Renegade T.M.

by Langley, Bernard

  Prologue

  It was a dark and rainy day, the kind of dark and rainy day where though the sun had risen in the morning as per usual, it then went on to make so little difference that it thought better of it and took the day off; the sort of dark and rainy day when the rain falls so relentlessly that dry things become valuable in themselves; in summary, the type of day that was pretty much the same as every other day in the dark and rainy city of Sutton. It always rained on Sutton, so much so, that local folk law makes the claim that Suttonians had the umbrella before the wheel. Now this may appear far fetched, but believe me, if you have never had the pleasure of visiting this delightful London suburb, do yourself a favour and instead dress yourself up in all the wet weather gear you have, run yourself a cold bath, and get in. Okay, you may not experience all the rich history the town has to offer, but then ask yourself whether it is really history that you want when your sitting fully clothed in a cold bath.

  About the wet streets, people charged quite purposefully, wielding umbrellas and threatening limited violence. In their rain-pummelled heads they entertain notions of warmth and nice-cups-of-tea, and will let nothing stand in their wanton way. From above, these determined individuals and the different coloured umbrellas they carry, look like the closing stages of a military engagement. The prominence of the classic gentleman's umbrella, with its all-over black appeal, appears as a supreme army of darkness, which having already routed the enemy, now sweeps the narrow streets, finishing off any light-reflecting stragglers. As it just so happened, one man stood atop a multi-level car park, actually entertaining these altogether dark thoughts. An empty bottle of scotch hung loosely from his hand, and for a man giving the impression of being quite unsteadily drunk, he swayed precariously close to the edge of the building.

  “Army of darnesssh, bah!” he slurred defiantly at the streets below, swiping the empty bottle as if to strike some imaginary foe.

  Now the man was really very drunk, for even if the foe had not been imaginary, the bottle would have never have made contact, escaping the man's hand as it did, only to break over the back of the same man's head. Now the physics involved in a manoeuvre of this sort are really quite extraordinary, for any appeal to conventional terms like potential or kinetic force, velocity, or energy transferred, yield very little in the understanding department. Instead, to begin to comprehend such an action, one must use the lesser known booze-fuelled scientific discipline of “physsshics”. Now, using the simple formula:

  X/Y=Z-pi=R

  (Where X is what academic drunks term “Intenssshion”, Y is “alcohol”, Z is “plaussshibility”, pi is either, steak and kidney, chicken and mushroom, or apple, and R is “ressshult”.)

  It is possible to ascertain that the action did indeed occur, and that its occurrence was somewhere in the region of ridiculous. All of this mental foreplay did not, however, make an appearance in the mind of the man who had just smashed a bottle over his head. What did register was a sharp feeling of pain, followed by an all-encompassing sense of despair. The man slid to the floor and buried his head into his body. The man who was known by other men as Pete Martin.

  ***

  “Pete!”

  Leaping from building to building with the world cheering below, Pete suddenly paused mid-air, and cocked his head to one side as if straining to hear something.

  “Pete!”

  There it was again, someone had said his name, but who could hang suspended in the air between the tallest skyscrapers so as to make themselves heard to him, surely it was impossible.

  “PETE!!!”

  A realisation now dawned on him, he had never been that good at jumping and could barely remember leaping a frog let alone a building. He lost confidence in his superhuman abilities, and as he found himself plummeting towards the city streets below, he woke up.

  He opened his eyes and let the world flood in. Two eyes appeared to be watching him watching them, he then noticed a nose and a mouth and reached the quite un-startling conclusion that they probably belonged to a face. It was Sarah, his girlfriend, who had beckoned him down from his mile-high dream, and as she sat over him, he immersed himself in her beauty. Light blue eyes sat comfortably above her bubble nose, and her full red lips went on to complete a look that lurked agreeably somewhere between Madonna and Monroe. Blonde curls rolled effortlessly down the sides of her head, each coming to rest most satisfyingly on her petit shoulders. Her skin was a pearly white, the kind of white that never went out without a hat, and held strong, almost zealous opinions when it came to the matter of the ozone-layer. Overall, she came across as a Victorian bombshell, whom, removed from her decidedly modest epoch, was now flaunting her membership as one of the beautiful people and living it up in our decadent decade. He could not help but think that life had been good to him, and as her lips opened to reveal her perfect teeth, he imagined the day would be a promising one.

  “Get up you slob, it's six thirty!” she yelled, only inches from his face, “I really don't know why I stay with you!”

  Having said this, she smashed a quite sizeable cushion into his confused and bewildered look, threw aside his duvet, yanked open the curtains, and then left the room. Later, as he managed to compose himself and regain some semblance of a man in charge of his own destiny, he wondered dishearteningly why every morning had to be the same.

  Pete made his way downstairs, dressed and marginally ready for the day. Some post was there to greet him by the front door and one envelope stated quite clearly in bold black letters that he was already a winner, so taking this on board, his spirits began to lift. Gathering up the post, he then strode purposefully into the kitchen to find Sarah.

  “Morning,” he said timidly.

  “Morning,” she replied emotionlessly.

  Sarah sat at the kitchen table engrossed in the day's star signs, he was used to this turn of events and sat himself down opposite her in preparation for the ritualistic opening of the post. Opening the envelope marked winner first, he was slightly put out when he discovered that being a winner these days, in actuality meant that he was one in five thousand that might qualify for a free equine encyclopaedia, that is if he were to take out a horse insurance policy, costing a lot less than he supposedly thought. Now, he did not own a horse, want a horse, or indeed would insure a horse even if he had one, but the encyclopaedia looked important, and for this one reason alone, an entire extra second elapsed before envelope and all was thrown determinedly near the bin. The next letters were a phone bill and a final demand for the same phone bill, and placing them in a neat pile that seemed to denote importance, he made a mental note to pay them later that day. The final letter was a lot more to his liking, and contained an appointment to have a free eye exam. The appointment was in a couple of weeks, and although his eyesight was as good as ever, he was not going to reject this gift horse, so made up his mind, and diary, to go. With the ritual now complete and the gods of junk mail satisfied, he set about making himself some breakfast.

  “Pete,” began Sarah.

  “Yes,” he replied, placing a slice of bread in the toaster.

  “You're an Aquarian aren't you?”

  “Yep, I carry water.” He did not much care for astrology.

  “Well it says here that you're going to have quite an unusual day.”

  “Really,” he said mockingly, lifting his pitch at the end.

  “Yes really,” she responded unflustered.

  “It says here that things are going to go very badly at first, and that because the moon is in alignment with Mars, your energy will juxtapose with...”

  He switched off here, and instead felt himself becoming entirely absorbed with the task of buttering his toast. He was going to approach the matter with a two fold strategy, fi
rstly he would whack on a big lump of butter which he would attempt to spread evenly as it melted into the toast, and secondly, he would add extra side cover, wherever the initial spreading had not fully infiltrated the bread. Having completed the buttering, the whole thing would be sliced at its diagonal and then placed playfully on a plate.

  “... and although you'll have hit rock-bottom, from then onwards, the sky's the limit!”

  As she finished her astrological prediction, and he was making his way towards the dining table, he suddenly tripped on something that really should have been there, and sent his toast flying. Regaining his balance, his eyes locked with the toast as it spun gracefully through the air, everything else became a blur, and as time appeared to slow, he felt his conscious mind fall away.

  Sarah cross and the Kiron buildings --- bill board posters and constant drive --- Thursday squash night and chicken bhuna finish --- sofa primed and TV programmes --- the Sunday lunch with Monday nudging --- few nights of passion and sleepless nights --- the early start and rat race rat --- the forever waking and time for bed --- the loss of self who never dreams.

  The toast spun on, butter side up, butter side down, up ,down, up, down.

  Things began to get clearer. Pete was a young man in his early twenties just back from travelling around India, youthful and filled with energy, the world was his to take. Now back at college, taking some Mickey Mouse qualification in advertising, wondering what the world was like.

  Up, down, up, down.

  Pete was a child, the other children teased him for having big ears, but that was okay, life was good. I'm hungry he thought, and began screaming for his Mum.

  Up, down.

  No thought, comfortable and safe.

  The toast landed on the kitchen floor, butter side down. He stood still, something strange had just taken place. He had heard of someone's life flashing before them whilst dying, but never whilst observing spinning toast. What should he make of this? He was still alive, he remained in exactly the same kitchen as before, and he could always make more toast.

  “Are you alright?” she asked.

  “Yeah, I think so,” he replied, “I'm off to work.”

  With that, he went to work. Sarah watched as he left, and reaching for the phone, a small smile seemed to grace her lips.

  As he got in his car to go to work, he thought about what had just happened, what it might portend to.

  “Probably nothing,” he said to himself, as he pulled out of the drive and began thinking about the day's details.

  ***

  Having just smashed a bottle over his own head, combined with the loud ringing sensation in his ears, was doing nothing to lift Pete's mood. He had never been a very successful drunk and would usually only ever drink at Christmas or occasionally on his Birthday. The fact that he was currently “sozzled” on this run-of-the-mill working Wednesday was because his day had gone rather badly.

  “Dunno why I even bother to get out of bed,” he mumbled to himself, before adding with added alcoholism, "shhhtupid world!”

  ***

  Pete arrived at the large Kiron offices on the outskirts of Sutton at ten minutes to eight, ten whole minutes early. He worked in a small part of the building which occupied the space between the recycling department, (a cupboard filled with different coloured bins), and the janitor's office, (a cupboard filled with different sized mops), in a converted cupboard that had a window. He had worked there for a little over two years now, and his job was to advertise the company. Kiron LTD was a minor company that sold advertising space on bill boards around the Surrey region, and consequently, his job was to advertise advertising. Over the course of the two years, he had submitted countless advertising proposals, from bill posters explaining laboriously that rather than being an advert, it is an advert for an advert, to the more adventurous poster with the less self-explanatory slogan “Now Look Here!” He had not however, ever heard back from his superiors, and he sometimes worried that he went entirely unappreciated by the company. Parking in his spot, (squeezed inbetween the janitor's and some recycling bins), he thought that he might begin to impress his bosses by arriving early for work that day.

  “Morning,” he chirruped to the girl at the front desk.

  “Mr Martin?” she enquired.

  “Er, yes.”

  “Mr Draper wants to see you.”

  “Me, why?” he asked tentatively.

  Mr Draper held a substantially higher position than Pete, and was the kind of stereotypical boss who wore comedy socks indicating which day of the week it was, with a sad/happy face then showing the day's proximity to the weekend. He often wondered how such bland, grey men managed to hold more authority than him, the kind of be—suited spectre who lives a home-commute-job existence with the fervour of a particularly zealous zealot. On reflection however, he realised that in the grand Kiron scheme of things, it was really only the janitor who held less authority than him, and even then, it was always himself who went for the coffee, the janitor consistently claiming as he did, that an abundance of paper work prevented him from going. Still, perhaps all this was about to change, perhaps today he was finally going to be recognised as the talent that he had always thought himself to be.

  “Dunno,” replied the receptionist, “all he said was that he wanted to see you first thing, sometime before eight.”

  He glanced at his watch, it was five to eight, Mr Draper's office was on the fourth floor and on the other side of the building. After a few seconds mental calculation, he concluded that he was wasting time, so nodding altogether too seriously at the receptionist, he then set off at a just-a-little-quicker-than-walking pace in the direction which he hoped spelt success, that is, he went up the stairs.

  He knocked on the door to Mr Draper's office at ten minutes past. He had decided to take the stairs in a hope to save time, but had then discovered to his dismay, that his just-a-little-quicker-than-walking pace was in no way a rival of the lift, and that his just-a-little-slower-than-running pace was utterly unsustainable up four flights of stairs. Subsequently, he got a stitch and then had to spend ten minutes sitting down. Whilst he was catching his breath, he took the opportunity to consider what his boss might want to see him about. To his knowledge, people only went to see him when they were to be given either a promotion or the sack, and although he did not blow his trumpet in any real musical sense, he could not help but think that the hour was his, so having finely tuned himself to optimism, he set off again contemplating the colour of his new company car.

  “Come in!” heralded a voice from inside the office.

  Pete went in.

  “Hello, er...”

  “Pete, advertising sir,” he interrupted.

  “Ah yes, Mr Martin,” began Mr Draper, “I've been meaning to have a few words with you, please have a seat.”

  Mr Draper motioned for Pete to sit down opposite him, and with promotion in mind, he was more than happy to do so.

  “So Mr Martin, how long is it now that you've been working here?”

  “About two years sir.”

  “And how would you rate your performance over this time?”

  “Ten out of ten,” he replied a little too casually, more concerned as he was with the idea of taking up executive golf, where the nineteenth whole was the only one that really mattered.

  “Oh really,” said Mr Draper somewhat derogatorily.

  “Yeah,” he confirmed hesitantly, suddenly aware that he may in actuality be missing something.

  “Mr Martin,” Mr Draper began, reaching below his desk and retrieving a large A3 picture that he immediately recognised, “would you kindly enlighten me as to what this is?”

  It was one of his bill poster proposals, one which contained a doctored photo of Nicole Kidman rather lewdly enjoying a frankfurter. Pete had been feeling somewhat dejected recently, and one night strolling the web, had come across the image of Nicole and decided there and then, in a rare moment of devil-may-car abandonment, to simply downloa
d the picture, blow it up some six hundred percent, and then pass it off as the next instalment of the Kiron Corporation cutting-edge advertising program. He had been wondering lately, albeit only slightly, if the action would ever result in any consequences, and now that it had, he felt strangely relieved.

  “Ah yes,” he said, pausing to consider his blag, “good isn't it,” he stated confidently, using a basic hypnotic suggestion technique.

  “No,” replied Mr Draper, apparently immune, “what pray tell is good about it?”

  “Well, we all like Nicole Kidman don't we?!” he asked.

  “Yes, so what?”

  “And we all like frankfurters right?!”

  “Okay, but what's that got to do with anything?”

  “Well, picture yourself driving along the M25 doing about seventy miles per hour, a bill poster is just coming into view some five hundred yards away. Firstly, you make out the enticing shape of Nicole Kidman, you like Nicole Kidman and your foot unwittingly eases off the gas. Then you discern a frankfurter, you like those too, and slow to about forty. Finally, you realise what she is doing to it, and all of a sudden, perform a quite un-meditated emergency stop. Traffic begins to back up for miles, and why, all because of a simple bill poster that we, Kiron Corp, have provided.”

  “You're mad,” stated Mr Draper matter-of-factly.

  “Yes but the margin between insanity and genius is measured only by success,” he countered.

  “And you're fired,” he check-mated.