The Electric Dwarf

by Tim Vine

  Ahmed was panting as he scrambled up the bank, startling an innocent blackbird with a broken wing that sat in a bush. Dazed, he powered over rocks and shrubs, negotiating thick patches of inhospitable brambles before clambering awkwardly over an unforgiving barbed-wire fence. Glancing down at his hands and legs he became aware of blood patches staining him, turning his trousers a warm wet camouflage. As well as a weird numb sensation there was a pervasive ache throughout his body, yet he couldn’t perceive whether it brought him pain or pleasure. Any feeling he was experiencing flatly refused to transmit to or accurately compute in his brain. A pronounced dullness deafened his eardrums, all senses suspended as if he’d been heavily anaesthetised, mummified in glue. Ahmed was a man in a state of severe shock, face pale as chalk, feeling detached yet acutely aware at the same time, trance-like. Time felt suspended, unmoving. His hair was plastered onto sweaty forehead, dirt marking his left cheek above his unruly beard. A barren escarpment ahead of him led up sharply to a road leading off a bridge, but before tackling it he stole a glance back at the scene on the rail track. Mangled train carriages were strewn across the lines in a zigzag, some slewed over each other like discarded Lego bricks in a child’s playroom. Shards of glass peppered the ground, and a number of windows were hanging precariously from their frames, smashed and fragmented yet somehow still holding together like shimmering jewelled jigsaw-puzzle pieces. As he looked down to survey the horrific carnage, Ahmed saw – but did not register – various limp human bodies scattered about, nor did he hear the rising groans coming from the injured, which blended curiously to form a macabre choir of agony. Dense white smoke was emanating from somewhere in the epicentre of the crash, acrid and harsh in the otherwise pure country air, and an uneasy stunned hush enveloped the atmosphere as if a damp blanket had cloaked the surrounding locality. The spectacular wreckage of the train – dramatically derailed and concertinaed – appeared to be almost in miniature, so surreal and implausible, an extravagant scene from a movie set. He paused as an uncontrollable tick forced his left eye to jerk with ludicrous and violent spasms, and he nodded his head in slow motion, taking it all in carefully, suddenly very aware of the fact that this was all his doing. This was the outcome of his actions, his intentions, an act initiated and carried out by him. The Lone Wolf had struck, almost without understanding. You see, he was neither a moral nihilist nor a bad man, but just quite simply a fucked-up cookie, that’s all. Shielded within an eerie stillness all around, nobody noticed him as he turned to climb up to the road before brushing himself down and walking away. In his zombie-like state, Ahmed didn’t even register the Mercedes 280S squashed and smoking at the base of the oak by the old bridge, Tony’s lifeless form slumped like a crash-test dummy to the side of the steering wheel, strains of Simply Red still grooving through the smashed-up windscreen as blood dripped down its front wing. There was going to be no golf after all for Tony and Paul this particular afternoon as planned, or any other day, as the friends had ‘left the building’ within seconds and a few hundred metres of each other. Tony the car, Paul the train. They wouldn’t even be able to attend each other’s funerals. The wind picked up suddenly, a chilly gust transforming the towering oak branches overhead into a magical musical instrument as Ahmed slipped away across the fields on foot, seen by no-one.

  Three hours after the crash, the media were reporting 89 deaths with 117 injured.

  After seven hours, the toll had risen to 112 deaths and 144 injured.

  Four days after the event the official numbers steadied at 114 deaths and 157 injured. Self-help Sue, guitar Will and golfing Paul were all named as victims.

  After eight days, Mohammed Salil al-Liby (31) and Saif Fazul (36), both from Dagenham, were named as the train bombers after being arrested in an extensive night-time armed operation. Their faces were plastered all over the media for several months and the Prime Minister publicly labelled them as ‘the cowardly masterminds and perpetrators of Britain’s deadliest terrorist atrocity to date.’ He continued, ‘This country undoubtedly has one of the best security services in the world, if not the best, which is what enabled us to find the culprits of this ghastly act without delay and bring these terrorists into custody swiftly and efficiently. Justice will prevail, and these men will surely face a difficult future in the hands of our very capable Courts and Justice system. Our very clear message to these terrorists and those who aid or harbour them is that these arrests show that we will hunt you down, we are stronger and better-equipped than you, and we will not give in or cease our fight against such evil when confronted by such barbaric and unjustifiable acts.’

  At the Pearly Gates there are long tables, thousands of them, in fact, as far as the eye can see. Each table has twelve people sitting around it, all being served. At our table sit Paul, Tony, Sue and Will, as well as a number of others. At the head is Rick Astley and at the other end is the legendary English footballer from years ago, Paul Gascoigne. Sue toys with a hunk of bread, before turning to Paul and quietly informing him, ‘Paul, I’m having a strange dream.’

  ‘No Susan, not a dream. This is the most concrete, real experience of your entire existence. Relax, there will be fish served very soon, and Rick and I are here to guide you.’

  ‘Is there no meat on the menu?’ Will enquired.

  ‘William, this is a purely fish supper for us to all enjoy together in these beautiful surroundings. You will eat the most heavenly conga steaks from our pure heavenly seas, the likes of which have never passed your lips. There is bread and as much water as you care to drink, but no vegetables and certainly not any meat. I am sure that you will enjoy everything on offer, William.’ Paul explained the situation clearly in dulcet tones.

  At the other end of the table Rick was also clarifying a few points to his fellow diners:

  ‘Pure fish from the cleanest heavenly oceans will help to purify your souls. Paul and I are your hosts, ready to guide you all through the gates to your final destination.’ The guests ate in silence, respectfully finishing everything on their plates aside the bones, before sitting patiently, serene smiles on their faces. After a certain amount of time had passed, Rick calmly spoke, just one word. ‘Good.’ He nodded gently to Paul Gascoigne, ex-footballer.

  A cloud descended over the entire table, engulfing the assembled company. The meal had come to a close.

  And thus the crowds at the Pearly Gates ate their fill and were glad!

  Meanwhile, back in Aldershot, Ahmed had shaved his beard. Unable to comprehend how he could possibly have survived the train bomb, nothing made any sense anymore. It also seemed incredible that nobody had come to arrest him. ‘The words chase, goose and wild spring to mind,’ he remarked to himself while watching the police talking about the bombing on the news. He only just remembered priming the bomb in the toilet before walking up the train carriage, the next memory being an endless journey over fields and through woods. Vague memories of shelter under a bush for several hours of semi-sleep. Somehow he had made it back to Aldershot undetected, perhaps under the cover of unintentionally looking much like a tramp. The homeless don’t blow up trains now, do they? Deadened inside, numb yet sensitive, confusion reigned in his head. He felt incapable, impotent, vulnerable . . . resigned to a certain fate as if trapped in the dentist’s chair, sinking backwards in desperation. Hair was attached through skin. His skull housed his brain, and his brain housed a jumbled labyrinth of dark thoughts, feelings, phobias, ideas racing past broken diodes, perished solder, twisted transformers and through tiny doors that should have remained firmly shut. Mental chaos was Lord. Treacle brain and fug here, lightning thoughts there. He had an overwhelming feeling that his time as Ahmed had come to an end, and he wanted to revert back to Peter. His previous years as a Christian of some sort hadn’t worked out, and his recent dabbles in Islamist Fundamentalism seemed to be rather destabilising and difficult, to say the least. He would have to seek out a new way, a different path. Yes, that’s it, Peter
Pilgrim is his name now . . . none of this Ahmed nonsense, I mean, look at the maelstrom of trouble it causes!

  I am on all fours, aware of noises emanating from over my shoulder. Gruff grunting and an irregular panting. I steal a glance, only to see a flushed Rick Astley sweating profusely behind me, wearing a pained expression. He has lost his usual poise and composure that I have come to adore. I notice a pile of items on the otherwise bare floor – it’s a discarded clown costume and mask, a red nose flashing uselessly. I suddenly understand that we are in an abattoir, but all appears to be quite in order, exactly as it should be. Between sharp intakes of breath, RA repeats over and over: ‘There’s good meat there, there’s good meat there!’ I don’t really understand what’s going on, why I’m here or what we are doing, but that’s okay and I don’t really mind. It’s fine by me.

  A sharp stinging sensation awakens my senses, a pain in my anus. I realise that RA is mercilessly penetrating me with a comedy-style Tom and Jerry stick of dynamite. The dirty, cheeky swine! I awake with a jolt!

  Meanwhile, a letter from Atkins Greene Jones Solicitors lies open on the kitchen table, while a dead dog lies open in the living room. The smell was intensifying by the hour. It had been nearly two weeks since the event, and in these two weeks Peter had barely slept, barely eaten, and had remained virtually like a prisoner under voluntary house arrest in RonJoyce. Today, however, a rainy Tuesday like any other, something happened: Peter came to, back into the world of some kind of reality – his own. He decided to clean up the fetid living room and dispose of the dog’s putrid body. A couple of hours later he returned from Elvis’s final resting place – the vegetable patch – covered in blood, earth and muck. He took a long shower and finally put on some clean clothes, even changing his bedding for a fresh set. In the freezer he found an Iceland meal for one, Beef Roast Dinner (with potatoes, vegetables, a Yorkshire pudding and gravy, £1.80). A long 8 minutes later, after the microwave’s pure ping, he was sat at the kitchen table greedily attacking the shiny offering off its plastic tray packaging. The overpowering smell of bleach didn’t even put him off as he hadn’t eaten for days, and he ate in seconds, not minutes, despite the intense heat. A while later, he was back in the same chair with an instant coffee, staring wide-eyed at the letter in his hand, disbelief written over his pale face.

  26th September,

  Atkins Greene Jones Solicitors

  35–37 The High Street

  Croydon

  CRO 1GL

  Your Ref: Mr. PILGRIM, Peter

  Our Ref: TH46-8D41

  Dear Mr.Pilgrim,

  Re: The Estate of the Late Terrence Walters:

  79 Church Street, Croydon CR0 4ST

  Walter’s Quality Meats, 149 High Street, Croydon CR0 1GT, (including 149a & 149b)

  Please allow me to introduce myself . My name is Jonathan Greene, a Senior Partner of Atkins Greene Jones Solicitors. I am the Executor of your late Uncle Terrence Walter’s Estate as above and please accept my and this firm’s condolences on your loss. It is my duty as your Uncle’s Executor to advise you that you are the Principal Beneficiary of his Last Will and Testament.

  You are to inherit his house in Church Street, and in addition his butcher’s business operating from the address above, including the residential apartments situated above the shop. I have received two out of the three valuations that I am required to obtain for the purposes of obtaining Probate, and the combined value of the properties is estimated at c £1,600,000 to £1,700,000.

  I should be grateful if you would please contact me personally on my direct line (0208 726 5156) to discuss further and to arrange a mutually convenient time that we might meet at this office in order to discuss matters further.

  I look forward to hearing from you.

  Yours faithfully,

  Jonathan Greene (Senior Partner).

  Atkins Greene Jones Solicitors, Croydon.

  Uncle Terrence had been his mother Joyce’s younger brother, who Peter had a vague memory of meeting many years ­previously, perhaps as a teenager. His mother had rarely spoken of him, and Peter hadn’t even thought about him for years. He had no idea why Joyce and Terrence hadn’t remained close, and had no recollection of any stories or facts about the deceased. The last time their paths had crossed had been at Joyce’s funeral many years ago, and Peter tried without success to recall if they had even had a conversation. So why had the inheritance come to him? Was nephew Peter the only relative, Terrence perhaps having no friends and feeling duty-bound to keep everything in the family? Peter sat back slowly in the Ikea chair SKOGSTA and sighed, resting the letter back on the table and looking at his trembling hands, his thoughts scrambled even further.

  The hideous fluorescent lamps overhead flickered periodically. That, combined with the sound of various slams and bangs, made for a real sense of unease within the band. It was the evening of the day of the train’s bombing. The Prison Breakers were again getting their fill of prison food, sat around a Formica table in a canteen usually reserved for guards. Shepherd’s pie with strange rounded carrots (were they tinned ?) followed by apple crumble and some very sweet runny custard. They had finished a rather stressful soundcheck in the prison hall, and Will the guitarist hadn’t shown up yet. Dave was pissed off.

  ‘He hasn’t fuckin’ shown up, and he hasn’t even fuckin’ texted me to let me know where he is, the twat,’ he grumbled yet again.

  ‘No-one heard anything?’

  The guys shook their heads.

  ‘Listen dude, we’ll get through this evening and then it’s all good, so don’t stress, mate,’ Baz helpfully replied through a mouthful of dry mashed potato. He was referring to the fact that Will was going to get the sack from The Prison Breakers in the van on the way back to London the following day, so one last gig didn’t really matter. A mobile message alert went off. Baz put his knife down and nonchalantly checked the screen, hoping that it was a girl. It wasn’t, it was his mother.

  Hi dear, just checking in with you. I saw on the news that there’s been a terrible terrorist bomb they think, on a train. You okay, honeybum?

  ‘Oh shit, there’s been some terrorist shit on a train or something, loads dead,’ he announced to the band over their dinner. ‘The wankers don’t let up, do they?’

  Not one of the group even considered the fact that Will might have been on the train, it just didn’t even cross their minds.

  The gig went ahead that evening at 8:30 p.m. sharp, with the keyboard player massively overcompensating for the lack of guitar. It was a shit concert in a shit venue, but the inmates loved it. Just after coming off stage and taking a large swig from a warm bottle of Coke, Dave suddenly said,

  ‘Guys, you don’t suppose Will could’ve been on that train, do you?’

  Baz’s immediate cutting reply was, ‘Well, at least you won’t have to sack him if he was!’

  They all laughed, a little nervously.

  Will’s body had in fact been practically vaporised by the force of the explosion from the device in the train’s toilet, and he would never strum his guitar again for The Prison Breakers or any other pop/rock combo outfit, for that matter. Dave had been right.

  Claude rarely watched TV. This evening, though, Sue was away, he had knocked back one or two too many Pastis. He felt tired after the day’s chores around the farm. The sassy Katia Durand was his favourite newscaster on TF1, and there she was almost ranting about Marine Le Pen’s continual rise throughout France, especially in the countryside (aided largely by a high proportion of ill-educated followers, although that was not reported). He loved Katia’s low-cut top and the fact that she was a touch over made-up. The piece concluded and images of a train crash taken from a helicopter flashed across the screen. He turned the sound up a bit more to discover that it had been a terrorist attack in the UK that very afternoon, on the London-Portsmouth train, with many fatalities.

&nb
sp; ‘Mais non, ce n’est pas possible. Putain de merde!’ he spluttered to no-one but himself.

  The phone was on the table, and he hadn’t heard from Sue since after lunch. He composed himself, beset by limerence and concern, and dialled her mobile after finding the number in the handset’s memory. Nothing, not even the answerphone, just silence.

  ‘Non, non, ce n’est pas possible!’

  In the kitchen, his unsteady hands helped to make the Pastis a double shot. The smallest drop of water from the tap was added, ‘une larme.’ Claude sniffed as he opened the freezer for a couple of chunks of ice. ‘Mais, ce n’est pas possible!’ for the third time.

  It was indeed possible, and a few days later Claude had the news that he so dreaded confirmed via Tom (still officially Sue’s husband), who in turn had received official confirmation of Sue’s death from the French Embassy in Paris. That evening, along with Keith, the three men managed to polish off nearly eight bottles of red wine, no problem. An uxorious Claude’s emotional outpourings suddenly became aggressive rants at around midnight, before he became an early victim and was asleep on the sofa by 1 a.m. Keith later sprawled out on a chaise longue in the garden, with Tom at last passing out on the cold hard floor of Claude’s farmhouse kitchen. Despite the terrible noise that they’d made over several hours, the night seemed almost horizontal now, still and flat as a forgotten wind-shielded pond lost deep in a Canadian forest. Only the occasional snores of the unlikely trio of drunken men broke the silence.