Hellogon

by John Booth

  Since no one was there to guide him, he retraced his steps through the building. As he went through the lounge, the two girls stood up from the sofa and bowed low to him, still giggling at something they found incredibly funny.

  When he reached the chip shop, Mrs Cho raised the counter for him and led him to a table on which food was set out over a silk tablecloth. A rotary serving tray offered him a dozen different Chinese dishes in bowls, while another dish held rice. There was a large glass of lemonade by the side of his plate.

  Peter thanked her and she bowed low to him. Wondering more than ever exactly what was going on, Peter tucked into a delicious lunch.

  Chapter Six

  Old Friends

  Peter felt he had eaten far too much. All the bowls in front of him were empty. He wondered how he would manage to do a full afternoon’s work over at the furniture store.

  There was no sign of Gaz or his friends at the chip shop and Peter didn’t know whether to be happy or annoyed about it. It could well be they’d been frightened off by Han No and his two henchmen. Peter resolved to keep his wits about him while he walked back to the store. Perhaps Gaz and his posse were hiding down the alley waiting to pounce on him.

  He saw no sign of the three youths as he walked down the High Street to the store. Teenagers would be at school and there were few young people around. With traffic at its lunchtime peak, the noise was phenomenal. People crossed the High Street at pedestrian lights and most people waited to make sure the cars actually stopped before they ventured out onto the road. Some of the cars went through the red lights and beeped their horns at anybody daring to cross.

  Solly’s shop was deserted as usual. Peter couldn’t be certain, but he would have been willing to bet nobody had entered the store since he began working there.

  Peter walked through the shop to the storeroom. Having completed the task Solly set him during the morning it seemed the appropriate place to wait. Despite his conversation with Han No and the size of his Chinese meal, it was still only quarter to two.

  The wooden packing crates in the room caught Peter’s attention. There was something odd about them and he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. While most were stacked three high there was one at the end in a row of its own. He went over to inspect it.

  Peter could see the back of the crate as it was standing a few feet from the wall. He ran his hands over the rough cut surface of the crate trying to think what was wrong with it. The wooden sheets of the crate were held together with heavy duty staples and it didn’t look unusually constructed. Peter made a half hearted attempt to prise the lid off, but it didn’t budge. It was only when he stood back to look at it again that the oddness finally came to him.

  There were no labels, painted signs or symbols on any of them. Peter had seen enough crates to know they were always marked. Without a label, how would anybody have the slightest idea of what was in them?

  There were forty crates in the store room and if Solly moved them around they would quickly become shuffled. Peter stared at the crates in confusion. Who delivered them and how did Solly know what was in them, or where a particular box might be now they were stacked up?

  Peter wondered if the crates were empty. He used all his strength on the top of the crate and tried to tip it over. It didn’t budge, so he concluded there must be something heavy inside it.

  “Do my crates meet with your approval?” Solly asked sarcastically from the door.

  “How do you know what’s in these crates when they aren’t marked?”

  “Not all labels are where they can be seen by prying eyes. I have work for you in the show room. Come on, young man, you’re on my time now.”

  Peter followed Solly into the shop and was again instructed to move a pile of furniture and clean the floor before putting the pile back where he found it. Though Peter considered the work pointless, he set about it with some enthusiasm. Moving furniture around could be fun.

  Peter was working away at cleaning the floor when Solly materialised in his usual manner and instructed Peter to leave the cleaning. He handed Peter the usual twenty pound payment as though his work was finished for the day.

  “I want to discuss some things with you in my office,” Solly told him. “Follow me, and be careful when you come up the stairs.”

  The stairs to the upper floor were indeed more than a little dangerous. Chairs and tables were stacked down both sides of the stairs leaving a narrow path between them. Solly bounded up the flights of stairs like a cat. Peter walked up them much more slowly. As he walked, the piles of precariously balanced tables and chairs swayed alarmingly. The stairs were so old that they bowed when Peter put his weight on them. The chairs on the tops of the piles were at least fifteen feet above him and Peter felt as if he was walking in a mine field. At any moment, a false step could set off an avalanche of furniture on top of him.

  Solly waited impatiently at the top of the stairs. It looked as if the first floor had been converted into offices. A corridor of sorts ran across the centre. Solly set off along it to the Hellport Lane side. When they got to the far end, Peter discovered another corridor running down the outside wall. The wall was laid out in a peculiar manner.

  Down its length, there were brick archways interspersed with stone archways leading nowhere. The archways looked as though they should have been passages to somewhere but in every case, there was only white painted plaster wall inside them. Across from each archway, there was a conventional office door. They passed five office doors and arches before they reached the end of the corridor.

  The corridor ended in a single door. Solly opened it and walked into the room with Peter following.

  Though the two rooms were nothing alike in furnishings, Solly’s office reminded Peter irresistibly of Han No’s room behind the chip shop. It was the lack of external windows and the dimness of the light that did it. Solly’s office looked like it was out of a nineteen fifties movie. There was an old fashioned wooden desk with an adjustable metal table lamp. The light in the room came from this lamp and it appeared to have been fitted with a very low wattage bulb.

  The desk had wooden in-and-out trays. They were stacked high with papers while large polished cubes of wood held their papers down. A mechanical typewriter that should have been in a museum cluttered the desk.

  Above the desk, an old metal fan rotated slowly and swayed. Behind the desk were bookshelves and filling cabinets. These were made of dark stained wood.

  Solly sat behind the desk in a large padded leather chair. He indicated that Peter should sit in what looked like a dining chair in front of the desk. Peter sat on it feeling nervous and uncomfortable. The chair and desk reminded him of a time not long ago when he sat in just such a chair in front of the Commandant’s desk as the man ranted at him over Jeremy’s death. It wasn’t a comfortable memory, not least because of the vicious caning the Commandant had given him when he finally stopped ranting.

  “I used to know your father.”

  “I’m sorry?” Peter was lost for words for a few seconds. “How did you know my father? Did you work for the Establishment?”

  Solly’s response was contemptuous. “I wouldn’t work for any man in this world. Your father and I grew up together. On my majority, I chose to carry the burdens my society placed on me, while he decided to run away and marry a native girl. Now his son reaches his eighteenth birthday and must decide where his loyalties lie.”

  “I don’t understand. Are you saying my father was born here, in the city? Have I family around here?” Peter felt confused and hopeful. His mum said that his father had never talked about his life before joining the Establishment. Peter had been four years old when his father disappeared and he only remembered his dad as a friendly figure who played with him and tucked him up in bed.

  Solly spoke grimly. “There is no family for you here, Peter, and only enemies there. Your father squandered any goodwill when he chose to abandon the Great Game. Do not expect old loyalties, long forgotten, to
come to your aid. You’ll be disappointed.”

  “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “When your father died you inherited his position and his power. I want to help...”

  Peter stopped listening at the word ‘died’ as he went into shock. “My father’s not dead! You can’t know. Nobody knows. He’s out on a mission and they sometimes take years.” Peter rose to his feet, planning to leap across the desk and punch Solly in the nose.

  “We know he’s dead, Peter. We knew the moment it happened. I’m sorry, I thought you knew.” Solly tried to wave Peter back into his chair but Peter was beyond rational thought.

  “He isn’t dead!” Peter dashed from the room, running down the corridor. He blundered down the stairs, his hands catching against the piles of chairs and tables. They began to fall, making enormous crashes as the piles smashed into the floor.

  Somehow, Peter avoided being crushed by the flying furniture and ran to the door. He pulled it open to run out into the street when Solly’s voice called after him. “I expect you back here at nine o’clock.”

  Peter ran off down the High Street and away from the shop and his flat trying to avoid bursting into tears. When he reached the corner of the road to the café, he stopped dead in his tracks. He bent over in agony, his hands holding his legs as his whole body shuddered as he tried to control his emotions.

  People passing by gave him a wide berth and no one asked him if he needed any help. People in the city quickly learnt to protect themselves from the disturbed people who make the city streets their home. A friendly hand placed over the shoulder often results in a flick knife in the stomach.

  It took five minutes or more before Peter regained control. He felt deeply ashamed and was having trouble convincing himself he heard Solly’s final words correctly as he fled the shop. Surely, after all the damage he just did in the shop he wouldn’t be welcome there again.

  Peter hadn’t known the news of his father’s death would hit him so hard. He only knew his father for the first four years of his life and wouldn’t have recognised him if he came up and introduced himself on the street. Despite knowing it was unlikely, he always told himself his father would come home one day. His mum still believed it, he was sure, despite all the years without hearing a word.

  After the business over Jeremy, and Peter’s subsequent expulsion from the Establishment, believing his father might come back and rescue them became even more important.

  Peter decided he would go over to Solly’s Furniture Emporium in the morning and apologise for all the damage. If he lost the job, he would certainly deserve it given his behaviour.

  Wiping his eyes quickly with a tissue, he looked at his watch. It was just gone five o’clock and his mother wouldn’t be home for another hour. Peter felt dreadful and didn’t want to spend an hour or more sitting alone in their flat. He decided to visit the café again to see if Sal was there. It was worth a try.

  * * *

  In daylight, the street looked very different from the night before. Electronic stores lined the road displaying their wares through large display windows. He discovered what the name of the place was. At least, that was what the sign above the first shop on the other side of the road had written on it.

  The café was a few hundred yards down Golgotha Street on the same side he was standing. He took his time walking down the street, trying to regain his normal state of mind. Peter was surprised to find the name of the café was The Battle Café and wondered exactly what battle it was named after. He strode up the three steps to the café door and walked in.

  The café was empty. When he approached the serving counter, the wizened old man from the night before came out to serve him. Peter asked for a coffee, and when it arrived, went to the seat Sal sat in the night before. He took up the same position as Sal, staring out of the window at the passing traffic on the road. He found looking at it surprisingly soothing.

  “You look troubled Peter,” the old man said as he sat down in the chair on the other side of the table. “My name is Bert, by the way, Bert Brent.”

  “Have you seen Sal?”

  “Sal is there and cannot cross until the sun sets,” Bert explained.

  “That figures,” Peter replied, having largely given up trying to understand the locals.

  “You look as though you’ve been crying,”

  “I just found out that my father’s dead, if he is. How can people here know what happened to him when the best agency in the world doesn’t have a clue?”

  “Your father is dead,” Bert said sadly. “Those that play the Game know these things at once, as do the families.”

  “Will none of you ever speak plain English? I’m so tired of cryptic comments.”

  Bert looked around as if looking for spies. “I can’t explain everything to you, as it would put my life in jeopardy. I’ll tell you this much. There are three groups. Those like me and Sal Dark’s father, who have excused themselves from the Game and are exiled here. Then there are those like Han No, who use here as a way to extend their power there, and finally there are those like Sal and you, who get caught up in the Game when they turn eighteen.”

  “Han No talked about red and white chess pieces and said I’d have to choose sides. Is there a war going on?”

  Peter’s Establishment training took over as he felt he was finally getting some of the pieces of the puzzle. Discover the local politics was rule three.

  “Nothing is that clear. The Red Dragon seeks to simplify and control. He’s not yet in charge, nor are those opposing him. There are many players who have not yet chosen sides or play the sides against each other.”

  The door of the café opened and two customers walked in. Bert got up from the chair and returned behind his counter to serve them. Peter knew instinctively that Bert would tell him nothing more that night.

  Chapter Seven

  Jeremy

  The Commandant strode swiftly out of the lounge of the small cottage where Peter and his family lived. The Commandant was a tall thin arrogant man, dressed in military uniform and carrying a swagger stick under his left arm. He strode past his five year old son Jeremy without even a downward glance. Jeremy did not look particularly bothered by his father’s attitude.

  Peter watched him go while he held onto the lounge door and watched how Jeremy didn’t look up at his father as he went past. Inside the lounge, his mother wept quietly. The Commandant had just informed her that her husband was officially missing in action behind enemy lines. Peter was a bright four year old who would be five in a matter of weeks. He knew what missing in action meant, it meant his daddy was almost certainly dead.

  Peter turned his head and looked curiously at his best friend. If Jeremy knew what it meant to lose a daddy, he would certainly have looked up at his own daddy just now. Jeremy smiled as Peter walked towards him, a smile that changed to alarm as tears began to flood down Peter’s face. Jeremy’s rushed over to comfort his friend, and hugged the sobbing Peter to him. Peter felt Jeremy’s arms around him and vowed he would always be a friend to Jeremy and never betray him. Jeremy’s simple act of friendship meant so much to him.

  Peter realised he was dreaming. He had lived this dream many times over the last two months. It always started like this, at the moment he first realised just how important Jeremy was to him, and it always ended in nightmare and pain. But there was nothing he could do to stop the chain of events unfurling once again in his mind.

  Jeremy and Peter played together on Jeremy’s enormous double bed. They were both nine years old and their mothers were downstairs drinking tea and gossiping. The boys crawled under the top sheet of the bed and lifted it up between them as they sat facing each other. The sheet rested on their heads and shoulders forming a tent around them. The sheet was thin enough to let light in and they could see each other perfectly though no one outside could see them.

  “Show us your thing,” Jeremy asked Peter, and Peter pulled his shorts and underwear down revealing himself to Jerem
y. Jeremy did the same so they were both naked from the waist down, head to head under the sheets. They often showed each other’s bodies off to each other over the years. It always reassured Peter that his bits looked just the same as Jeremy’s.

  “If you rub it, it grows,” Jeremy explained and he hesitantly took Peter’s organ in his hand and showed him exactly what he meant. It felt so good Peter knew it was only polite to perform the same service for Jeremy.

  * * *

  Jeremy and Peter stood facing each other dressed in martial arts clothing. They stood on a thick padded mat that looked a bit like an enormous mattress. Peter was still thirteen while Jeremy, being a few months older, had recently turned fourteen.

  This was the first time they were old enough to take part in the fighting contest. Out of their school year of one hundred and three girls and boys, they alone reached the finals and were about to fight each other to decide who would be the year champion.

  Peter was celebrating a wonderful year. While average in subjects such as mathematics and physics, he discovered a natural talent for the subjects the school valued most. He came first in the year in espionage, strategy and tactics, sabotage and exploitation of resources. He also proved to be skilled at unarmed combat, though he thought this was more because he anticipated the other kid’s moves than because he enjoyed fighting.

  He looked across the mat at Jeremy, who performed his warm up exercises before the bout began. Jeremy was a good looking boy, blond and blue eyed, thin with finely honed muscles. All the girls in the school and most of the boys were cheering for him to win over Peter. Peter looked more like the nerd he suspected he was. Short and dark haired, Peter’s dark brown eyes and studious manner didn’t endear him to most of the kids in the school in the way Jeremy’s boisterous behaviour did.