Polly, I need your help.«
»Oh, Sam. It's horrible.« She began crying again, while I pushed Forrest through the door and closed it behind us. »The stupid goat ran away. It jumped the fence, and it took Marc's favorite shirt!«
»Don't worry,« I said. »We'll get it back. Now, my friend here needs transportation.«
We found it in the garden shed. According to Polly, it had been close to completion when her husband died. Forrest was growing more restless by the second, and the air seemed to hum with bootsteps and whistles. It only took us a moment to strap the thing on.
»You're looking spiffy,« I said, giving Forrest the thumbs up.
He was standing on a kick scooter. In addition to his shorts, shirt, grin and his ridiculous belt – I was still counting on it to be harmless –
a protective helmet sat on his head, and he had a giant fan strapped to his back. It was Marc Walker's "City Cruiser" prototype, and it was utterly ridiculous.
»Move,« he said, sounding satisfied.
Dozens, maybe hundreds of policemen entered the street from both sides. They were advancing slowly. Menacingly.
»You better head in,« I urged Polly. I heard the door close behind me. I gave Forrest a hug.
»Try not to hit a lamp post, alright?«
»Transport.«
The policemen were quickening their pace. For a moment I wondered what I was doing, but a look at Forrest's innocent grin helped me make up my mind. I did the right thing. The policemen where about thirty yards away. I turned the switch and pulled the cord. The fan sputtered to life. Slowly at first, but then exceedingly fast, Forrest began to roll down the street. He crashed into the black wave, scattering policemen left and right, and kept on rolling. There were three types of policemen around: Some who tried to pursue him, some who stopped altogether, and the rest who still advanced on me.
»Whoo!« I threw my fist into the air.
That's when the first baton hit me.
Pain blurred my vision, my knees gave in. The uniformed skinhead lifted his baton and stepped towards me. And yet, neither did I think about blood spurting out of my nose and onto my aquamarine jacket, nor – I would regret this a few hours later – did I lift my hands to protect my face. Instead, I raised my fist and shouted,
»Run, Forrest, run!«
–
I awoke later with a tremendous headache, handcuffed to a hospital bed. It took me weeks to convince the authorities of my non-affiliation with Al-Qaida, the IRA, or any other terrorist group. And I'll still be fined for helping a criminal to escape. But I don't feel bad about it. Now, you probably want to know what happened to Forrest, right? After all, a guy in shorts, with a fan on his back the size of Benny Hill's buttocks, shouldn't be too hard to find. Right? Nope. He has never been found. I guess he drove into the Thames, and drowned. Then again, maybe the City Cruiser got him up to speed for the belt to work. Who knows? Don't take me wrong: I don't believe in flying saucers, or aliens visiting the earth. I'm Sam Jardine, paranormal investigator. But sometimes I look at pictures of the crab nebula and think of Forrest.
I hope he got home safe.
