Creation- The Auditor’s Apprentice

by Frank Stonely

  Amy opened her eyes and looked up at Daniel, ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘There’s a problem docking the levitram. We’ve got to go to a different station.’

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  ‘No, we’re just going to be a bit late getting to the hotel.’

  The cabin speakers chimed and the captain spoke again. ‘Good news, folks. Traffic control has given us a slot and we should be on the ground in thirty-five minutes. Please listen to the cabin crew as we prepare for landing. And thank you for your patience.’

  The guy sitting next to Daniel had been right, Newark arrivals was a nightmare. Despite the extra flights arriving at the airport, the security and immigration staff worked at their normal sedate pace. The queues were endless and it took them two hours to get through arrivals and out onto the heaving taxi concourse. Scuffles were breaking out everywhere as frustrated passengers fought for each cab as it arrived. Twice the suitcase Amy was towing was pulled out of her hand and Daniel had to battle his way back through the crowd to retrieve it. Amy noticed a pair of raised arms several metres in front of her, the hands holding a clipboard with the words, Mr. & Mrs. Brown, scrawled on it in bold red ink. ‘HERE! We’re here,’ she shouted, pushing her way forward and disappearing into the crowd.

  Daniel cursed as he tried to catch up, using his elbows to prise his way through the wall of bodies. When he finally broke free of the crowd, he saw Amy talking to a heavily-built, female, wearing a chauffeur’s uniform. ‘I guess you’re Mr. Brown,’ she shouted in a heavy Harlem accent, trying to be heard over the roar of a jet taking off.

  ‘Yes I am, and you are?’

  ‘I’m your limo driver, sir. The hotel manager sent me to pick you up, you being honeymooners an’all. I was almost at JFK when I got the call to reroute.’

  Amy gave the name Brown when booking their hotel room, describing herself and Daniel as Newlyweds, not realising the implication of the word. She had first heard the expression when queuing to buy their coffee in the motorway services food hall. The queue repeatedly stalled as a young couple stopped to admire their wedding photographs on a mobile phone. An elderly lady, who had befriended Amy in the queue, sighed as she watched, describing the couple as a pair of love-struck newlyweds. So, when the hotel receptionist had asked her if they would like the honeymoon suite, she had accepted the offer.

  ‘Follow me, keep up,’ the chauffeur said, tugging Amy’s case out of her hand and leading them away from the crowded concourse towards the VIP parking area. They followed the driver as she walked towards a row of identical, black, stretched limousines. She paused and clicked her key fob. The trunk of an immaculate Mercedes Pullman Limousine sprung open only a few metres in front of them. When she had stowed their luggage and closed the lid, she walked around to the rear door and invited them to get into the car.

  Amy and Daniel sat in silence, their eyes scanning the lavish interior of the passenger compartment. They both jumped as the intercom came to life, ‘There’s complimentary champagne and glasses in the chiller, help yourselves guys.’ They looked up to see the chauffeur’s face smiling at them through the driver’s mirror. ‘The traffic’s going to be bad onto the island after all that stuff at JFK. But I’ll get you to the hotel as quick as I can.’ For an instant Amy thought the smiling face resembled Mrs. Perkins but, before she could attract Daniel’s attention, the chauffeur had started the engine and was pulling away.

  The prediction was correct; interstate seventy-eight was a crawl all the way to Manhattan Island, with the limo caught up in a nose-to-tail procession across Newark Bay Bridge and through the Holland Tunnel. As they pulled up under the hotel’s set-down canopy, two door attendants rushed forward. The chauffeur stood to attention as she opened the passenger door, her smile inviting Amy and Daniel to alight onto the sidewalk. All three stood in an awkward silence, until the chauffeur leant forward and in a discreet voice said, ‘In the U.S. it’s usual to tip the driver, sir.’

  ‘Tip?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Money! She wants money.’ Amy said, pulling a wad of banknotes from her jacket pocket which must have amounted to several thousand dollars.

  ‘Lady! I’d keep that out of sight around here.’ The chauffeur said as she reached forward to pull one of the hundred dollar bills out of Amy’s hand.

  As the limo swept away they walked into the hotel lobby. Standing next to the reception desk were the two young door attendants who had carried in their suitcases. They stood together, guarding the luggage, displaying the same deadpan expression the chauffeur had used. This time Amy understood what was expected and pulled two more hundred dollar bills from the bundle.

  Daniel completed the registration form and returned it to the receptionist together with a stack of dollar bills. She counted the money out carefully, note by note, before sliding the key across the counter and pointing to the elevator, ‘Your room’s on floor six, sir. Have a nice day.’ As he turned around, a bellhop was already halfway across the lobby carrying their suitcases towards the elevator. And, by the time they got into their hotel room, Amy had parted with four, one-hundred dollar bills, just to get their luggage from the sidewalk to the foot of their bed.

  As the door to the honeymoon suite closed Amy collapsed onto the king sized bed. Daniel kicked off his shoes and crawled towards her, rolling over onto his back. They lay together staring at the ceiling. ‘For a moment, when we were in the car, I thought the driver was Mrs. Perkins,’ Amy said.

  ‘It’s been a long day, Sally’s eyes are tired.’

  ‘Maybe.’ She leant across and placed a kiss on his cheek before springing off the bed saying, ‘I need a bath.’

  Amy adjusted the flow from the bath taps until she was happy with the temperature of the water. Then, slipping out of her clothes, she turned to see the reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on the back of the bathroom door. Sally’s breasts were of a similar size to her own, but the nipples were grotesquely large, far too big for a creationist pup to suckle on. And the absence of reproductive pits in the abdomen made Amy feel a bit queasy. Turning to the side, she reached behind her to examine the nodule at the base of Sally’s spine. It was almost as though the designer had changed their mind about adding a tail. But, in general, she was happy with the body and, if she squinted hard enough into the mirror, she could convince herself that Sally’s mop of hair was a mane.

  The bath seemed to be taking an age to fill, so Amy sat down on the toilet seat to wait. Her hands fell naturally on Sally’s thighs; the skin was so bare, so smooth and so different to her own silky fur. She brought her hands up to stroke her breasts, surprised at the response from the nipples. Running her fingers down over Sally’s smooth belly, she found the opening between her thighs. What had Daniel called it, a vagina? She explored the moist folds with her fingers, intrigued by the sensation, which she found stimulating, almost exciting. The short trimmed hair above the opening brushed against the palm of her hand as she pushed her fingers deeper to examine the interior. The sensation became stronger and she found herself sliding her fingers back and forth. The room seemed to fade as the intensity of the feeling increased, until all she could visualise was Daniel’s naked body. There was an uncontrollable, primeval urge, to push harder against the opening. She moved her fingers to the folds above and with an instinctive circular motion, massaged them vigorously. Her thigh muscles contracted, forcing her back against the bathroom wall as she was overwhelmed by the intense feeling of exhilaration, ‘Ahhh, OH Shit, Oh Fuck! Oh Daniel!’ she cried out. As the sensation faded, she relaxed back onto the toilet seat, beads of sweat running down her forehead and breasts.

  Suddenly, the bathroom door opened. ‘Are you okay? I thought you called out for me.’ Daniel said, peering at Amy through the steam filled room.

  ‘No, I was just… singing.’

  ‘Okay… it must be hot in here, your cheeks are really flushed,’ he said, withdrawing back into the bedroom and closing the bathroom door.

  Dani
el had been studying the map of North America he had purchased at Heathrow Airport. He was trying to locate Mr. President’s white house, which he knew from the news channel was in a village called Washington DC. His host’s body was getting tired so, putting the map down beside him, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes. Almost immediately there was a knock at the door. Daniel cursed silently. The knock came again. This time with a muffled voice calling out, ‘Room service.’ Irritated, Daniel got off the bed, walked across the room and opened the door. Before him stood a middle-aged female dressed in a housemaid’s uniform. She was standing next to a room-service trolley, holding out a small envelope. Daniel reached out and took it. Inside was a greetings card bordered with wedding bells and carrying a hand-written message which read, Congratulations on your recent wedding. From all the hotel’s management and staff. He stood aside and the housemaid wheeled the trolley into the room, positioning it next to the small, circular dining table, set in an alcove opposite the bathroom door. As Daniel watched, the maid covered the table with a white linen tablecloth and laid out the place settings with silver cutlery, champagne flutes and crisply folded napkins. Reaching inside the trolley’s heated cabinet, she took out two dining plates, their contents hidden beneath stainless-steel covers. She positioned these on the table, resting a red rose against each and said, ‘Bon appetit, sir.’

  Daniel took a hundred dollar bill from his wallet as the maid approached him, her head respectfully bowed. But, as she took the note she looked up, and Daniel found himself looking into the face of Mrs. Perkins. He took a step back, putting a safe distance between them, momentarily speechless. The vision stepped out of the maid’s body, acquiring the translucency of a non-physical entity. The maid, oblivious to its presence, left the room taking her gratuity and service trolley with her. As the door closed Daniel backed away, ‘Okay, you’ve found us! So what happens now? Is Anubis going to materialise and kick the shit out of me again?’

  ‘Why so much hostility, Daniel? I’m here to help you.’

  ‘Yeah… well I can do without it!’ Daniel said, as he climbed over the bed, putting it between them.

  ‘Would it help if I told you that Director Hedrick had sent me?’ As the ghost spoke, it took on the form of Mrs. Perkins again.

  ‘Prove it!’ Daniel snapped.

  ‘Ahhh… Well… He didn’t speak to me personally… he spoke to my Prima-Ghosta. But, that’s pretty much the same thing. Ghosts are telepathic.’

  ‘So, exactly what did Director Hedrick ask you to do?’

  ‘To return you to Creation.’

  ‘We both know you can’t do that. I was hoping he would send an angel.’

  ‘The angels have their own agenda, as do the poltergeists. So, it was felt that your best interests would be served by the ghosts. You shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss me, Daniel. I might not be able to move matter like poltergeists, or be omnipresent like the angels, but I have my uses. Remember ghosts are omnitemporal, we experience all of time simultaneously. I can tell you the outcome of every scheme you dream up, even before you embark on it. And, when we combine, I can push you out of the physical universe-’

  Daniel interrupted, ‘What do you mean combine? Do you think I’m going to let you take over this body? Not a chance! You tell your Prima-Ghosta, thanks very much, but we can do without your help.’

  ‘This is not an offer, Daniel! It is an instruction directly from Director Hedrick.’ The Ghost of Mrs. Perkins lunged at Daniel in an attempt to enter his body just as Amy came out of the bathroom. She stopped dead, stunned by the sight of Daniel trying to fend off the advances of a human female. He sidestepped left and right, like a rugby winger trying to avoid the tackle, running around the dining table and throwing its chairs in her path. He leapt onto the bed and, using it like a trampoline, launched himself towards the sofa. It was then that Amy realised the female was moving without the use of her legs, snapping from point to point. All of time seemed to slow down as Daniel floated through the air, but the Ghost of Mrs. Perkins predicted his destination perfectly and was there to intercept him. Amy stood against the bathroom door expecting the fighting couple to crash to the floor but then, to her disbelief, as the bodies came together they vanished.

  Daniel was winded as he hit the bedroom floor and it wasn’t until he got to his knees that he became aware of Amy running around the room, hysterically calling his name. Instinctively, he called back.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and scanned the room, searching for the source of his voice, ‘Daniel, where are you?’

  ‘I’m here!’ Daniel said, walking across the room towards her. Then, as the Ghost of Mrs. Perkins stepped out of Daniel’s host, he reappeared before her, as though an invisible cloak had been removed. Sighing, she threw her arms around his neck and, reaching up, kissed his cheek.

  ‘Well, Daniel, have I convinced you?’ the ghost said, putting her weightless arm around Amy’s shoulder to comfort her.

  ‘Yes, I think you probably have,’ he replied.

  If Daniel had gone out onto the honeymoon suite’s balcony, he could have seen the Gatekeeper’s hotel, only two blocks away. Unable to suppress the irresponsible side of his nature, Orion had booked himself into the hotel’s most expensive penthouse suite. And without Anubis to restrain him, he was living a life of luxury. The previous evening he had held court in the hotel bar, performing impossible magic tricks for his fellow guests. He had levitated bar stools around the room while their occupants still sat on them and removed items of underwear from the female guests, producing them with a flourish from his dinner-jacket pocket. But his pièce-de-résistance was to fill a line of shot glasses from a levitating bottle of vodka, floating unaided above the bar. The evening was a great success. Even the elegantly dressed hookers that normally sat alone, waiting for that chance encounter with a lonely millionaire, were captivated. They huddled around him giggling like schoolgirls, teasing him to perform outrageously lewd acts on the floor manager to whom they had to kickback forty percent of their earnings each night. And then the evening ended abruptly when the bar steward, realising that Orion’s five hundred dollar tab had somehow been wiped from the register, called the bar manager.

  The reason Orion had packed such a minimal wardrobe into his pilot’s case, was that he intended to forage for everything he needed. And so, to that end, he had spent the night visiting various bedrooms in the hotel, helping himself to items of clothing and other props that he felt would complete his disguise as just another Big-Apple tourist. It was now five-thirty a.m. and the streets of Manhattan were already starting to fill. He stood admiring himself in the bathroom mirror. He was wearing a pair of beige flannel trousers, a brightly coloured Hawaiian shirt, a pair of black flip-flops with red piping and a New York Yankees baseball cap. Perfect, he thought.

  The plan was to take the daily Amtrak service from Pennsylvania Station to Richmond, Virginia and from there to travel by bus to the NASA Langley Research Center. And so, at eight-fifteen that morning, he emerged through the rotating doors of the hotel carrying his pilot’s case and looking, so he thought, every bit a typical tourist. The flow of early morning commuters carried him towards the subway station and, using the MetroCard he had taken from a wallet in room 1123, he released the ticket barrier. The further he was drawn into the subway, the slower his progress became, trapped amongst the horde of commuters, like one of the monochrome marching workers of Metropolis. Eventually the marching ceased and he found himself standing on the south-bound platform. The screech of steel against steel announced the arrival of his train and, as the doors slid open, Orion was swept into a carriage.

  He strained to read the station names as the train serviced each overflowing platform, his view blocked by a smartly dressed businessman reading that morning’s edition of The New York Times. As the train slowed for the next station, the businessman calmly folded his newspaper, stepping forward in perfect synchronisation with the opening carriage doors. To Orion’s horror the station sign
read Wall Street. He had missed Fulton Street station, his change onto the west side north bound line which would have taken him to Penn Station.

  The platform at Wall Street was heaving with tourists and office workers and, before he could leave the carriage, they surged forward. The passengers inside the train mounted a counter attack, using their briefcases and backpacks to fight their way onto the platform. As the Gatekeeper stepped through, the doors slid closed, trapping the pilot’s case inside the carriage and ripping it from his hand. The train began to leave the station and Orion stood in helpless disbelief as it disappeared into the tunnel. Without thinking, the Gatekeeper reverted to his natural form and, sweeping the crowd aside, followed the train into the tunnel. He grasped hold of the coupling on the rear carriage and heaved against it. The train operator, confused by the reducing speed, pushed the manual override button to take control of his train. He pushed the motor control forward in an attempt to accelerate, desperate to clear the station before the next train arrived. The car juddered violently to a halt, throwing him against the windshield of his cab. He quickly scrambled to his feet and grabbed the radio handset, but before he could speak, he felt his cab starting to judder as the train was pulled back into Wall Street station.

  Hysterical passengers ran screaming from the platform as Orion hauled the train along the track. The poltergeist used no finesse to retrieve the case, ripping open the carriages and throwing the doors, seats and terrified commuters aside. As he punched his way into the third carriage the pilot’s case came into view, lying on its side by the doors, surrounded by cowering passengers. He sighed with relief and, turning back, calmly left the wrecked carriage, his case following, floating through the wreckage unaided. Once on the platform Orion morphed back into José Santiago and, grasping the case’s handle, joined the other passengers running from the platform.