by Tony Moyle
On the rare moments when she did step out of line, which inevitably every seventeen-year-old does, the personal consequences were much more magnified. This was also true of the punishment for her misgivings. As an example to others she visibly carried the can for all her teenage counterparts around the country. Byron felt it was his duty to demonstrate to parents the right way to raise the children of Britain. This hard-edged, arm’s-length, lead-by-example parenting made his relationship with his daughter more than a little fraught. As the pair of them sat silently waiting for dinner to arrive, one stared anywhere but at the other, whilst the other desperately attempted to find an uncontroversial topic to connect them.
“Dad, the bloke that won Rock Star on TV is doing a gig at the Millennium Stadium on Friday,” commented Faith.
“What star?” huffed Byron, his thoughts still seemingly elsewhere.
“Rock Star, it’s a talent contest. You should watch, it might give you a connection to younger voters.”
“No, it wouldn’t. I’d look like a sad old man trying to act cool,” he responded, quite correctly.
“I just thought you might like to watch it with me,” replied Faith dejectedly, proving to herself that there really were no subjects that were safe ground.
“Don’t you have more important things to do with your time?”
Faith rolled her eyes, correctly predicting the forthcoming lecture.
“Do you know what I did today?” said Byron, using one of his favourite catchphrases, aimed at inflating his overimportance to the person he was addressing. It was almost impossible to better the story or event that he was about to reel off.
“No,” said Faith reluctantly.
“Today I spent the day at an inner-city school. Almost all the children there are living under the poverty line. They are in that position, more than likely, because their scumbag parents use the government’s money, my money, on booze, fags and drugs, rather than spending it on their family’s welfare. I don’t expect those kids get time to waste on watching Rock Man.”
“Give her a break, Byron,” encouraged Michelle, as she brought dinner in from the kitchen, placing a large, orange casserole dish in the middle of the table.
“It’s Rock Star, not Rock Man,” huffed Faith. But recognising that her mother’s protection was close at hand she picked up the courage that she’d been waiting for. “Dad, I wanted to know if I could go to that concert on Friday night with a few of the girls from my college?”
“Absolutely not, you know you’re grounded,” replied Byron, as he scooped a large portion of lamb hotpot onto his plate. He’d missed lunch due to a poorly organised day of ministerial meetings and select committee hearings. Lamb hotpot was by no means his favourite but he was so hungry he could have eaten chipboard.
“How long are you going to act like this? It’s so completely unfair, Dad. just because I’m the Prime Minister’s daughter I get treated differently.”
“You get treated differently because other parents do not lift up their Sunday newspapers to find their semi-naked teenage daughter in an uncompromising position with a minor celebrity in a posh London nightclub. A nightclub that you were in illegally,” replied Byron sternly.
“Everyone in my school does these things. I’m just a normal teenager. I wish you were a normal father.”
Byron had decided to ignore this comment, believing food to be more important than a fight. This was one of those moments when he wished he could turn to the Italian Prime Minister and discuss the merits of further sanctions against Zimbabwe. He lifted the first forkful of casserole to his mouth but, interrupted by his mobile phone, it never made contact. If he answered, it would keep him from his dinner but also deflect him away from his awkward dining companion. On balance he decided to answer it.
“Some good news, Prime Minister,” came the distorted voice of Agent 15.
“I think you should let me be the judge of that,” replied Byron as he got up from the table and walked to a quieter corner of the room. “What is it?”
“We’ve got Foster’s apartment and office bugged up to the hilt. On top of that I’ve got surveillance on her twenty-four hours a day.”
“That just sounds like news, nothing particularly good about it,” replied Byron, aggrieved that this rather unexceptional information had interrupted his hunger. “What have you actually learnt so far?”
“She buys Pantene shampoo, sir,” replied Agent 15 sarcastically, “and she hasn’t made any contact with Violet Stokes as yet.”
“I was being metaphorical when I said I wanted to know what shampoo she bought. Look, let me know when you get a proper breakthrough. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to at least start eating dinner with my family, even if I don’t get to finish it,” replied Byron, sitting back down to his casserole and about to close the call.
“There is one more piece of news you might be interested in,” added Agent 15.
Yet again, Byron lowered his fork. “I seriously hope so.”
“Nash Stevens has been arrested on a flight from Heathrow to Geneva. Apparently he didn’t have his passport on him and was acting extremely strangely. They have him held in the airport prison. He’s asking to see the British Embassy. Would you like to intervene?”
“Now that is good news,” said Byron looking at his sullen daughter as she averted her eyes from her father. “Tell them to let him rot.”
*****
According to the Red Cross the worst prison in the world is the Tadmor Military Prison in Syria. Conditions are bleak. As an inmate in Tadmor you have a one-in-three chance that you will die or be killed before the first anniversary of your incarceration. Cells are approximately sixty four feet square and regularly occupied by more than six prisoners. Cockroaches crawl through the bedsheets and temperatures fluctuate between minus six degrees during winter nights, and over forty-five degrees in the summer months. The Army-enlisted prison guards randomly choose inmates for ritual torture, some of whom are brutally maimed or killed in the process. Cholera and dysentery are common side effects from the defecation left in rain-soaked, muddy trenches that line the courtyards. There is no reprieve, no parole and no appeal.
The prison at Geneva Airport is not the worst prison in the world. In fact it wouldn’t make the top hundred. In most people’s opinion it was quite pleasant, as prisons go. Nash Stevens was not most people. As far as Nash was concerned this was the worst prison in the world. Life’s all about perspective. When you are treated to the luxury lifestyle that celebrities of Nash’s standing are, anything lower feels substandard. If a normal member of the public stayed in a two-star hotel they’d probably have quite an enjoyable stay. To Nash it would be like staying in a YMCA and eating in a lay-by greasy spoon. Let’s just say when you’re pampered more than you deserve, it’s not easy adjusting to a lower standard of living. This for Nash was lower than a standard of living got.
John and Nash were in a single-occupancy cell with relative opulence. It had a TV, toilet, air conditioning and plenty of natural light. It wasn’t smelly or cramped. The food was adequate and the guards pleasant. This sort of environment would be bearable for most people if they had to stay for a few days. An inconvenience put down to experience and laughed at jovially later in life, so long as the reason for the visit was resolved quickly.
Having been cooped up in this cell for the last four weeks, John and Nash were getting just a little bit pissed off. John had wasted a month of the three that were available to him to save the Universe. Nash had missed countless parties and a few concerts, and thought his testicles might explode from the lack of sex. On the positive side, that certainly wouldn’t have been the case if he had been in the Tadmor facility. There he’d probably be getting it twice a night.
Neither of them could forecast when they were likely to be released, as the British Embassy staff had been and gone on several occasions. Inexplicably they could not verify Nash’s claims that he was a British citizen. According to them, there was absolute
ly no record of Nash on the passport register and therefore they could not agree to his release. In these days of global hostilities it was just not safe to release someone if it was impossible to confirm their identity.
“Nash, there’s something that I can’t quite work out. Why can’t they find your name on the register?”
“I’ve absolutely no idea,” Nash replied sheepishly.
“There must be a reason why they’re holding you for so long. Have you ever had another name, an alias?”
“Well, yes,” replied Nash as if it was of no significance.
“Have you lost your bloody mind? Why didn’t you tell them?”
“It’s a bit embarrassing. I have a reputation to keep, you know. If the press got hold of my real name it would be the end of me.”
“Oh that’s all right, then. A bit embarrassing is far worse than being stuck in prison for a month with someone possessing your soul. I forgot you love it here! Are you telling me that your embarrassment has meant I’ve lost a month? What sort of imbecile are you?” John clenched Nash’s fist.
Nash ducked it successfully, something he’d learnt to do really well in the last few weeks.
“So, what is it, then?”
“Well, Nash is my rockstar name. I changed it from my real name in my teens. I would never have made it in my profession with my real name…Barbara Stevens?” Nash replied timidly.
“Barbara!”
John’s soul exploded with what he guessed to be laughter. Laughter is not a physical thing in a soul like it is in a human. In a soul it comes through as emotion, and an emotion in a soul is an electrical impulse. Nash’s body lifted off the ground and did a fabulous star jump, his long hair leapt out towards the ceiling, and a small puff of grey smoke came out of his nostrils. John was not immune to the reaction as he went pinballing the length, breadth and width of Nash’s body.
“What the dear Lord was that?” Nash said out loud.
“I think I laughed. Let’s not do that again,” John replied, trying to right himself.
“Please don’t,” agreed Nash, trying unsuccessfully to encourage his hair to come back towards his scalp.
“We need to get the Embassy people back here right now.”
As Nash went to beckon the guard, the door opened in on them. In the entrance stood one of the neatest dressed and most unlikely-looking prison guards imaginable. The guards here were so polite, John and Nash might as well have been staying in a two-star hotel. They weren’t used to dealing with celebrities, or people who were in residence for more than a couple of days. They’d become quite attached to Nash.
“How are you today, Mr. Stevens?” asked the guard in perfect English, but affecting a Gallic accent.
“Tingly,” replied Nash.
“What is tin-ga-lee?” asked the guard.
“It doesn’t matter. We need to see the Ambassador, quickly.”
“Well, you have a visitor here to see you, maybe that’s someone from the Embassy?” replied the guard. “I need to take you to the visitors’ room.”
Both John and Nash could find the visitors’ room blindfolded. They’d been there once a week, every Monday, for the last four weeks. Not to see friends or family, as other inmates would, but on every occasion they had met Sir Noel Cavendish, the British Ambassador to Switzerland, an intensely boring and humourless man. The visitors’ room was separated by a clear perspex wall which divided the tables between the visitor and the inmate. On either side of the glass were telephones which allowed those on either side to speak to each other. When they entered the room it was clear that this was not another visit from the stuffy-nosed, upper-class, Eton-educated Sir Noel.
On the visitor’s side of the table sat a shadowy figure in a dark cloak, his face almost totally hidden from view by his hood. Two bony hands lay flat on the table top, twitching uncomfortably. As Nash sat down opposite, their intriguing visitor beckoned the prison guard over. Whispering something into his ear, the guard, without question or comment, walked from the room, closing and locking the door behind him. John knew this was quite against prison procedure, as a guard was always present at any meeting in this room. One of the bony hands picked up the receiver on his side of the wall. Nash sat motionless, transfixed by the figure sitting opposite. After a moment the man’s other hand pointed at Nash with an outstretched and ominous finger, indicating for him to pick up the other receiver. Nash complied.
“Hello, John,” came a gruff, ancient voice which seemed familiar to John, even though he couldn’t immediately place it.
“John? You’ve got the wrong person. My name’s Barb…Nash, I don’t know who you are.”
“Well, Barb-nash, if you want me to help you get out of here, I strongly recommend that you let your friend speak. Let me speak with John,” replied the dark figure in a soft, sympathetic tone.
“Nash, you need to let me take over. Somehow he knows that I’m here. Let your mind go.”
Nash was in no mood to argue, and if it resulted in freedom, he was happy to go with it. He let go of his mind and allowed John to take over his senses.
“Who are you and how did you know it was me?” asked John sharply.
The stranger pulled back his hood to reveal a face underneath that was old and weathered. The skin on his face hugged his skull so tightly that it was like viewing a living skeleton. His dark and dangerous eyes devoured the available light like the centre of a hungry black hole. Was he smiling? It was hard to tell, as none of his skin appeared to move. It was either a smile, or he was just baring his gap-filled teeth. It was clear that this person would find it hard to distinguish between empathy and psychopathy.
“I see you don’t remember me, John,” said the dark voice echoing through the room, piercing Nash’s skin and targeting John’s resting place.
“I feel something. It’s not recollection, though, it feels more emotive,” replied John, confused by the sensation that resonated around him.
“What emotion are you feeling?” croaked the visitor.
“Wrath.”
“That’s not surprising. You have no recollection of me, John, because the last time we met you were dead and you looked at me through plastic eyes. A soul cannot visualise like a human can. It has no power for visual memory. That’s a function of the brain, and as you had no brain at the time we last met, that would be impossible. What a soul can do is record memories as emotions. My name is Laslow Kreicher, and I am the Arbiter.”
John’s emotions bubbled with tension as this new information brought a fresh perspective. This was the man responsible for sending him to Hell rather than Heaven. This was the man responsible for his current predicament and according to Primordial this was also the only person who could help him. In the chaos of the last five weeks he hadn’t contemplated what his reaction would be when he met Laslow again, even though it had always been his intention to find him. On the one hand, he wanted his anger to leap forward and attack in a fit of revenge. On the other, he knew that wouldn’t help in the long run. He had no choice but to rely on him, however hard an instinct it was. John sucked in his emotion: there might be another time for it.
“Why shouldn’t I kill you?” replied John, anger still fighting with the rational part of his internal argument.
“I don’t think that would be particularly easy for you to execute in your current position, but part of me would thank you for it,” replied Laslow. “After all, it is inevitable anyway. If you fail, we all die.”
“I see that there are upsides to the end of the world,” spat John through gritted teeth. “How did you know I was inside Nash?”
“I have certain abilities that most humans do not.”
“What the hell are you?”
“You really should choose your words more carefully,” he replied, glancing upwards. “As I told you, I am the Arbiter and have been since 1769. I make the final decision as to who goes East and who goes West, but you know that bit anyway.”
“You’re over 250 years
old, but you said that you’re human. How is that possible?” said John, struggling with the maths.
“It’s possible because I am sitting in front of you in the flesh, although I have barely any left. It doesn’t matter why or how it is possible, you just have to accept that it is. I’m sure over the last few months you have accepted many things that previously you didn’t believe.”
“True, but it doesn’t stop me trying to understand them.”
“Rationalising of your belief system will have to wait. I believe there is some haste needed. You’ve already lost a month and are no closer in your task. I am here to help you as much as I am allowed to, or am willing to. What do you need from me?”
John had a million questions that he wanted to ask but got the feeling he might not get to ask that many.
“What is the Limpet Syndrome?” he blurted out.
“A wise and intuitive question, start at the beginning. The truth is no one is absolutely sure. It is not of any creator’s design. It’s a mutation. If humans worked as they were designed to it would not, it could not happen. Over the centuries the human mind has evolved a stronger connection to the inner self and has taken more interest in its own soul. In the past, humans relied on faith in religion for comfort and the pursuit of answers. It’s not the first time in history we’ve seen it. It occurred in some of the ancient civilisations.”
“Like the Egyptians?”
“No, not quite, I’m talking about civilisations that are much older than that, but I’m not here to give you a history lesson. It’s believed that when a human is strong enough, or motivated enough, it can momentarily halt the natural process of death. It can’t stop its body dying, not yet at least, but it can stop its soul dying. It will cling to any form of life that it can find. Its purpose may be varied but every example has a shared need to remain in some form in this world. Lingering to put right something that it deems to be wrong. When a soul does that it is almost impossible to remove, like a limpet stuck to a rock after the tide has gone far out to sea.”
