The Limpet Syndrome

by Tony Moyle

  “Who’s John, Nash? Is that your flatmate, John Hewson?” asked Faith now that the commotion had died down. Remembering her part of the deal with her father if she could get that out of the way she could spend the rest of the evening without guilt.

  In John’s mind the acknowledgement of his existence created an even stronger bond between them. No longer was this someone who Nash knew: he was now captivated by someone who knew he existed. It never entered his mind how she knew about him? What it meant of course was that the government knew about him. If they knew enough they could make the link to Sandy and find out every detail about him. How he died, and who he knew. The consequence of this was massive. It potentially put everyone that John knew in danger. Like a bee to honey, his only focus was on Faith and how to find more ways to connect to her.

  “He’s not so much my room-mate, more my…soulmate,” replied Nash, unaware of the irony.

  “Look can I stay here with you tonight?” asked Faith.

  “Definitely,” replied Nash and John in unison.

  *****

  It was Tuesday morning and Nash was snoring loudly, crashed out in the middle of the king-sized bed in the opulent spare bedroom of Herb’s house. As always, John was awake. But he wasn’t the only one. Faith was out of bed, fumbling around in the dimness of Nash’s room. Incapacitated by Nash, whose eyes were firmly shut in deep sleep, John was unable to see what she was doing. What was she doing? Focusing all his concentration on Nash’s left eyelid, he managed to peel it open. There was Faith, semi-dressed in a skimpy, ivory silk nightie, rummaging around in the pockets of Nash’s clothes.

  ‘What was she looking for?’ thought John.

  Faith opened Nash’s wallet and riffled through the receipts, cash and assorted oddities that he kept within it. She stared at some of the numerous photos of naked women stashed underneath his credit cards, a visual diary of previous conquests. Most women would have been enraged by finding such trinkets, but Faith went past them as if they were library cards. Finally she stopped rummaging as she unfolded a piece of notepaper. John knew instantly what it was. Fiona Foster had given it to him not more than twenty-four hours ago. To the unknowing eye the information would be meaningless, so her interest in it was intriguing at best. Faith assessed it for some time, before placing it back into its place. She shot a cautionary glance back at Nash.

  “Hey, baby, you’re awake.”

  John knew that Nash wasn’t awake, even though one of his eyes appeared to be winking up at her. What should he do? Should he acknowledge her? He desperately wanted to speak to her as John, but he didn’t have the courage to reveal himself. She’d freak out, wouldn’t she?

  “Nash, wake up. WAKE UP!” John shouted internally.

  Nash sat bolt upright searching around for the source that had so abruptly removed him from his slumbers. All he saw was Faith moving towards him like a beautiful dream. She approached the bed, leant over and kissed him on the lips.

  “How was last night for you?” she whispered in his ear.

  “Fantastic,” replied Nash.

  “Like watching your parents have sex. But worse,” added John silently. “In fact much worse. Like directing your parents in a pornographic movie. The result of which is that you would be more than happy for someone to shoot you in the head at any point.”

  It wasn’t pleasant having to live through the whole sordid evening of Nash and Faith, incapable of escape. On the positive side he had learnt some new moves. Although he didn’t think he’d get to use them in his present situation. What made it worse was that it was with Faith. What he would have given to be in Nash’s place instead of being in the weirdest and most surreal ménage à trois imaginable. Faith jumped out of bed and got dressed.

  “I need to go, Nash. I said I’d be home by morning. If I don’t, my dad will probably never let me out of the house again.”

  “Don’t go, then. Stay here. Just for a little while at least?”

  “There’s nothing I’d rather do, but you don’t know what he can be like. He’s just too powerful for me.”

  “When will I see you again?”

  “I don’t know, but if everything goes well today I hope he’ll never stop me seeing you again,” she replied, leaning forward for one final kiss before she left the bedroom and made her way out of the house.

  *****

  Hurrying down the front steps, Faith glanced anxiously at her watch to see if she was going to be late. A large, black Land Rover, clumsily parked on the kerb in front of the house, caught her attention. The passenger door swung open, blocking her route down the pavement.

  “Hello, Faith. Had a good night, did you?” said a voice from the car.

  “I thought my father’s cronies wouldn’t be too far away from here,” she replied, her body frozen to the spot, eyes still focused with tunnel vision towards the horizon.

  “I’m not one of his cronies, Faith. I’m far more than that. You might get to see much, much more of me in the coming years.”

  “I hope not,” she murmured.

  “What was on that piece of paper?”

  At no point did Agent 15 look at his prey, always glaring forward, always coiled to pounce at a moment’s notice and unaffected by the Medusa effect that had so befallen Nash and John.

  “And…what if I didn’t find it?”

  “I hope for your sake you did. Otherwise you might find you don’t have as many limbs tomorrow as you did yesterday. Stop wasting my time,” Agent 15 growled sternly, squeezing the life out of the steering wheel with his clenched hands, wishing they were unleashed on a nice, firm neck.

  “Look, I don’t know what help it’ll be, it made no sense to me. All it said was, J.A.W.S. HQ, 1593-22.”

  “Thank you, Faith. Now get in the car. I’m not finished with you yet.”

  - CHAPTER EIGHTEEN -

  THE PIGEON AND THE PROTESTOR

  A widely accepted opinion on modern-day Earth is that you make your own luck. Yet the word ‘luck’ is still used frequently when something unplanned or improbable happens. Often combined with a friendly expletive, the word might be used when a golfer hits a ball straight into the hole from a hundred yards. That would be seen to be lucky, yet paradoxically if that same shot had landed an inch from the hole it might be greeted with consolation and cries of ‘bad luck’. Can luck really be measured in distance? If the best golfer in the world had successfully hit that same shot, that would be viewed as skill or even genius.

  Some might say that the shot was nothing to do with luck and was instead the result of basic physics. A combination of the right speed, distance, direction and power placed upon the object whilst taking other external factors into account. That would suggest that luck can be controlled, that one has the ability to enhance the probability of being lucky. This view would be contrary to the ‘luck’ of winning the lottery where there is no skill or control involved. So some luck might be skill, and some luck might be chance. So, where does fate fit in? Fate appears to involve neither chance nor skill. It suggests that someone or something is in control of your destiny. With fate, there is nowhere to run and nowhere to hide. The outcome is totally inevitable.

  Ian had often wondered whether he was unlucky or just incompetent. It was true to say he was often the perpetrator of his own misfortune. This was not called being unlucky, it was called being stupid. There was no denying, though, that he’d miss out on his fair share of chance along the way. Right now he was hoping and praying that fate might put in an appearance. He didn’t feel confident in his skill or chance, so if he was going to succeed, someone else had to come to his rescue. It was to Ian’s good fortune that fate was about to put in a guest appearance.

  Ian had flown for about half an hour before he had found Number 12, Blackhorse Way, and surprisingly at the first attempt. This had been somewhat as the result of fate. He knew that the number fifty-seven bus went right up to the junction of Blackhorse Way, and he’d just happened to see that very bus pulling away from Traf
algar Square. He’d followed it until he caught sight of the distinctive, four-storey Georgian terraces that lined both sides of this short and narrow cul-de-sac.

  Number 12, stood out like a sore thumb and had been the bane of fellow residents for over a decade. Every window from basement to roof was broken and had been shoddily boarded up with plywood. As out of place as a bacon sandwich at a bar mitzvah, Number 12 loitered awkwardly amongst its pristinely decorated cousins with their blossoming hanging baskets and colourfully painted façades. Each property, with the exception of Number 12, painted a different brand of bright hue with no two houses the same; pink, blue, cream and yellow, a seaside colour scheme in the heart of a metropolis.

  Having visited it on numerous occasions over the last decade, Ian knew Number 12 well. Mostly he’d been there with Sandy, although occasionally, when it was deemed unsafe for Sandy to appear personally, he’d gone there alone on his instruction. It had been, and still was, the heart of the group known as Justice for Animals, Whatever Species, or J.A.W.S. The key to this place was that it blended in with the increasing number of empty properties that destroyed the fantasy of London’s affluence. The illusion to the outside world was that the property only housed the occasional squatter, vermin or stray dog.

  To the dismay of the neighbourhood, the police had never investigated any of the current occupants. There were several good reasons for that. These people weren’t squatters. Therefore they did not involve themselves in some of the activities that such people are stereotyped for, careful to be extremely quiet and law-abiding. There was another fundamentally more important reason, though. The real owner of the property had allowed the occupants to live there and had struck a deal with the police to distance themselves from the property. Which is all very well really, as the security on the place was like Fort Knox.

  All this was possible because the house was owned by one Sandy Logan. He’d used his connections to equip it with some of the most technologically advanced security devices power could buy. Even if the police did want to get in they’d need to be James Bond himself to gain entry. There was only one drawback to this security. When Sandy had arranged to have the keypads, cameras, infrared and voice recognition built in, he hadn’t foreseen that Ian might need to gain entry without the use of his hands. It’s an easy oversight in fairness!

  Ian perched on the fence, scanning the familiar equipment used to keep the place a secret and allow members like him access. He guessed that the voice recognition would be okay and he remembered the PIN needed for the security pad. What he couldn’t con were the cameras. If they caught a pigeon tapping the code in with its beak it might draw the attention of some of the people less sympathetic to a talking pigeon. Not everyone connected to J.A.W.S. was quite as tolerant as Violet when it came to animal protection. It was clear that some of the membership were less interested in the animal welfare issue and more interested in a damn good brawl. It suited Violet to have some of these characters around. Being a pacifist was one thing but she had no qualms if others felt the need to use violence.

  There was one advantage of being a pigeon, even an unusually big one. You could fit into the small places of the world. Violet’s quarters were, as Ian remembered it, at the very back of the building near the rear entrance. Violet believed that even with the security if anyone did manage to enter the site they would first and foremost be after her. That’s why she had an emergency exit built near the back of the house that would allow her a swift retreat if ever it were needed. This getaway was via a cellar that led from Violet’s bedroom, out under the garden and up through a public toilet into a small park area.

  If he remembered how to get in, it would take him directly to Violet, and if she wasn’t there now she soon would be. It was late evening by Ian’s guess and she always came back here when she was in hiding, the only truly safe place for her to be. Over the top of Blackhorse Way he flew, opening up the panorama in the distance of a small park with its dense trees and untended lawns. It wasn’t one of those fancy gated gardens found all over London, only accessible by rich local homeowners. This one was a public space and the types of people that visited at this time of night were best described as shady.

  Ian landed gracefully at the front of the public toilets, carefully analysing the scene for any signs of the usual oddballs. The door to the woman’s toilet no longer stood in its frame, allowing easy entrance for its unusual visitor. Ian searched his memory to remember how the tunnel worked. To get from the house to this side was easy. There was a button hidden in a bookshelf that opened a hatch in the floor. The tunnel had always been designed to be used to get out of the house, not into it. It was possible, but it had been made difficult to ensure that no one came across it by mistake. Access was neither easy nor pleasant. Ian hopped into one of the cubicles and onto the seat of the toilet. The trigger to open a hatch in the cubicle wall was located on the U-bend inside the toilet bowl.

  “Oh shit,” Ian muttered as he stared down into the murky waters of the pan. He wasn’t just being figurative.

  Up and down onto the cistern handle he jumped in a vain attempt to flush away the toilet’s toxic contents. After several attempts only a tiny trickle of water ran down the inside of the porcelain bowl. If Ian was still wondering whether there was such a thing as luck, then he’d just found the answer.

  “It’s no good, I have to do it for Sandy.”

  He held his breath, hoping he knew how pigeons did it, and jumped head first into the bowl. On his first attempt the smell of the grimy water was so repulsive it made his insides turn outwards, rebounding him straight back out again. On the second attempt his beak touched the lever but he was unable to pull it forward sufficiently before running out of breath. He jumped out again, soaking wet and panting for fresh, clean air. Undeterred, for the third time he jumped back in. Gulps of sewage water ran down his throat at every attempt to bite at the handle. Time ticked by, ever closer to his need for air, as he thrashed around in the world’s most disgusting bird bath. Eventually, either by skill, chance or fate, the lever came loose.

  Clambering up the side of the bowl he used the last of his energy to heave himself up onto the edge. Whilst he was thanking the Lord that the ordeal was over, he become aware that he was no longer alone. A bedraggled and severely underdressed middle-aged woman stood limply at the cubicle door. Her lipstick and mascara had run to join each other on the sides of her face, creating a female version of the Joker. She attempted to brush the matted iron-wool hair from her eyes, revealing the true extent of her miserable expression. Clearly not having the best of nights, she’d popped into her usual place to shoot up the necessary dose of heroin to numb the rest of her evening.

  What she hadn’t counted on seeing was a pigeon, drenched from head to toe in shit, pop its head over the top of the toilet seat. Deciding wisely that another dose of heroin wasn’t necessary, she left the cubicle in slow reverse. Chance might have finally shifted in his favour. Not only had she left without commotion, but also for the first time in the history of ever the hand dryer in the toilets was actually working.

  A quick blow-dry did nothing to reduce the stench of his newly acquired aroma. But he was dry, if not a little permed. The gap in the wall had opened and he hopped down into the floor, following the sewer system that the tunnel had been crafted from. A few hundred yards from the entrance it took a familiar climb upwards to a spring-loaded trapdoor. Mercifully, it was far easier and more pleasant to open this entrance than the one in the toilet. There was a simple catch that released the spring, dropping the floor section in Violet’s bedroom down into the tunnel. Remembering that the spring-loaded floor rapidly returned into position, designed to avoid any pursuers following after you, he flew without hesitation into the room.

  The only light inside came from a small table lamp next to the bed. With limited sight, Ian made out the figure of a woman lying fully clothed on the bed, rumbling like a hippo in a sleep that was neither restful nor complete. The woman had the com
plexion of a person in their late-fifties, although Ian knew she was considerably younger. Without the use of products to improve herself, whether tested on animals or not, added to the conditions in which she lived had added years to her complexion. Unlike most women she was as natural as the day she was born. In her outlook if it was natural, it was good. If it wasn’t, it was bad, there was only black and white with Violet. Would she change that paradigm, given that Sandy was most definitely grey?

  Unsure of the reaction that he might get, Ian carefully made his way over to the side of the bed to check for certain that it was Violet Stokes. He’d been so focused on finding her, he’d given no thought to what he would do when he succeeded, never really believing that he would. How was he going to get her onside? Subtlety, he felt, was the order of the day. Unfortunately both subtlety and skill chose that moment to spontaneously abandon him. Attempting to land silently on the bedside table, he overdid the flight and careered into the lamp, which sent it and Ian down the side of the bed.

  Half in and half out of sleep, Violet sat upright to locate the source of the noise. Violet’s deep sense of anxiety meant that everything was bad news until it was proved otherwise. Struggling to search around the room, as the only light source was now rolling around the bedroom floor, her heart rate slowed in conclusion that her flailing arm must have dislodged the lamp whilst she slept.

  She got out of bed to put the light back in its rightful place and to her great surprise found an unconscious pigeon spreadeagled on the floor. She picked it up, immediately more concerned for its well-being than its unusual appearance in her bedroom. With the careful touch of a vet, she placed it on the bed, assessing it for any breaks or bruises. Dazed, confused and unsure of his whereabouts, Ian opened his eyes.