by Hughes, Rhys
“Do you have many enemies?” he asked me casually.
It soon emerged I had absorbed a large amount of arsenic through the ink of the letters sent to me by the hopeful contributor to my magazine. His rewritten suicide notes were really an attempt at assassination! I was impressed as well as horrified by this subterfuge. It served as a timely reminder I was not the only scoundrel in the world, that some others were naturally vicious rather than simply fulfilling a vow never to be good. I had accidentally saved my own life by breaking off the correspondence. My system was weakened but not fatally. I would fully recover in time, but it was essential I give up work and take a complete rest. Those were the doctor’s orders.
Taking time off work was easy enough, for I never needed to report to my employers. I felt sure they had other ways of monitoring my progress. I had enough money to last me many years when the wage packets stopped. My mind was peaceful on that score. But another thought began to obsess me. Without my constant mischief-making, the quality of life in the city must improve. While I was recuperating and not spreading chaos, life had to get better for everyone else. With one less ‘Scamp of Disorder’ to make existence miserable, a tangible rise of standards had to be observable in the coming weeks. I entertained myself by imagining some of the positive things that might happen.
I had various images in my head, involving people helping other people, little acts of empathy and support. One of my favourites involved the daily traffic jam in the complicated circuit of roads in the city centre. I visualised a perfect gridlock with all the vehicles stuck behind each other unable to move even the smallest distance. Suddenly the doors of the cars opened and all the passengers got out and walked forward to the next car ahead. They entered these other cars and closed the doors. In this manner they shifted themselves one position forward. A few minutes later they repeated this action. Continuing this process, all the commuters would find their way out of the monumental jam.
This was a bizarre fantasy, of course, and it relied on people not caring who sat in their vehicles provided they could sit in somebody else’s. It was an elaborate metaphor for the concept of sharing, I suppose. As my health returned I decided to talk long walks. To my bewilderment, life in the city had not improved at all during my absence. If anything, it had got worse. Everybody wore sour faces and walked with aggressive but also somehow dejected strides. I remained flabbergasted. Had all my previous wickedness been in vain? Had I wasted my life, betrayed my father and lost Belinda for nothing? The world without Scurrility was more scurrilous!
How could such a thing be? An answer was provided by a chance encounter with one of the men who originally recruited me. I was standing on a bridge gazing at the river when he came up and stood behind me. He knew what my trouble was and spoke first.
“Don’t feel too gloomy,” he said. “The reason why life has got worse rather than better since you took time off work is because you have stopped causing mischief to other mischief-makers. Do you understand now? You were a villain to everyone around you. But some of those people were also mischief-makers. You aren’t the only rogue in this city, Mr Forepaws, nor are you the worst, not by a long way. But your acts of mischief, which were always directed at random members of the population, frequently sabotaged or interfered with the plans of other scoundrels, hampering them and accidentally helping to make the world a finer place.”
The irony was unbearable. I digested it slowly and muttered, “You mean to say that if I hadn’t dedicated my life to mischief there would be more mischief in life?”
He clapped me on the shoulder. “It’s all part of the rich pageant of disorder.”
He moved away and I wept a few tears before embarrassment dried them in their ducts. I looked at the people who passed me on the bridge and I wondered which of them were rogues like me, or rogues even more dastardly. Possibly every single inhabitant of the city was a member of the same secret society. I’d never learned how many scoundrels it employed. Or perhaps they were members of different secret societies devoted to the same purpose? Who could tell? It now seemed very likely there was no such thing as an innocent person. It was much more plausible that we were all mischief-makers of varying degrees of skill, hindering each other and chaos in the name of chaos.
*
A few weeks later there was another knock on the door of my apartment. I opened it and found myself facing two men but not the two men who visited me before. They didn’t try to push their way inside. I asked them directly if they represented ‘The Scamps of Disorder’ or some other organisation committed to strife and badness. They shook their heads. On the contrary, they were agents of a secret society devoted to regularity and order, the exact opposite of my former employers. I invited them in and made them cups of coffee while they explained the reason for their visit. It was unexpectedly connected with my father.
“We knew him quite well,” one of them revealed, “but he was a very private individual. He liked to conceal his activities from everyone.”
“We were in business together,” the other man clarified.
I remembered the long sailing voyages my father had been apt to take. The first man said, “We came into possession of one of his journals. He misplaced it and it remained jammed in a dark corner of a ship’s cabin for many years. Anyway, when we finally got hold of it, we read it carefully. It turns out that on one of his travels he discovered a land where everyone is happy and peaceful and nothing is ever a disappointment. That’s where he’s living now.”
“So he lied about the universal misery of the world!” I cried.
“Well his name should have given you a clue — Fibber Forepaws.”
I sulked. “My mother told me that the word ‘Fibber’ meant golden haired and noble chinned. You just can’t trust anyone at all, can you?”
The men smiled gently. “Except in that land your father discovered.”
I sighed. “What do you want of me?”
“Nothing much. It’s just that as his son we thought you should be kept informed. But we do intend to make a proposal to you. We are fitting out a ship at this very moment on behalf of our organisation. We plan to sail to that perfect land. Our own world could learn a lot from them, don’t you think? We intend to bring back their ideas, their way of life, their peacefulness and happiness. Do you want to come with us? Such a voyage might well be a victory blow for our organisation, for regularity and order. It could destroy chaos. We are offering you a chance to join the winning side, to become part of history. What do you say? It could be magnificent!”
I considered deeply. “Very well. But don’t you think it would be a good idea to take some gifts with us? Something to demonstrate our good intentions?”
The men were ecstatic. “What do you suggest?”
“Something simple but effective. I know for a fact that Gulliver’s Jam Factory has just gone bust and closed down. They will be selling off their remaining stock very cheaply. A thousand pots of jam should do the trick.”
We shook hands on the deal. After they left I performed a little dance.
Scurrility, you sly rascal!
(2005)
Ye Olde Resignation
When Celia Radical saw the size of the nostalgia storm in Betjeman Gardens, she was astonished that nobody had reported it sooner. The typical suburban setting had been profoundly affected by the winds of yearning. Couples stood on tidy lawns chatting and smoking cigarettes. There were even some bicycles on the streets.
“Living in the past!” she muttered ruefully as she checked the readings on her retrospectometer. Under the rose tinted glass the dials had stopped spinning. The eye of the storm was located in the kitchen of one of the dwellings. She wove her way between the figures and rang the bell of the house in question.
The door opened and Mrs Diode peered out tentatively. She wore several strings of beads looped about her neck. “At last! It’s getting worse, you know. My husband has been wearing a cravat all morning and I’ve had this terrible impulse
to dance a Charleston. Is there anything you can do?”
Celia sighed. “Show me the eye,” she said. She followed Mrs Diode through the hallway into the kitchen. As she passed the open door of the lounge, she glimpsed a man with a dark kiss-curl pasted to his forehead winding up a clockwork gramophone. “Mr Diode?”
Mrs Diode nodded. “Best not to disturb him. I think he has absorbed more nostalgia than I have. He hardly talks to me anymore. Prefers to read newspapers and tune the wireless.”
Celia placed her retrospectometer on the floor and felt under the sink. The eye of the storm blinked at her apprehensively. “Why didn’t you blindfold it earlier?” she demanded.
Mrs Diode cleared her throat and shrugged her shoulders. She fitted a cigarette into a long holder, raised it to her lips and then changed her mind. She started polishing the leaves of an aspidistra that had forced its way through the floor.
Celia fixed the blinking eye with a cold stare. “It looks to me as if someone has been batting their lashes at it. You should bear in mind that’s not only highly illegal but also rather reckless.”
Mrs Diode blushed and became restless. Ignoring her, Celia quickly hypnotised the eye and sent it into a deep sleep. Then she carefully extracted it with tweezers and dropped it in a black bag. “That will be 350,000 credits,” she said.
“What’s that in old money, dear?”
“Seven pounds, four shillings, two pence,” replied Celia.
She picked up her retrospectometer and made her way out of the kitchen back through the house. In the lounge, the clockwork gramophone had been replaced by a slightly later valve model. “You’re lucky this time,” she told Mrs Diode, who was following her. “The effects seem to be wearing off already. Be more careful in future.”
Mrs Diode nodded. She pressed something into Celia’s hand. Celia looked down and saw food coupons. “Get yourself some butter and powdered eggs,” came the whisper. “I know you’ll keep quiet about this. Go on, take them, love.”
Celia frowned and returned the coupons. “I want you to understand that it is a criminal offence to attempt to bribe an employee of the Style Council. I may have to suggest you contact a solicitor if you persist in this blatant disregard of fashion ethics.”
“Let me tell you about my nephew,” Mrs Diode began.
“No thanks, I’m busy,” said Celia.
“Ah, you sneak!” Mrs Diode turned away in disgust, removing the bubblegum from her mouth and adjusting her beehive hairdo. The decades were falling back into place rapidly. Celia reached the front door and rubbed her eyes. The winds of yearning were dying down. The environment was shimmering and changing even as she looked.
Outside, a skiffle band was growing its hair.
*
Back in the office, Celia collapsed into her swivel chair and waited for it to massage her neck and shoulders. “I’m tired of working out in the field,” she told her assistant. “So tired!”
Jules Oviform was sympathetic. He patted her hand and flashed his new smile at her. He rarely failed to amuse Celia: she had spent a small fortune on his French accent and love of garlic. The voicebox and tastebuds had been grown together in a tank and grafted on at a private clinic. Celia had chosen him for his entertainment value.
“People can be so obtuse,” she added. “I met a housewife today who flirted openly with a big blue storm eye. Thought she could have some harmless fun! She let herself and her neighbours regress back to the 1920s before doing anything about it.”
Jules raised Celia’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I only have eyes for you. And not just eyes but croissants too.” Celia withdrew her hand and wiped it with a handkerchief.
“What worries me is where the rogue style goes after it disperses. Is it all accumulating in the atmosphere?”
Jules made a comic face. “Ah, mon cheri! Such ideas!” But Celia was in no mood for his buffoonery. She switched on her secretary and began to forge ahead with her report. Paperwork depressed the machine as much as it depressed her. To enliven the process, the secretary occasionally queried the accuracy of her version of events.
A chime sounded and Celia threw up her arms in despair. “What now?” she cried. The chime was a summons from Big Boss Barium. This usually meant more problems. She stood and made her way out of the office onto the moving walkway of the corridor.
Big Boss Barium was sweating in his plush room, his huge bulk suspended from the ceiling on a system of wires. He greeted Celia with his customary sneer. The neons on his oversized pinstripe suit crawled with council slogans. “Sit down, Ms Radical.”
“There’s nowhere free,” she replied.
“Exactly!” he roared in triumph.
The room was filled with large rubber balls designed to break his fall if the wires snapped. Big Boss Barium glowered for a full minute in silence and then he spoke again, his chins wobbling alarmingly as he rumbled the words in her direction. “I’ve had a complaint, Ms Radical. A complaint concerning you. I want you to know that the Style Council takes such matters very seriously.”
“Who made the complaint?” she asked.
Big Boss Barium chewed his fat lip. “The Chief of Police, El Greco Cooper himself! He rang through a few minutes ago and demanded to know why you were poking about in Betjeman Gardens.”
“I was doing my job,” responded Celia.
Big Boss Barium shook a finger smudged with chocolate. “Mrs Diode is one of his favourite aunts. We don’t take action against the friends and relatives of the police force. We can afford to let a few nostalgia storms work themselves out naturally. I suggest that you return the eye to her kitchen immediately!”
“I sent it to the crushers half an hour ago.”
“Can’t you call it back?”
Celia shook her head. “It’s already jelly.”
Big Boss Barium held his head in his chubby hands. Pulleys groaned and squeaked as he sobbed. “There’s such a thing as being too efficient, Ms Radical. This is all becoming a mess.”
“El Greco must learn to live with disappointment.”
Big Boss Barium flew into one of his melodramatic rages. They were bad for his health but sometimes earned him a bonus. Celia knew that one of the rubber balls contained a secret critic who judged these rages and arrived at a monetary figure. As the wires twanged and whistled and the vast blob of flesh bounced and span over her, dribbling foam, she decided to take the easy way out.
“Fine. I’ll make a replacement.”
Big Boss Barium shuddered to a halt. “You will?”
“I’m dedicated to my job but I’m not a particularly ethical person. My morality is fake, for intimidation purposes. Nobody is better at swelling up hugely with artificial righteousness.”
“We all have our individual bloats,” Big Boss Barium agreed.
“I’ll open the refrigeration units where the jellies are kept and mould a new eye from a big blue scoop.”
“That will be a very sensible thing for you to do,” said Big Boss Barium. He was convinced he had won the bonus and was already planning to spend it on more ultra-high calorie food, which in turn would damage his health more, making his next melodramatic rage more alarming and droolly and more worthy of a bigger bonus. This cycle would accelerate towards a spectacular blubbery doom.
“I’ll do it right now, with your permission.”
“Of course!” He waved a shapeless hand and allowed her to depart his presence. He had no love for his employees, no outstanding loyalty to the Council. His only concern was not to come under the adverse scrutiny of his superiors, the Style Gurus, or to make an enemy of the President and his Police Chief. El Greco Cooper was the sort of man who arrested autumn leaves for crunching underfoot without an entertainment license. It was imperative to keep on his right side: but that side was as thin and sharp as a scalpel.
Celia urged the walkway to maximum speed and returned to her office within seconds. “Jules!” she called.
Jules Oviform appeared at her side. �
��Mon cheri!”
“We have an unorthodox job to do. We’re going behind the crushers to pilfer some eye jelly.”
“How bohemian! How fin de siècle!”
“Then we’re going to shape it into a new eye and plant it under the sink in a domestic kitchen.”
“How escargot! How Victor Hugo!”
Celia nodded. It was going to be all those things and more. Opening a filing cabinet and selecting a winter scarf and mittens, she hurried down the tunnel that ran behind the crushers. These garments matched her colouring not at all and suited her in no degree. The Style Council was full of confiscated goods. And all of them were bad.
*
The walls of the tunnel were decorated with murals depicting packets of frozen peas and carrots, tubs of ice cream, bottles of beer and other refrigerative subjects. Celia and Jules proceeded to a chamber that resembled a garage. This was the deepest part of the Style Council. Here stood the Five Famous Freezers.
Celia opened the first freezer and removed the ice tray, turning it upside down and pressing the bottom with her thumbs until the frozen key worked itself loose. This key provided access to the second freezer and its ice tray and frozen key, which in turn opened the third freezer, and so on. These security measures were deemed cool by Style Gurus the world over. Even Guru Futuro approved.
The fifth freezer was directly connected to the crushers. Its door was rarely opened. Big Boss Barium preferred not to know what the jelly inside was doing. All those pulverised storm eyes gave him the jeebies. He could live with heebies but had a dread of jeebies. Celia felt no such qualms as she opened the lock.
