by Frank Lamour
In the kitchen he found Kava and Salvia. Large pots simmering on a gas stove. The slightly rancid, strong smell of non-animal, non-sugary or fatty foodstuffs. Don was hungry though, maybe from just working outside, and what might not usually have interested him seemed appealing.
Don briefly greeted the two although really having his eyes open for keys. Other than the unused key rack next to the front door, so far, no sign of anything.
Don headed on through toward the bathroom. He knocked lightly on the batwing doors and headed in.
Unfortunately the door to the toilet cubicle didn’t have a lock. He had a thing about toilet privacy and recalled a story Hamza had once related about when he’d taken some boat trip in South America. The toilets had been apparently without doors and absolutely filthy and he had just refused to go. And after about a week or two he’d had to be airlifted off to hospital with impacted stools.
Don supposed he’d just have to hope the House of the Vegetable members knocked.
How did the shower situation work though? The curtain was nearly see-through. It was all a weird setup.
Trying to stay focused, Don climbed up on to the edge of the seatless toilet bowl and examined the small window above the cistern.
It had a set of burglar bars, which he might be able to get off, it being secured with painted over slotted screws, but to get out this way would probably be bit of a tight squeeze.
Don climbed down off the bowl and headed back over into the general bathroom area.
There was a larger, lower, window over on this side. It was mottled glass (in some places, some panels having most likely been broken and replaced with cheaper clear glass) and covered by lacy net-curtain that might have at one time been white.
Don pushed the curtain aside, dust wafting up with the simple movement. The window had the same style of security bars as the other window (as well as most of the rest of the house), metal lattices fixed in place with slotted screws.
Like the window over the toilet, the screws were caked over with a thick layer of ancient paint. Don believed though that if he could just get something to scrape the paint off, and work the screws loose, he wouldn’t have too much problem getting out this way. It was kind of weird having to break out to break in, he thought.
Without the right tools, it did look as though it might take some time to get the paint off and he might have to do it over a period of time. The net curtain though should at least cover his traces, unless someone pushed it aside of course, but it didn’t look like anyone had done much dusting or cleaning here for a while.
So far so good, Don thought, he had at least the beginnings of a plan. Late one night, after working the bars loose, exit here, pat the dogs. It wasn’t exactly Tom Clancy, or whatever, but then it was SA. To Don, stuff that happened in his own country had always seemed far less glamorous than those others he’d read about.
All he needed now was a way into the flat above the garage. If he could just get in first, case the joint, then maybe leave a window or door unlatched.
Don now knelt on a filthy bathmat and opened the cabinet underneath the sink—to see if there was anything that might help his cause, a knife or even, if he was lucky, an old screwdriver.
The two dusty shelves were unfortunately stocked only with what looked like expired, unused toiletries—a shampoo, conditioner, aqueous cream and also something labelled as Shangri-La sensual massage oil.
Don heard the main bathroom door open. He turned to see Kratom entering and head straight in toward the toilet. Didn’t they have their own bathroom? Anyway it didn’t matter, he hadn’t seemed to have noticed Don. And Don hadn’t been doing anything too suspicious. Poking about one’s new environment was surely not too unusual. He supposed his intentions just made him feel guilt.
Don washed his hands dirty from all the dust on the security bars, wiped them off on his pants as there didn’t seem to be any towels in sight, and headed out.
Outside the dogs lay out on the driveway taking in the sun. Don took some time scratching both on the belly, the pale one, Sativa, and the other wanting to chew his hand and arm, before heading back to work.
◆◆◆
Lunch was a similar vegetable concoction to the one last night and for breakfast. Everyone did not sit together as he might of thought, but variously about the place, mostly in proximity to the work they had been doing. Don, Damiana, Amanita and Acacia sat out in the garden, eating in mostly silence.
After lunch he was told that there’d be a quiet time. He could rest, read, whatever he wanted. And that was pretty much work for the day.
Don thought he could definitely get used to this.
Chapter 12
For Don, the next couple of days passed both quickly and, he had to admit, reasonably pleasantly. He’d continued to work in the garden, weeding, picking, planting and helping to get the rest of the net covering up.
He got to know his two roommates a bit better. Ephedra was keen to get into conversations about the World Bank and the Rockefellers, once got going. Valerian though, was reserved and quiet, often passing the time, if not on his thumb piano, just sitting on his bed staring into space.
Don also seemed to be getting on well with Damiana, continually taken aback that she was happy to spend time with him. (He had also discovered somewhat to his surprise that she and Amanita were not only not related, but had only met about a month ago when Amanita had joined. Their similar look and dyed hair were coincidence. Damiana confided that Amanita apparently came from a very wealthy family, selling all her stuff, including her car to some Ghanaian for cash before joining up).
Overall though, he found the House not the hugest on conversation, most of them content to read or play board or card games.
Don had also—on a side note—been surprised by the amount of nudity (over and above Nutmeg) he’d encountered. Walking past a bedroom, or in the bathroom with the weird shower curtain setup, or even on the toilet, no one seemed shy, even if not in the best of shape, to change in full view of the world. It was not something he was used to and despite not having a problem with others doing it, he still did his best to maintain his own modesty.
On the mission side, (which had seemed to have been taking a bit of a back seat) he had managed to smuggle a butter-knife out of the kitchen and had begun work on the burglar bars in the bathroom, scraping away the paint and loosening the screws. All the time listening for someone coming down the passage. The nightingale floor now, to a degree, was working in his favour.
Scratching away at the screws with the kitchen utensil, Don had not felt much like James Bond but was at least glad to be moving forward.
So far he’d been able to cover when someone had walked in, but he did wonder if the others in the house had started saying, “Yes pleasant enough chap but he seems to spend all his time in the damn shitter.”
Don had tried to remove as little paint as possible, trying to limit it to the head of the screw—despite this taking longer—just to minimise the possibility of someone noticing his work should they decide to pull back the net curtain for a maybe yearly clean.
After finishing a session, trying to keep them brief, Don had been depositing the knife into the toilet cistern, hoping no-one was going to be looking in there, and if they did well, what would they make of it anyway? Someone using it to scrape off their corns?
Once the paint was off, the screws had been a little tougher to turn than anticipated but with some elbow grease and persistence he’d finally been able to work the suckers loose and they were now ready for him to make his move.
The next step still remaining would be to find a way into the rooms above the garage.
On that side, it had been three days now and he’d still not met the man in charge. The security gate that led up to Thornapple’s had always been shut and he’d seen no one, other than Nutmeg—and that was only once—going in or out.
Despite still taking the steps toward Lesley’s goal, Don had to confess that he’d bee
n increasingly entertaining the thought of simply staying on.
The fat man surely couldn’t get to him in here? Could he? And the work was easy enough (Don was beginning to see why the garden looked as haywire as it did. Most of the work seemed to involve taking breaks to smoke and laze about on the grass), much better than the shop. He was out in the sun in company of attractive girls. And everyone here just seemed sort of chilled. It was totally different to school. Mainly because no bullies. No continuous ribbing about his head, in fact it here it hardly seemed noticed, never mentioned.
Sure he was stuck inside the grounds, but then in his normal life he wouldn’t see much more than the inside of the bookshop and the inside of his bedroom. And hadn’t Nutmeg mentioned outings?
Don was brought to mind of the story of the Lotus-Eaters. He wished he could say he had read the full Homer version of the Odyssey (at least translated) but had only really ever skimmed a slim retelling for kids.
Anyway the part with the Lotus-Eaters had been about this island that Odysseus’s ship had happened upon. All the inhabitants of the island were living off this plant, the lotus that kind of put them into a blissful stupor. Don couldn’t quite recall all the details, mechanics of the story somehow snapping the hero and crew out of it and getting them to push on. What the episode questioned though, he thought, was clear. Should Odysseus have continued on to his home Ithaca, or just stayed on munching the plant and living in bliss?
Chapter 13
On Friday afternoon, experiencing a rising level of panic and anxiety about the impending “purge” (as he heard it being referred to), not having ever taken any type of psychedelic before, never mind a crazy, potentially toxic, homebrew mix.
Don had, in the afternoon searched out Damiana hoping that she might be able to offer him some words of reassurance.
He’d found her out in the back garden, by the psychoactive patch, sat with the easels, painting.
She had as usual seemed very excited to see him and patted the grass next to her.
“It’s very strange,” she said, after Don had sat and finally got around to asking about the drug experience. “I’ve done a lot of drugs in my time, but I have to say Thornapple’s brew is the strangest. Maybe there’s more lost time which I don’t love. But it’s different every time. It can be hell, it can be chilled. Some people get no effects. It’s fucking unpredictable.”
“The hell is what I’m worried about,” Don said.
“Don’t be. It doesn’t help. In order to grow you need to face your shadow self. Your fears. And that’s never going to be a cup of tea. It’s fine to be nervous. Some people can get absolutely terrified. It’s as if your psyche is somehow precognitively aware of the massive shock it’s about to receive.”
Don cracked a weak smile.
“Have you found it changed you?”
“Of course,” Damiana said. “Immeasurably so. It’s work though. Not a panacea. I still have my fuckups. I still smoke. I imagine someone could take the stuff and still stay the same if they didn’t make use of the lessons the plants have taught them. Don’t worry though, I’ll be there to look after you.”
“You seem so nice.”
“Sure, Thornapple always make sure people feel welcome.”
“Huh?”
“He always makes sure people feel welcome.”
Don sat a little while in silence turning what she’d said over in his mind, before asking, “He asked you to, uh, look after me?”
“Ja, sure,” Damiana said. “But I mean I would have anyway.”
◆◆◆
Having spent a lot of the afternoon still turning over his conversation with Damiana, feeling like he was sort of waking up a bit, the Lotus perhaps now finally wearing off, after dinner Don decided to take a walk down to the “computer centre”. Nutmeg had not been around at mealtime and Don had learnt that if she was not around, that was usually the best place to look for her.
The sun was setting and there was a slight chill. Don stopped to pat the dogs. He found a stick, waved it about, wanting to play fetch, but both dogs looked like they expected to be hit, so he threw it away.
Entering the computer centre he found it mostly dark, lit only by the light of the laptop Nutmeg was intently hunched over.
The computer centre was a collection of old desktops and laptops on mismatched desks and the space dominated by a huge earthworm farm that ran along one wall.
There was a strong smell of pipe tobacco and tamped-out pipe in an ashtray next to the laptop.
Nutmeg was dressed in a sheer, see through, shirt kind of thing, not hemp, he didn’t think, but maybe cutting the chill without violating the creed of the naturist. Don had to confess he didn’t really have much of an idea of what naturism was, other than what he’d caught off a short TV report he’d seen on a—not great looking naked—guy named Beau Brummel.
Don also sort of thought he was started to not really notice the fact that she was naked, it had started to seem increasingly to him that she was still dressed, just in clothes of, well—although a little unflattering sounding—meat.
Nutmeg turned as Don entered. She blinked, eyes clearly having to adjust to try see him after spent so long staring at the bright screen. “Cripes. What’s the time?” She looked back at the clock on her screen. “It’s late. I was flowing,” she said. “I love it though.
“When you’re so into what you are doing you don’t feel time pass. They’ve done a lot of research now on what causes it, how to create it. Like for video games, just to get the player sucked in like that.”
“That can’t be too good? Spending hours on a video game?”
Nutmeg turned back to her screen. “No,” she said vaguely, then turning back to Don. “How you liking it here?”
Don nodded. “Good. Good.”
“You’re probably just keen for the purge. It’ll come. Only one more sleep.”
Don forced a nervous laugh.
“What can I help with?”
“Oh… I was just…” Don said, moving to pull up one of the cushion things to sit on. “I was thinking. About money. I’ve got a bit of money. I’ve only been here a couple of days but I… uh, I was hoping to discuss it with Thornapple.”
“Oh… wonderful,” Nutmeg said. “I’ll have to tell him. Yes, you’ll need to discuss it with him. I’m sure he’ll be grateful.” She seemed to recall. “Oh yes, you still haven’t met him. I’m sure he’ll still get to you. He’s slow to open up, but once he gets to know someone that’s a relationship that you can count on for life.” She turned to face Don more. “It’s not a secret so I can tell you. Thornapple lost both his parents at very young age. He was left the house. Left a lot of money, but that didn’t last and none of that can ever replace family. I think has impacted a lot who he is. He has learnt to value relationships. The emotional bonds he makes are not treated lightly.”
“Well, I would like to meet him, you know, it’s nice to get things going,” Don said.
Nutmeg smiled, “I’ll pass it on,” she said before, clicking on a desk lamp and getting back into the flow.
Chapter 14
It was later that evening, Don was lying on his bed reading when Nutmeg came in to talk to him.
Don, on his second night, had picked out ring-bound book of photocopied pages, with spelling and grammar errors, on psychedelic plants. He’d been able to learn a bit more about the plant each member was named after. Like Mandrake was the same thing as Datura. The stuff Hamza had been talking about.
Don closed the book and raised up on his elbows as Nutmeg took a seat on the edge of the bed.
“Studying up?” she said.
Don smiled and nodded.
“Thornapple is ready to meet you now.”
“Oh. Good,” Don said. Now almost not prepared. Feeling nervous.
“Just press the buzzer outside his room and he’ll open up.”
After Nutmeg left, Don took a few moments to gear himself up then rose and headed out.
It was getting to twilight as he crossed the drive.
Next to the security gate by the garage, was a remote affixed to the wall (and protected from the elements by a little Ziploc baggy). Don pressed the little red button on it and after a moment heard a click as the gate lock disengaged.
Don pushed the security gate open. It squeaked loudly halfway through its arc. It was something to note at least.
Next, using the opportunity, Don took a second, as discretely as he could, to inspect the gate’s locking mechanism. He pushed the latch in—testing its give, trying to work out if there was any way he could get something in there to jimmy the lock, the butter-knife perhaps? Maybe not, he’d need to fashion some kind of tool.
Don closed the gate gently, trying to keep it from locking but a heavy spring at the top of the door snapped it shut.
Don turned from the gate and made his way up the concrete flight of steps that took him up to a small landing, also bare concrete, on the upper floor.
The space was littered with signs of building work in progress, or abandoned, a trowel stuck in mound of hardened mortar like a blue-collar Excalibur, a stack of warped beams, torn drop cloths spattered with paint and dirt, surfaces all not sealed and the space still very dusty.
There were two doorways on the landing, neither yet fitted with actual doors (both doors leaning stacked against the wall).
The first doorway led to a small room, unused, except for storing bits of junk… The second, to the right, was hung with a black fabric. This no doubt leading to the vegetalista’s quarters, the fabric presumably going some way to stop wind on cold nights billowing up the staircase and through into his room.
Don approached and knocked lightly on the steel doorjamb.
“Entrez,” a deep voice called from within.
Don pushed the fabric aside and entered.
The room, an open plan lounge and kitchen, was lit with the soft warm glow of a couple of paraffin lamps and smelled of both paraffin and some kind of familiar burning essential oil. (Was it one his grandmother used to burn?)
