The House of the Vegetable

by Frank Lamour

  It took a bit, but Don after longer inspection it became clear that the figure next to the vegetalista was not human, but was a life-size and surprisingly realistic black-haired doll.

  The vegetalista’s breathing sounded sucking and wet. Beside him on both the bedside table and floor next to him, amongst a bunch of other junk were about a dozen single serving whiskey bottles, as well as a number of medicinal looking boxes and bottles.

  Hamza’s intel had indeed proved good. The House leader was surely deeply out of it.

  Still though, trying to maintain as much stealth as he could, no point in chancing it—part of him also keeping, bizarrely, thinking he was going to wake the mannequin up—Don crossed the floor and slipped into the bathroom, quietly shutting door behind him.

  In the small space, Don took a moment, feeling a stab of nerves in his gut, before shifting his gaze upward.

  The access panel was there.

  Okay. That still did not prove anything though. Like he’d thought before, it was almost certain he’d have seen it on his original visit and the information stored somehow unconsciously.

  Perhaps by association with the location, as well as the large amount of water he had downed, Don now felt again the need to pass water.

  He lifted up the toilet seat and relieved the pressure, directing the stream to quietly hit the side of the bowl.

  He finished and decided again to eschew the washing of hands, even though Thornapple was most likely in a deep state of unconsciousness, still not wanting to push it by making any more noise than was absolutely necessary.

  Don half smiled, imagining, if he did make it out tonight, investigators puzzled to find two unflushed, urine filled toilets. Was this the burglar’s calling card? At least it was reasonably clear because of all the water he’d drunk.

  Doing his best to stay on course, Don turned his attention back to the next obstacle. Now he just had to somehow get up to the ceiling. He scanned the various fittings in the room.

  Looking at the basin he thought that if he stepped up on to the side of the bath and then used that to climb up on to the basin, then using the medicine cabinet above it for support, he might just be able to reach it. He could only try.

  It was slightly precarious but as long as his feet didn’t slip on the ceramic surfaces, he thought it did seem doable. If it didn’t work that meant going back to try to look for something to stand on and he couldn’t remember seeing anything in the flat that would be suitable. Most of the chairs in the Thornapple’s flat were amorphous and filled with beans. So then that meant trying to find a ladder or something outside. And all that just increased the length of time he was out and his chances of getting caught.

  Don picked up the hand towel. It was still, as it had been on his previous visit, unpleasantly damp. Don returned it to its hook and began wiping the soles of his feet off on his pants. Still wet from the grass outside he wanted to make sure that they were as dry as possible.

  He rested a hand on the sink and began his ascent.

  The first step took him on to the side of the bathtub, then next onto the sink. So far so good. He had never been the most co-ordinated person and so had to do this slowly. The skin of his feet seemed to be gripping firmly though, as long as he didn’t lose his balance.

  Clutching the dusty top of the medicine cabinet for support, Don brought his other foot up on to the basin. Good. Good. Still holding the cabinet with his left hand for support, Don slowly straightened, raising the other arm up.

  It reached the little panel comfortably enough and Don pushed the square cut-out up, and then slid it back out of the way. As he did a strong smell of decaying rat wafted down. What if he only found an old DVD of Kickboxer 2 or something up here?

  Don stuck his arm up through the hole, prodding about on all sides. Nothing. His heart sank. But then, reaching a little further, his hand brushing against something. Fabric. Damn, damn, damn! It was actually here!

  Don ran his fingers over the coarse surface of the bag. Yes, it was definitely some kind of large bag. Don searched with by touch for an edge or some loose fabric to grab on to. His fingertips moved over what felt like a knotted section.

  Don stretched to reach it. Too far. He lifted his other hand off the top of the medicine cabinet to try to get a better grip, and he did, felt the basin on which now both of his bare feet were resting, accompanied by a loud grating masonry and metal noise, give way to sending him plummeting to the floor.

  Chapter 19

  Don was brought to by a thumping sound. He had no idea where he was, and it took a little while for him to remember that he was lying on his back on Thornapple’s toilet floor and then some more time to work out that the thumping noise was the toilet door bumping against the crown of his head.

  The bumping stopped.

  Don raised his head a fraction and read a short piece of text, green on white. STAR, underneath it: SUPER MAIZE MEAL, underneath it in red: THE CLEVER CHOICE.

  Don recognised the brand. White Star. The top of the logo obscured by where the bag had been knotted with a bit of old rope.

  The maize bag now rested on his belly. He saw his right hand, as if in death rictus, clutching fast to the knot—his subconscious perhaps realising it had what it came for and now wasn’t planning on letting go.

  The door bumped again. Someone was trying to get in. The sensation of being bumped was not particularly pleasant, so Don rolled out of the way and pushed up so that he was now sitting on the floor with his back against the side of the tub.

  Still dazed and disoriented, head and coccyx hurting, Don watched as the door pushed open and the looming form of Thornapple entered. The man fumbled for a switch and the room filled with harsh light.

  Don blinked, squinted. Before him the vegetalista towered, stark naked, swaying bit, first confused and then seeming to recognise Don, then taking in the bag on his lap.

  Don pushed up a bit, still blinking against the light.

  He was just starting to try think of way of plausibly explaining his way out of the situation when Thornapple roared, came forward, and yanked small Don up by the front of his hemp shirt and clear off his feet.

  The only thought running through Don’s mind—though fairly useless in the combat situation—was how surprisingly good quality the stitching of the uniform was, as he was slammed hard back into the wall next to the door. Don’s breath left him in a whoosh and he began gasping for air, making a whooping sound.

  Thornapple now tossed him like a toy over by the broken basin, Don losing his footing and sliding to the floor. Looking down Don saw he was still clutching on to the maize bag.

  When he looked up Thornapple was gone.

  Don was still struggling to suck in air and trying to clear his head when he saw, a moment later, the vegetalista re-enter. In the man’s right hand was what Don identified as (based on some experience with the whole sword and sorcery scene) a sort of fantasy replica of a short-bladed, single-hand gripped Viking sword.

  Thornapple raised the sword and let out an almighty yell. The sound echoed in the small room.

  The giant shaman was standing there screaming, like he was summoning all the powers of Valhalla, Don was sure this was the end. The man was entering Berserker mode or something. The best Don could think of to do was maybe use the money bag to somehow deflect any incoming blows.

  Thornapple’s scream seemed to taper off though, and then Don watched as the tall man’s eyes slowly rolled up in his head, leaving only the whites showing, looking for a moment like the walking dead, before the sword dropped to the tiles—splitting one with the point and narrowly missing the vegetalista’s foot.

  Thornapple staggered back a step only to topple backwards, seeming to catch the side of his face with a nasty crack on the doorjamb as he fell.

  It took a moment for Don to process. Was it a headrush? All the junk he was on? And being so tall?

  Don decided it best to ponder these issues at a later, more convenient, date and so still
clutching the bag tight pushed to his feet, and leaping over Thornapple’s supine form, tumbled out the door.

  Out through the bedroom and lounge he ran, then down the stairs, moving fast but careful not to slip, opening the gate and then he was again out into the night.

  A light was now on in the house. Nutmeg and the cook’s bedroom.

  Someone would have no doubt heard some of the commotion upstairs. If not the bangs and clatters, then surely Thornapple’s screaming. He would have to get moving fast.

  Don retraced his path round the back of the house, the dogs emerging from their kennels again and running with him as he returned to the spot where he’d left his shoes and the mat.

  Quickly retrieving both items, Don headed now for the oak. Reaching the big tree, he tossed his sneaks, and then the maize bag over the wall, hearing them drop onto the street on the other side. He then reached up and, as best as he could, laid the mat over a slightly flattened section of the barbed wire, and then began scrambling up the oak trunk.

  His feet initially struggled to find purchase, the bark was wet. He slipped, scraping his soles, but adrenalin was no doubt still powering him. The next desperate attempt saw him up to the safety of the fork.

  He now needed to navigate the barbed wire. Thankfully he had a tree branch for support. He was still barefoot though. If he’d been able to get out quieter, Don thought uselessly, he would have had time to put on his shoes.

  Don stepped on to the bath mat. A sharp piece of wire poked through and stuck his foot. Pushing thoughts of tetanus shots out of his mind for the moment, Don shifted his foot to try to get it in between the razor spikes, then using the mat to press down the wire.

  Then there was nothing for it but to jump. It was a fairly high fall. Don reminded himself to bend at the knees on landing. Bend at the knees.

  He jumped.

  Don’s feet hit the gravel pavement, knees buckling without him really having to think about it and he gave way to the momentum, like a drunk—or baby—and he rolled off on to the tarmac, tumbling, grazing himself in places he could not yet tally, before finally coming to rest on his back, in the middle of the street.

  Chapter 20

  Laying on his back in the street, sleep deprived, bruised, grazed, with a sore head, Don thought how nice it might be to catch a quick forty winks right there. How long really before Thornapple regained consciousness or someone in the house discovered him?

  The image of the naked, screaming, blade-wielding shaman pushed him to his feet.

  Don went about collecting his Converse and the maize bag (choosing not to worry with the socks that had shot out of the hi-tops and now lay looking sad on the road).

  There was only one direction to head in, this taking him uphill for a long block before the nearest turn—the other way of course leading down into the cul-de-sac.

  Don thought he’d feel a lot easier if were at least around the corner, and out of direct line of sight of the House, before taking time to put on and lace up his shoes. So tucking the maize bag under his arm, he started up the road in an awkward jog. Aware he was not in great shape he attempted to maintain a measured pace, not wanting to burn himself out before he even made it to the corner.

  Despite his slow speed, within a very short distance, he had already begun to feel a painful burn in his lungs and throat. Other than cycling (which he had only started recently, and most of which was done at a very leisurely rate, hills being walked up etc.), Don was largely sedentary and had been for most of his life. Even at school his problems with depth perception managed to mostly get him out of sport. It had been compulsory at his high school to do at least one extracurricular athletic activity and some of the staff had tried to get him into cross country, but after not showing up for practice often enough, they’d eventually given up on him. At the moment though Don wished he’d perhaps continued on with it a bit longer.

  It was a long steep stretch up to nearest intersection and before Don had reached it, he’d already, in addition to the fiery throat and lungs, picked up a nasty stitch on his right side, under the floating ribs. He pushed on nevertheless, doing his best to ignore the pain.

  It was a sharp stab at the bottom of his right foot finally that brought him to a hopping halt.

  Don lifted the foot, removed the sliver of glass that he saw protruding from the sole and chucked it out into the street. Two holes in his foot now. Things were so far not going wonderfully.

  He turned to look back down the street. Still no signs of any pursuit. Would they even pursue? If Thornapple had been keeping the money secret, what would he say had happened? If they did choose to head out to look for him, how long would it take for them to mobilise?

  Don knelt to slip on the sneaks, lacing them quickly as he could, not worrying to thread the laces through all the eyeholes, just getting them a good enough grip on his sockless feet. The ordinary task proved somewhat challenging, with him breathing heavily, and still shaking from this encounter with the vegetalista.

  Then picking up the bag and tucking it again tightly under his arm, Don pushed up again and continued on up the hill.

  Finally making up to the intersection (a T-junction, the long part of the T dropping left, steeply downhill), just about already feeling dead, Don made the turn. This street was thankfully a little darker. Around the corner he slowed to a walk, attempting to catch his breath. He walked for about half a block before breaking into a feeble jog again.

  He made it only a short distance before the pain in his side again slowed him. He began thinking about how long it took for one’s second wind to kick in. And if that was even a real phenomenon?

  Alternating between running and walking, Don made it down to the next intersection. Despite it’s being downhill, his heavier gait intensified the discomfort of the stitch. This next intersection was a four-way stop, Don made a right. He thought if he could maybe zigzag through the neighbourhood it might lessen the odds of him being spotted by any potential pursuit.

  Don considered hopping a wall, maybe trying to get out of sight for a few hours, but the properties along these streets were all surrounded by high walls secured with either razor wire, wall spikes or electric fences. On the other side there were no doubt motion sensing beams and/or dogs. He didn’t fancy jumping over a wall to encounter a couple of Dobermans—even just a Maltese would be enough to alert the owners.

  Anyway, Don thought if he could just get down the hill and into the next suburb the chances of him being spotted by anyone from the House would greatly be diminished.

  Alternately walking and jogging, switching position of the maize bag, lungs on fire, Don made it to the end of the block, now taking a left—still continuing with his zigzag plan.

  Heading again downhill, above the sound of his ragged breaths Don thought he picked up a sound. He slowed, turning to look back up the road. There was a slight play of lights on the reflective signs at the stop street a block up. A car, not yet visible, but, most likely judging by the engine’s increasing volume, it would be shortly.

  Don shifted into higher gear and hurtled down to the next intersection, making a sharp left around the corner, he dashed over to the nearest tree, a huge jacaranda, and crashed down behind the trunk.

  Feeling just about sick now, breathing unavoidably loud and heavy, he waited.

  Had he been seen? He hadn’t had a chance to look behind as he’d motored down the hill.

  Don sat and listened. The rumble of the engine drew closer. Closer, then stopped. It idled for a few moments then pushed on. Just as the vehicle passed Don hazarded a look round the tree trunk. It was the old Beetle.

  Okay. So they were looking for him. And already out. Just one vehicle or both? Don hadn’t seen either the Beetle or the Campervan being used in his time there. Did the other one even work? He recalled Nutmeg mentioning outings.

  Don let his head fall back against the tree trunk, taking a minute to rest, get his breath back and give the car a chance to move on.

 
What would happen if they caught him? Don decided he was just going to do his damn best to avoid finding out. He rose. Overcome with a brief nausea he gagged up some liquid mess on to the pavement.

  He stayed there bent over, one hand on the tree for support trying to gather himself.

  He had to think. Now with the House definitely out looking for him he needed to reformulate his plans. He hadn’t really thought this all properly through; he supposed he hadn’t really realistically envisioned himself getting this far. He’d just been mucking along, taking it a step at a time, taking things as they went. Maybe at most he’d planned on getting out without setting off any kind of alarm, and then would have been able to take a slow stroll back to his place. Now out it the dead of night, aside from the House members out after him, in his hemp outfit, with a bag of God knew how much under his arm, it had probably not been the greatest plan. There was surely a reason for all the high walls and security measures.

  Don considered trying to hide the money, but couldn’t think of a great place. When the streets got busy in the morning, the bag would have a chance of being spotted, and Don’s heart sank at the thought of him returning to find all the results of his work gone.

  He estimated it was a good hour or so walk back to his place, maybe less with jogging, but that wasn’t really going swimmingly. He was already just about dead after only a couple of blocks. But the longer he was out the more chance he had of getting into trouble.

  Don sort of wished now he had more friends, someone close by that he could just crash at. Ricky unfortunately had moved and the closest place he could think of, other than the bookshop, which he didn’t now have the keys for anyway, was Lesley’s.

  Ringing one’s boss’s bell at 3 a.m. or whatever in the morning, Don thought, might normally not have been the best idea, but if the late-night caller had with him a maize bag full of promised money, it might be okay.

  From where he was it was maybe a half hour walk to Lesley’s. Shorter if he forced in some running.