The Limpet Syndrome

by Tony Moyle

  “Good luck, John. You’re on your own now.” Brimstone pulled a lever and the whole cavern was engulfed in a flash of blue light.

  *****

  Edward Reece was at the front of a large, noisy and sweaty crowd that swarmed around the confined space of the Assembly Rooms, a concert venue in the heart of London. About two thousand people were pushing him forward into the barrier, erected to keep the crowd away from the stage but not, unfortunately in Edward’s view, the crowd from him. It was an understatement to say that he was uncomfortable and was enjoying himself much less than the dancing, bouncing population of people around him.

  Did his ears still work? They throbbed and quivered with the blast from the speakers stacked to the ceiling, belting out hundreds of decibels of rock music, which to him might as well just be a recording of an orchestra of jackhammers. He really didn’t want to be here. He’d been pressured into coming by some of his work colleagues who he normally didn’t socialise with. His real reason for attending was his huge, but hidden, crush on Nancy from the legal department who was currently ricocheting around him, reminiscent of someone who had just lit a firework in their pants.

  ‘The Wind-up Merchants’ had just finished the second hour of their concert and Edward hadn’t recognised even one of their songs. Radio 4 never played much music. He couldn’t wait for it to finish so he could go to the doctors and have his ears syringed, after they were sown back on, that is. Maybe his prayers had been answered? The band had finished their last song and were leaving the stage to a rapturous chorus of “encore” that drowned out one faint voice of “no more”. Clearly God had decided not to listen to Edward’s request and the band returned to the stage to a symphony of excitement. The crowd waited for the lead singer to announce one of their favourites and continue their enjoyment, and Edward’s nightmare.

  “Thanks, London, you’re amazing. I’d like to introduce you to the band that has rocked the foundations tonight. On drums, Ian McMillan.”

  Edward ducked as a drumstick catapulted just over his side parting.

  “On bass guitar, Brian Fox.”

  The resulting bass solo sent the P-wave from an earthquake directly at him from the nearest speaker.

  “On lead guitar, Stan ‘mad man’ Jenkins.”

  ‘Please, please, for pity’s sake, STOP.’ Nancy thought she saw Edward mouthing to the stage, but it was washed away by the sound of an epic guitar solo.

  “And on lead vocals, me, Nash Stevens.”

  On each announcement of the band members, a roar of shouts and screams echoed around the room. That wasn’t the loudest noise of the evening, though. Directly after the introduction of the lead singer a huge thunderclap ripped through the air, followed by the most brilliant flash of blue light. The crowd went wild, assuming that this was some amazing special effect planned as a great finale by the band. A beach ball-sized cloud of blue gas was floating above the stage, moving erratically, unsure which direction it wanted to go in. Finally it gave up hope and shot forward into Nash Stevens, who crumpled to the floor on impact.

  There was a spontaneous gasp of breath from two thousand fans. Even Edward joined in, this being the first piece of audience participation that he had entered into. Nash pulled himself to his feet using the microphone stand as a prop and shouted to the crowd, “There’s someone in my head!”

  The audience went wild with excitement, presuming that this announcement was a new song that the band was going to play for the first time.

  Through Nash’s eyes, John witnessed two thousand faces waiting expectantly. There was a guitar in his hands that he was unable to control, and he produced one single simple word.

  “SHIT.”

  Edward Reece remained squashed, still bored, still hopeful of an earlier-than-expected finish and absolutely oblivious as to how close he came.

  - CHAPTER TEN -

  OUT OF THE DARKNESS

  The darkness that surrounded Sandy was absolute. Not a single chink of light could penetrate it and even time itself was struggling for relevance. Minutes, days, years, or very possibly an eternity had passed since the point when normality had last put in an appearance. Perceptions and memories in equal measure had been blended, shaken and whipped into a muddled soufflé, anxious about their chances of rising to the top to see the light. As time had elapsed it signalled for the space around him to reduce. The smooth, concave floor that lay beneath him slowly shrank and heightened his sense of claustrophobia. Now there was almost no free space, an abundance of darkness, more time than he cared to wish for and a hard enamel surface pushing up against him, making it increasing difficult to breathe.

  Forced to sit immovably by his surroundings, he attempted to catalogue his memories back into an acceptable order. The explosion in the van felt like an experience that was not altogether his own. Somewhere deep within his psyche a scar ached from the forces of two lives being ripped apart and separated in a fraction of a second. That vague pain was the start and the end of his thoughts, everything else having been substituted by a vacuum that tried to cast doubt on his very existence. For a long period he believed his isolation in this nothingness was just the experience of death.

  As time crept immeasurably onward, the possibility of him not being dead looked more promising. The lack of space around him had brought the realisation that he had a physical presence in this void. As he regained the ability to move and touch, it seemed to trigger his ability to think and feel more clearly. Perhaps it was the space enclosing around him that triggered the emotion of fear that finally affirmed that he wasn’t dead, panic not being something dead people think much about. Whatever this existence was, it was definitely not the one he was used to.

  The fact that he had a sense of his past meant that this state was a hybrid of the then and now. Some of the emotions that washed over him were undoubtedly familiar. He had a concept of who he was, where he had come from and what he had been, yet there was another part of his instinct which was alien and highly disturbing. This perverse alter ego generated a weird sensation of vulnerability in him, and as the cocoon had shrunk it was this part of his psyche that had felt the need to escape.

  Driven inextricably by these acquired instincts, he pushed outwards in the search for a weakness or escape route from the smooth walls that encased him. He reached out to find the handle of a door that would suddenly become visible, but he was unable to locate any. There was no door and, more worryingly, there were no hands to open one with. Something else occupied the space where his hands had once been, but they certainly weren’t hands. On discovering this he panicked and threw his head towards the wall. A crack echoed around him and the whole place rocked back and forth. Undeterred, the new odd portion of his instinct told him to do it again. The second head-butt was even more forceful than the first and sent the cocoon rolling over the top of itself like a human bowling ball.

  Sandy tried to wriggle himself back to what he hoped was an upright position, if that was possible when your feet seemed to be constantly somewhere around your head. A thin stream of light seeped in from a crack in the wall, allowing Sandy more certainty of his position. Encouraged, he made several more successful attempts to widen it, creating a large hole that flooded him with light and fresh air. A sea of green shook and shimmered in the sky above, an alien world waiting to welcome him.

  Sliding his body so that his head was near enough to the hole for him to see, he pushed it through to get a better understanding of where he was. As his face met the fresh air for the first time in months, his relief was instantly replaced by panic. There in front of him, blinking merrily, was a round, feathery head the size of a beach ball with a beak like an ostrich. The head belonged to a massive pigeon that cooed maternally, eager to introduce herself after enduring a long wait and a sore arse.

  “MY GOD!” shouted Sandy, ducking back inside.

  What had once been his prison now became a welcome sanctuary. Over the last few weeks he would have given anything to escape his smooth,
dark cell. But now he felt a lick of paint and it could be a cosy place to stay, forever. It would be better than going out there again. He wasn’t the only one in shock. The pigeon, who had expected Sandy’s first response to have been something along the lines of, ‘Coo,’ had just heard a human voice and before long, it started again.

  “Sod off,” came an echo from within the egg.

  The pigeon took a step backwards.

  “Where the bloody hell am I?” he whispered to himself.

  Sandy peered again through the gap to get a better look and make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. As well as a pigeon the size of a horse, who had now backed away even further, he could see that there were about four or five eggs nearby. These were also massive, at least based on what Sandy remembered the size of eggs to be, relative to him.

  “What do you want with me?” Sandy shouted out to the pigeon.

  Neither of the current inhabitants of the nest seemed to be pleased by their predicament. Both were feeling confused and stressed. Both had expected quite different outcomes, and one at least was finding the situation altogether too much to deal with. The pigeon flapped its wings and flew off into the vicinity of another tree a few yards away.

  Sandy took the opportunity of the pigeon’s retreat to get out and explore. Struggling out onto the loosely constructed nest he stretched his body to its full height, loosening limbs and muscles that had spent too long fused together. As he did so he noticed why he had no hands. Where his arms and hands would normally have been were long-feathered, blue-grey wings. Convinced that his eyes were malfunctioning, he glanced to the other arm and found the same outcome. As the wind breezed through the feathers, he felt them tug gently on his skin. There was no escaping the fact that these strange appendages belonged to him.

  “What am I?”

  He moved his wings experimentally to see how they worked and what they would do. They seemed to work very much like arms apart from the obvious visual differences. It wasn’t just his arms that weren’t as he remembered them, there had been other changes. The last time he’d seen his feet they were covered with a pair of sturdy, black Dr. Marten’s boots, but now they weren’t even covered with hair. Instead, an excess of leathery grey skin clung loosely to the bones as if they were intended for someone with slightly bigger feet. Finally he raised a wing to his face to explore his features, immediately discovering the most noticeable difference from the past: a stiff, pointy beak.

  “I’m a pigeon? No, don’t be stupid, get a grip on yourself. Oh please, please tell me I’m in a coma?”

  There was a sudden ‘CRACK’ from one of the other eggs and Sandy looked around for the source of the noise. After another ‘CRACK,’ Sandy located the egg where crazy paving fractures now ran chaotically down the side. With one final ‘CRACK’ the bright white head of a young pigeon forced its way through the top of the shell.

  “OH SHIT. A monster pigeon,” came a voice that retracted its head gopher-like back from where it had come.

  Unfortunately, Sandy knew immediately who it was. He cursed his luck that, wherever he was, coma, dream or reality, it seemed impossible to shake off his incompetent companion.

  “It’s just my luck that I’m landed with you again, you cretin,” said Sandy.

  However badly Sandy’s memory had been affected by recent ordeals his soul would take a long time to erase the stupidity of Ian ‘Cher’ Noble. Ian re-emerged cautiously from his shell, head bobbing up and down, casing the creature that stood in front of him.

  “It’s me, Ian, or as far as I can make out at least, it’s some of me.”

  Sandy watched as Ian went through the same roller coaster of emotions that he had gone through minutes earlier, although it was going to take Ian more time for it to sink in. All Ian knew at the moment was there was a pigeon the size of a cow telling him, “It’s me.”

  “Who are you…strange, talking bird?” murmured Ian, his head half in and half out of the broken egg.

  “Sandy. I’m Sandy. That poor sod whose life you have seen fit to ruin, and seemingly will continue to ruin in the afterlife or whatever twisted reality we have found ourselves in.”

  The cogs in Ian’s feathery head went into overdrive for a moment. This couldn’t be a coincidence? It sounded remarkably like Sandy, even if it came from something that didn’t look remarkably like him. Ian took in this strange incarnation of his friend. After more than a pause, unsure what to say next, he broke his silence.

  “I hate to be the one to tell you this, mate, but you appear to be a…a…pigeon.”

  “Ian, it’s not just me. So are you.”

  “Look, I know you must be upset about this Sandy, but don’t be daft. I’m not a pigeon: that’s impossible, ludicrous.”

  “Ian, do me a favour, can you give me a hand? I seem to have a small piece of shell in my wing. Could you pick it out for me?”

  “Of course, mate.”

  Ian struggled to crawl out of his egg, eventually landing in a heap on the nest. He picked himself up and hopped over to Sandy and after much flapping, found the piece of eggshell to which Sandy was referring. After several bungled attempts to remove it, Ian sat down on the twigs.

  “I can’t seem to remove it. I think my arms must have got cramp from being inside there all this time,” he announced, pointing at the broken shell without the slightest mental connection.

  “It’s not cramp, Ian. I think you’ll find they’re called wings.”

  Ian raised his arms in front of his face to see that his arms were covered in white feathers. As he did so, Sandy walked up to him and pecked him directly in the middle of the forehead, sending Ian tumbling backwards and almost off the edge of the nest.

  “That’s for killing me,” said Sandy, helping Ian to his feet as best as he could. “We’re both pigeons, so let’s get over it and think about what we’re going to do.”

  “How did we get like this?” asked Ian.

  “That’s the big question, isn’t it? That’s if this is real in the first place, which, if that peck hurt you, I believe it probably is,” said Sandy.

  “Hurt like hell.”

  “What do you remember after the bomb blast?”

  “Not much really. I remember feeling pain and then I remember seeing bits of my body all over the place. After that I remember travelling incredibly fast before a long period of darkness,” replied Ian, who was able to recollect far more of the incident than Sandy had.

  “Do you believe in reincarnation, Ian?”

  “Not really.”

  “Then I think you might need to think again. I believe that somehow we have been reincarnated. Did you feel that you had a choice when you were looking down at your bodyparts?”

  “Yes, I think so. I remember thinking how mad you were going to be that I’d screwed everything up. I knew I needed to make it right. What about you?”

  “Similar, I remember thinking that I needed to stick around to stop what I saw happening on that night, although I can’t remember what it was now. After that came the darkness.”

  Both of them sat down on the floor silently contemplating what might have happened and trying to force out further memories of that early morning in March.

  “So, what do we do now?” asked Ian.

  “Coo.”

  “What did you say, Sandy?”

  “I didn’t say anything,” replied Sandy.

  “Yes you did, you said, ‘coo’ or something?”

  “No, I really didn’t,” replied Sandy forcibly.

  “Coo.”

  Both of them glanced around in simultaneous slow motion to find that they were no longer alone in the treetops. Sitting behind them was a newly hatched pigeon. It smiled warmly, or at least that’s how Sandy would have described it, not understanding pigeon expressions that well yet.

  “Is that one of us?” asked Ian.

  “I guess it might be a half-brother or half-sister,” replied Sandy surreally. “The half being the pigeon half, that is. This is starting
to freak me out. We need to get out of here before something tries to eat us, or sit on us, or worse.”

  “I guess that there is one thing that might help,” said Ian. “Pigeons can fly.”

  “Yes, but are we real pigeons?”

  “We have wings, don’t we? Should be feasible, shouldn’t it?”

  “Coo,” affirmed the new arrival.

  “Only one way to find out, Ian, give it a go,” said Sandy mischievously.

  Ian walked to the edge of the nest and peered over the side at a drop of probably no more than twenty feet by human standards. Although they seemed to be somewhat bigger than the other pigeon that had just joined them, it was still a long way down in their present form. Ian flapped his wings in a rather amateurish fashion. However much he flapped his feet were still very much on the floor. Jumping up and down didn’t help much either.

  “Maybe you have to jump off to get the velocity right,” prompted Sandy, either helpfully or wickedly.

  Ian stood on the edge of the nest looking downwards at the distant muddy ground. He took two paces backwards and did a run and jump, flapping furiously all the time. For a split second Ian hovered momentarily in mid-air before the realisation that gravity was always going to win this contest. Ian plummeted towards the ground, accelerating as he fell in a symphony of ruffling feathers and wind-effected screams.

  Sandy and the other pigeon rushed to the edge, both seemingly interested for entirely different reasons. Ian wasn’t there. Seconds later the ostrich-sized pigeon, that Sandy had seen previously, landed behind them with Ian held firmly but gently in its claws. Even with these peculiar offspring the maternal instinct would not allow her to ignore his fall, much to Ian’s relief. When Ian had come to rest safely on the nest floor, he shuffled over to Sandy.

  “It appears that we can’t,” stated Ian.

  - CHAPTER ELEVEN -

  BROUGHT DOWN TO EARTH