Falling

by Mark Z. Kammell



  Falling

  by

  Mark Z. Kammell

  *****

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Falling

  © Copyright 2011 by Mark Z. Kammell.

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  * * * * *

  Chapter 1

  I had my first epiphany on the motorway. At six in the morning, I stopped as the dawn broke on the brow of the hill, mist covered the fields and trees below as it struck me like a vision. All the cars were slowing down but I was the only one to stop, pulled over on the hard shoulder, sat on the bonnet watching the mist uncurl and wrap itself around me, the cold seeping into my pores as the sunlight set my brow on fire.

  I left my car then and oblivious to the traffic allowed the mist to lead me into the centre, crossing over the barriers, to a hazy white field with a large, white, stone platform there in the middle. On the platform was the statue of a unicorn, rearing up on its hind legs, face aggressively to the sky, and sat round it was a group of children watching it silently as I came in there, broke the circle and reached out to touch it. The eyes of the unicorn, grey and cold, turned to seek me out and a woman’s voice, husky and seductive, whispered to me what would happen next.

  Chapter 2

  I don’t know what happened next. I don’t understand, still, how I ended up here. The room is bare and white, but completely clean, spotless. I sit on a white leather chair, against a white metal table, which is bare except for two white mugs, the only reason they’re visible is because of the blackness of the coffee still inside them. Another chair, empty, sits opposite me. Tentatively I reach out and take the first mug, sip at the coffee, and wait.

  Chapter 3

  “Hello, again, Mark”

  I am staring at the man I don’t recognise, as he smiles warmly, sitting comfortably in the second leather chair. His teeth glint in the light. His eyes are covered by sunglasses. This makes me nervous. And my name’s not Mark

  A spider crawls slowly towards me. Its eyes glint in the white fluorescent light. It crawls deliberately across the white marble floor as if it has a purpose in life, except to just die.

  The man puts something on the desk, I think he gets it from a case by his side, he’s waiting but I am too fascinated by the spider to pay much attention, and anyway my head is hurting. I can feel this kind of connection start to build between us, as our eyes lock.

  “Err, Mark, would you look at this photo please?” a slight hesitation from him, a sign of weakness obviously and he’s not as composed as I think he is. I glance at him quickly, before reverting my gaze to my new friend. I am sure I saw a trace of sweat on his forehead.

  Spiders really are fascinating creatures.

  Chapter 4

  “My name’s not Mark” I say, still not looking at him. The spider has crawled up the leg of the table now, and is moving tentatively across the smooth white surface towards a piece of paper (a picture, I think) in front of the man. As I trace its steps in my mind I realise that I am now looking at, actually a photograph, of a car. A very nice car, in fact, glossy, black and sporty, a shame that it’s nose has been crumpled. It’s my car, in fact, I realise and I find myself hoping that this is the “before” picture and we’re actually sitting in the reception of a rather exclusive repair garage. The spider stops, on the windscreen, and waits, staring at me still.

  “Do you recognise the car, Mark?” His voice is slow and steady, I steal a quick glance at his eyes and they are bloodshot, betraying him surely.

  “My name’s not Mark” I repeat.

  “Your name’s not Mark”. He leaves it there. At least he understands English. “Your name’s not Mark”, he says again in his, rather annoying, drawl. He reaches down to something beside him and pulls out another sheet of paper, which he lets fall over the first. It lays flat over the first and I can’t move, I don’t know what’s happened to my friend, I can’t see any movement but how can I be sure?

  “Look at this, please; this is a synopsis of your details.” He gestures at the paper. “The fingerprints match too”, he adds, helpfully. I glance at the paper, hoping to see some movement. I vaguely make out what’s on it, a scanned picture of a quite handsome man, and underneath his name, “Mark Forth”. A few more details, some pictures of fingerprints, the date of birth, etc. Strange, the same as mine. The man looks a little familiar as well, now I think about it.

  The man is looking at me expectantly, with those patient green eyes of his, so I reward him with a smile. I notice the spider crawling up the left arm of his pristine white shirt

  I shrug. “Do I know him?” – then – “Wait! He’s not the man who smashed up my car?”

  I pause, take a deep breath and then “My name’s John – John Paris. That’s my car, I don’t know what’s happened to it, but I would quite like to know. I’m not sure why I’m here, or who you are, but you are making me very tired and I could really do with a drink. I don’t know who Mark Forth is, except that he looks a little like me and seems to share the same birthday, but beyond that I think you’re making some mistake. And...” and I pause for effect, but mainly for timing, “a spider is about to crawl into your mouth”

  I got it so perfectly right. I was speaking fast, with an air of impatient authority and I had really trapped him, caught him in it, his attention focused on me so much that he didn’t have time to react, just to feel that tingling sensation, shuts his mouth too late and swallow. All this time he stares at me, not saying a word, and his eyes, his pale green eyes, dull just a fraction before he slumps forward in his chair, his head coming to rest on the papers in front of him.

  A noise behind me causes me to turn and see a door appear magically in the wall, two people wearing identical white boiler suits, with the name “HART” emblazoned in red on the backs, rush in and grab his arms, pull him to his feet and leave. I’m scratching my head in confusion when I hear a voice behind me. “Good afternoon, Mr Paris. I am so sorry for the confusion. Will you please come with me.” I turn to see a lady, quite good looking in fact, standing right behind me. She’s wearing a dark blue suit, the first hint of colour that I’ve seen, but her smile is so intensely white it gets lost in the room. I shrug and get up. My legs feel like lead, but I can’t let that bother me as I follow her out of the door.

  Chapter 5

  We sit in another room, this one’s completely blue, to match her suit I presume. She has very long legs and she’s smiling at me.

  “I am so sorry for the confusion, I hope that you weren’t inconvenienced. Please enjoy this complimentary glass of champagne” and she gestures to the table. I don’t really like champagne but I realise that my throat is killing me, so totally parched, that I take it and drain it in one gulp. My hostess studies me with her strange blue eyes. “Would you like another one?” she asks, drily and I nod.

  “Now Mr Paris” she starts, and reaches forward, lets her fingers gently brush my knee. She really is very beautiful, her eyes are quite piercing and though I never look away from people, ever, I look away. “I am glad to be able to tell you that we have rebuilt your car”.

  “Oh” I say, glad that the new glass of champagne has arrived and I pick it up, try to drink it more slowly this time, happy for the excuse not to look her in the eyes

  “Unfortunately”, she continues, “we still have one or two issues to resolve”. “Err... Mr Paris?”, I’m still staring at my now empty glass, and gently she lifts my face to look at hers, as she clicks the fingers of her other hand and I receive, some
how, another full glass. I’m starting to feel a little more relaxed now and I can see past the intensity of her eyes as I sip the champagne. It is very good, actually, I may change my mind about it.

  “Yes, sorry”, I say, slowly, confidently.

  She smiles with those intense teeth of hers and clears her throat...”The first thing - I’m afraid that the farmer whose horse you destroyed is refusing standard compensation, and insists that you see him personally to discuss it. Erm... I really do advise that you do this, he is actually within his rights to press charges on this and I think that would be far worse”. She pauses, waiting for a reaction, but as I have no idea what she is talking about I just smile and sip my champagne. A tiny, almost imperceptible shrug from her and she lays a small card on the table. “Well, here’s his name and address. As I say, I really think you should visit him”

  “So...” she crosses her legs and I can just make out the top of her stockings and, strangely, I feel a shiver as she touches my knee again, “erm, can I assume you’ll do that, Mr Paris?”

  “John, call me John” I reply, my throat’s dry and dusty and I throw back the rest of the champagne.

  “OK, John, can I assume you’ll do that?”

  “Yeah, no problem, “ I say, shaking my head. “Of course, of course I will, straight away, erm... sorry, I don’t know your name?”

  “Oh”, she says sweetly, “I’m Miss B.”

  We both wait, looking at each other, she is quite easy to see now. I’m waiting for another glass of champagne and I subtly tap my finger against the crystal.

  “So, the second thing” she starts, and magically I find my glass refilled, “is that the police still want to talk to you, John. I am sorry”, she places the emphasis on am, as if it’s her own personal fault, and who knows, perhaps it is.

  “The police?” I ask but after so much champagne it doesn’t really worry me. “Why do they want to talk to me?”

  She gets up, obviously agitated and glides around the room, I don’t think her feet actually touch the floor, until she’s standing behind me, and I can feel her hands rest slowly on my shoulders, as she leans down and whispers in my left ear. “They don’t understand... how it happened”, and then before I realise, she’s sitting in front of me, with her glacial smile and piercing eyes. “But don’t worry, I think it’s just a formality, a detective will be in touch.”

  And then she’s standing, and so am I and she’s shaking my hand as she places a set of keys in my other hand, squeezing slightly and she says, “just take the first elevator down to the third floor and your car will be waiting.”

  She turns to go, I grab her arm quickly and can feel her tense, but she recovers just as quickly, turns and smiles. “I just wanted to ask,” I start, “who was the man I was with first of all?”

  I can see something flash in her eyes, her face, just for a second, before she replies, in her sweet voice, “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about”. And then she’s gone.

  Chapter 6

  In time to come they will call me a communist, they will call me a leader of men, and then later they will call me a terrorist, a man who doesn’t deserve to live. The truth is that I just do what I want. And if that leads me to shine, or to burn, then so be it.

  Chapter 7

  I’m slightly unsteady on my feet as I find my car, but it has been repaired beautifully. This is a masterpiece of a car, sex on wheels, a real orgasm of power, style and refinement. I slide into the driver’s seat and the engine starts, with its soft, fragile purr, a leopard being woken from its slumber and stretching its legs slowly, gracefully. I stare into the blackness of the dashboard and the surfaces are so clean, so clear that I can make out my reflection, slightly distorted but handsome enough nonetheless. I allow my hands to caress first the soft leather seats. Soft doesn’t really do justice to what I feel, the lightest of touches, the uncertainty as to whether it’s real what I am actually feeling as my fingers sink into the wonderful nothingness. Then to the surface of the wheel, pure as the driven and sensitive to the touch, it’s eyes reflecting the warm glow from the garage like a child, like my child waiting to do my bidding. I must not forget the outside of my car too, it’s curved lines and handsome, no, beautiful shape, suggesting nothing so much as a dolphin, a porpoise, gliding through the water in a state of total grace. A mere touch, a mere caress, can almost make me faint. As I allow my hands to hold the wheel and sink back into my seat, I close my eyes and feel the car start to glide forward, perfectly in tune with my feelings.

  The road is open and blissfully I drive, oblivious somehow to the traffic, until I touch the motorway and ask my car for directions to the farmer’s house.

  The rest of the journey is not really eventful, except perhaps for the fact that a little while later I notice there’s a woman sitting next to me. As I smile at her, I wonder, absently, how long she has been there.

  Chapter 8

  As we glide on the motorway I keep glancing at her, to try and understand if I know her from somewhere, I’m pretty sure that I don’t.

  She’s smiling at me though, and she puts her hand over mine, as I start to speak she touches a finger to her lips, motioning me to stop.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of the phone breaks the comfortable silence, and before I can do anything, the girl (I still don’t know her name) touches it lightly with a fingernail that must be 1 inch long, polished silver with the carving of a pentagram over it (symbolic? I expect so) – and she answers

  “Hello?” her voice is smooth as velvet.

  A pause on the end of the line. “Hello? Erm... is Mr Paris there? Who is this?” I recognise the voice, of course.

  My angel turns her head slightly so we just, very slightly, make eye contact and she winks at me, turns away. I smile, curious to see where this will lead.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Paris isn’t available at the moment, this is his secretary. May I take a message?”. I’m kind of surprised.

  Again, another pause. “His... secretary?” the woman’s voice is quite severe. “This is his PA – that’s personal... assistant... calling, and I need to speak to him urgently. May I please do that – whoever you are? What is your name?”

  It is true. It is Vicky Gossling, my PA. She’s very good, if a little scary.

  The girl puts her hand on my knee, I can feel the electricity whip through me. It’s a little distracting, especially after four glasses of champagne, but professional driver that I am, I keep my hands steady and my focus on the road. (Mind you, there’s a huge lorry coming towards us and it seems to be on the wrong side of the carriageway. Or maybe I’m wrong)

  “This is Elena, and I am John’s secretary.” John – that would really wind Vicky up. “I am so sorry, but he is not able to talk to you now. However I am able to take a message.” Her voice doesn’t change tone at all. I’m impressed.

  I can tell Vicky is nonplussed.” Well..” she stammers, “tell Mr Paris”, with a real emphasis on the Mr., “that he needs to come into work straight away. There’s an urgent meeting with the Restrato client, starting in an hour. It is absolutely imperative that he is there.” And she hangs up.

  Elena turns, leans over and brushes my cheek lightly with her lips. I touch my hand briefly up to my cheek, and feel the blood pulsing there. “What was that?” I ask.

  “Oh nothing, not important”, she purrs and folds herself back into her seat, shutting her eyes.

  I consider just for a moment, then sigh, and set my course for the office.

  Chapter 10

  The table I am sitting at really is enormous. There are six people sitting around it, including me. On my left is a man, fairly handsome, in a dark business suit, though no tie I note, about my age. He’s tapping his hands nervously on the dark wood. I’m fairly sure I know him, likewise for the lady on my right, stunningly beautiful, in a black dress; she’s looking at me, smiling and her eyes are deep, voluptuous caverns of sexual desire. I think, at least. Jenny, I
am sure. She’s talking to the man – his name still slips my mind – over me – and I feel a slight pang.

  At the other side of the table, at least half a mile away, are three men, very straight, very serious, two of them I think are Chinese. They’re speaking to each other, it’s too hard to understand exactly what they are saying, but they keep glancing in my direction and I realise maybe I should do something. I drain my cup of espresso, and cough slightly, to see what will happen. It’s brilliant; everyone stops talking straight away. One of the men at the far side of the table clears his throat and starts.

  “In representing my clients- “ gesturing to the two Chinese guys, who smile (do they understand English?) – “may I say that we are incredibly excited to be here today, after these long months of patient waiting and discussion. We were absolutely thrilled to hear that Mr Paris wanted to see us, and that a demonstration was ready. Mr Paris...” and he looks me straight in the eye, “may I just say thank you, on behalf of these kind gentlemen here. This will change” and he pauses, throws his arms out wide – “everything!”

  With that, one of the Chinese men gets up – actually gets up – and almost runs around the table until he is next to me. He puts his hands on my shoulders and squeezes. I catch a glimpse of his eyes – very black, very worrying – before he’s gone again.

  Everyone turns to me and I am completely nonplussed; I really don’t know what to do. I’m about to start talking, saying anything to fill the gap, to fill the expectation, when a hand on my left arm stops me and to my relief I can see that I will be rescued.

  “Gentlemen, may I just say how delighted we are to see you.” His name’s Simon, now I’m sure. “I may just need to explain that John – I mean Mr Paris, here,” and he puts his hand reassuringly on my shoulder, “is delighted to be with you today.”