Ignoring the fleeing crowds, who seemed more numerous and terrified then a few moments before, Smith cried out in shame.
'What do you want with me?'
Mark paused, offering a momentary respite from the slaughter.
'I want your absolution.'
Smith stared into the eyes of the madman and felt the fear flow away. Then he simply said, ‘I have no idea what you talking about.'
Mark laughed.
'I'm talking about life. I am the Curse, the eater of souls. When these people die, slaughtered before their appointed time, the excess energy, the remaining experience that would have shaped their futures, is released. Yet, it is not enough. I need to feed. Again and again. I glory in the hunt, in the chaos of insanity.'
The shears swept out and Mark breathed in as if inhaling another life.
'I am evolution. I am the Mount of Megiddo. The final battle between good and evil. I am the time of resolution, of endings and beginnings, and of understanding. I am the person, the place and the time.'
He stopped and licked his cracked lips.
'I am you.'
John Smith closed his eyes, his body collapsing in a rumpled heap on the ground.
'It's time to learn the truth,’ Mark screamed.
A cold nose pressed against Smith's wrinkled skin and he could feel the velvet pads of Tom's paws as the climbed over his fallen body. Then the pressure was gone.
Raising his head, Smith saw Tom perched on Mark's shoulder as though he were a feline vulture waiting for his prey to die.
You have seen sights that no normal man should have seen and you have survived where others did not. You were a good man who has been forced to sometimes do terrible things.
The shock had opened the floodgates of his mind. In the static-filled images of forgotten memories he could see another riot, another mob let loose upon the unsuspecting world. He could see, he could almost reach out and touch, the crumbling masonry that surrounded him.
Bosnia. He remembered his time there. First as a freelancer looking for a story to sell, then as a relief worker trying ineffectually to ease the pain.
There was one time when...
'Good God, no,’ he sobbed. ‘Not again.'
He looked up and saw Mark and Tom, their features blurring, standing in silent judgement, reflecting the condemnation he had already chosen for himself.
There was one time when, early on in the slaughter he reported as a civil uprising, he followed the troops to a football stadium. Just like the ancient arenas of Rome, the soldiers had filled the soccer ground with victims waiting for another kind of sport. Victims whose only crime was to be born and raised by their families instead by the families of the watchers.
A man, dressed in the trappings of a uniform, stood amongst the onlookers. A modern Caesar. But there were no lions waiting. They weren't needed. Raising his machine gun like one of the ancient sitting in judgement on the Christians, the modern Caesar downed his thumb by pulling the trigger.
John Smith, or Victor Lacey as he was named at birth, watched. The victims were trapped and the surrounding watchers, each armed and charged with emotion, opened fire. The victims might once have been their neighbours, their friends and even, secretly, their family. But no more. Now they were simply the enemy. They were the monsters and it was time to cleanse the world. In a few moment the stadium was awash with evil, with the grandstands providing a wall to hold the hatred inside.
Yet Victor Lacey had never told what he had seen. He had done nothing.
Years later, walking amongst the ruins of a city shattered in the name of blood and belief, Victor Lacey had stumbled across an old dentist surgery. Once, in gentler time, he had visited this place to have a cap resealed. Now the chair still stood, a creaking mess of broken foam and wire, alone in an exposed box. There was no roof, the walls forming a jagged jigsaw that would never be put together again.
That memory, the remembrance of a time when Sarajevo was just like any other European city, highlighted the moment he began to fall into insanity.
A little boy tugged on his cardigan as the setting once again became that of the park. It was the same child Smith had seen earlier.
'Excuse me, mister, but your cat has slipped his lead.'
Shaking his head in bemusement, Smith looked at the boy, recognition dawning. Besides, Smith knew Tom would never have tolerated a lead around his neck.
'Are you OK, mister?'
Bewildered, Smith tried to place his accent, the strange guttural slurring of his vowels. Then it struck him. It was Yugoslav.
Reaching out, he took his pet, his friend, his companion, from the boy. As he stroked Tom's matted fur, Smith heard the cat let out a keening wail, the cry he always made when he was hungry.
'Sorry, Tom,’ he said kindly. ‘There's nothing for you to eat here.’ Cradling the cat in his arms he stood and turned to face Mark.
'I have seen horrors far worse than you. Time and time again he had tested himself, forcing himself to seek out tragedy. Repeatedly, he sought out acts of human depravity and again and again he failed to find the courage to cry out and stop them. Rampages, civil rights abuses, political uprisings, all summoned him to their presence. But, no matter how much he resolved to act, he always froze. A silent observer hiding in the shadows of his own shame.
'I know who I am now.'
Tears welled in his eyes and the memories assailed him.
'There is nothing you can do to me any more.'
Tom's rough tongue flicked out and caught a drop of water as it ran down his cheek.
'Ghost's don't terrify me. Memories do. They are the real ghosts, the ones from which I fled. Knowledge, guilt, retribution. I couldn't sleep, you know. For a long time, I could not close my eyes without the images reaching down and twisting my heart.'
'I did nothing. I hid the truth and ran from the horror. I watched, dear God, I watched and I did nothing.'
He stepped towards his opponent, slowly advancing until he could reach out and touch the shears. One hand brushed against the blades, its fingers slipping through the sticky blood coating the metal beneath.
'Before I forgot, before I made myself forget, I'd see their faces every night.’ He nodded towards where the little boy had stood. ‘Like him. Not the masses, there were too many of them to seem real. I saw the individuals. The children, the wives, husbands, brothers and sisters who stopped to talk to me. The ones who died and ones who wished they had.'
Gently, carefully, he lowered Tom to the ground and waited while the cat leisurely moved a couple of feet away. Finding his spot, Tom sat, his elegant body forming a misshapen pyramid in the shadows of the surrounding trees.
'That boy could load a gun faster than I could. He showed me once. He thought it was a toy.'
Tom purred softly, a gentle wind stroking his fur.
'I can watch no more,’ Victor Lacey said simply.
'What do you plan to do, old man? Wrestle me to the ground? Talk me out of more slaughterhouse glory? All you are good for is watching, inactive, frightened and alone. A scared child without even his teddy bear for comfort.'
Tom growled. He was tired of watching, of waiting, for the moment to strike. He had accompanied the human on the journey, and had led him to the brink. There were more ways to feed than by eating canned food. The thrill of the chase, the adrenalin burst of pursuit, and the ecstasy of the kill. Human's had such strange demons, he reflected. They kept their fear, their real enemy, chained inside themselves, weakening them and readying them for failure. Like every other cat, Tom knew that guilt was a powerful force. And, like the rest of his species, he knew he was immune to its touch.
For thousands of years, people had performed many painful penances in the search for absolution. They had begged for mercy from the divine and accepted the punishment meted out to them.
With a hunter's instinct Tom knew that this was the human's last chance.
The sound of Tom's growl had cheered the old man's heart and
given him the courage he had lacked throughout his life. It was time for him to stop running. It was time to redeem his life. Together they could do it. He looked at Tom, taking solace in his friend's presence.
Tom let out snort of pure pleasure and graduated from killing mice.
'I am not alone,’ Lacey replied.
With that he grabbed the handles shears, forcing the blades open in bifurcated V. Then, with all his remaining strength he threw himself at Mark.
The blades bit deep, one penetrating straight into the heart of his fear, killing Mark instantly. The other tore at his rib cage and sunk crookedly into Lacey's chest.
'I can watch no more.'
As he fell to the ground, his body still linked to Mark's, Tom casually walked towards him. Mark's body fell into dust at the cat passed straight through it until stood before Lacey.
Drawing a final breath, Lacey whispered, ‘Forgive me'.
With a subtle nod of his head, Tom curled up next to Lacey's corpse and went to sleep.
Valerie covered the old man's body with a sheet.
'He looks so peaceful,’ she said.
Her companion, the hostel's resident doctor, just grunted. He had long since abandoned asking anything other than how his patients died.
'I came in to see if he was going to come on the picnic or not and found him slumped at the computer.'
She has always had a soft spot for the pathetic old man who seemed weighed down with the worries of the world. Curiously she glanced through the notes in the manila folder on his desk. Inside were stories of atrocities from around the world. Massacres, war crimes, murders. Megan's story lay next to Mark's. Cold, bland, text stripping away the emotion of their crimes. Beneath each title was the name Victor Lacey.
'Look at this,’ Valerie called to the doctor. Picking up the folder, she seemed excited by a number of photos and stories. ‘He was there. Sarajevo. Yugoslavia. Indonesia. He was even there when that guy went mad in the park about 10 years ago.'
The doctor joined her and glanced distractedly at Smith's recollections, all marked as unsubmitted and unpublished.
'Didn't do him much good. No-one ever read them. At least, not the one's he wrote. It doesn't even look like he sent them to anyone. And as for why he collected the rest, well, who knows what was going on in his mind?’ He shrugged his shoulders and handed the folder back to Valerie.
'Still, I wonder if Lacey was his real name?’ he said dismissively. ‘Better make a note of it for the records just in case.'
After the doctor left, Valerie sat down on the bed and opened the folder again. Nestled amongst the stories of human misery and abuses of justice she came across a light-hearted piece about the happiness he felt when he first met Tom.
A cry for compassion from a lonely, forgotten soul.
'Did you find your solution,’ Valerie wondered? ‘Did you face your demons?'
As if in answer, Sergeant Tom meowed softly from his position on the windowsill.
'Oh, poor, little pussy cat. Don't worry, we'll find you another home. Someone here will love you.'
Like Lewis's Cheshire cat, Tom smiled.
* * * *
The ancient Chinese believed that cats have the power to resurrect the dead and that they could create zombies.
Forgotten books of power tell of stories now only whispered by the lowest street peasant who has nothing left to fear, or the highest dignitary, protected by their belief that nothing could harm them. These books speak of the tenth life of a cat. The phase in which, like those worshiped by the Egyptians, the cat would guide a lost soul into the safety of heaven.
Even the Scots believed that cats could steal the gift of second sight from the dead and inflict blindness on the living.
These cats brought redemption to the soul and could buy a wicked man entry to the glory of everlasting life.
But redemption has its price. And cost of everlasting life is death.
In even these modern times of supernatural scepticism many people believe these ancient stories little knowing and little caring about their origins.
These people forget two things.
Cats evolve.
Cats hunt.
Sergeant Tom licked the back of his paws and preened his whiskers.
He had entered his tenth life and it was time to find more prey.
* * *
'CROSS THE NULLABOR TO THE SEA
Cat Sparks
It was one of those days where Nemo couldn't think for all the cacophonic bullshit blaring from the wall. Buy this, watch this, do this, screw this, upgrade yourself now and you too could be strolling down the luxurious double-wide aisles of the CBDome's five hundred malls.
'Like that's gonna happen,’ he mumbled, sullenly jacking in to the last of his beach program.
He sighed, savouring the quiet. Lately he'd been finding his private ocean boring. Stretching out on warm golden sand, he pondered his predicament while gulls cawed overhead. Perhaps it was time for something verdant—a rainforest perhaps? He would have to give the greenery some serious thought, but first he might as well screw the girl. That's what she was there for.
Mariah stepped languidly across the sand, barefoot, sweat glistening on her dusky, charcoal skin. Carrying a wooden bowl of papaya, sweet melon and star fruit. She smiled coyly, long dark lashes fluttering, and Nemo felt his erection swelling. He'd made his dick bigger this time. That was what girls wanted, they were gagging for it, all of them. The day it happened for real then he'd know what to do, he'd give it to her good and hard.
He killed the gulls, aiming his finger like a gun, extinguishing them one by one. They were becoming irritating, as was everything else about this program. Time for something fresh and new. For a moment he considered killing Mariah as she dropped down onto the sand beside him and spread her legs. He decided against it quickly, pushing aside the spilled fruit to ram himself inside her. Papaya scent filled his nostrils until he came. It was definitely time for a rainforest scenario, and maybe a white girl this time—white, with even more enormous tits.
'Station,’ said Nemo, and the beach evaporated, replaced with this month's project map. He scanned his Inbox quickly, just in case there was a message from Shandy, but there wasn't. Just chatter and forwards mostly. No messages from anyone else he particularly liked. A couple of Redtapes that required his attention, and, uh oh, another eviction notice from Local Council.
'For fuck's sake!’ he swore out loud, slamming his hand down hard on his chair console. Three times he'd had to move this month already. Three times. What was going on? Nemo flushed the advertising bumph and squinted at the map they'd sent him. Looked like it was going to be Casula this time—the best choice of neighbourhood under the circumstances, he supposed, although he'd only ever heard bad things about it. He traced a tubby finger along the red holographic lines suspended in front of his face. If not Casula, then where? No matter where, they were going to have to tow him if they wanted him to move again so soon. ‘Not wasting my precious batteries for you dogturds,’ Nemo mumbled.
'Bet those fuckers in the Dome don't have to move every coupla months,’ he grumbled. Of course they didn't have to move their tight, little, liposculpted arses out of the way to make room for all the new airlifted condos and hover palaces, or whatever the fuck those blood sucking immigrants lived in these days. He reset his wallpaper to Jungle Interiors. His wall used to buzz with 24/7 live cam shows, but these days he could hardly be bothered keeping up with who was doing what to whom in the Dome. Why should he care what rich people did? None of them gave a rat's arse about him. No, he'd save his batteries for more important things like chatting with his buds.
Thinking about batteries reminded Nemo that he was broke. Time to go to work again, although I'm really not in the mood. Being a long time Grade4, that would mean another series of 12 hour long checking jobs. Checking, always cruddy checking jobs, never anything good. He'd been a 4 for so long now he'd lost all impetus to upgrade. Not that he hadn't had ambi
tions once, he just sort of got stuck there, that's all. He logged on to Worknet and tapped his fingers impatiently, waiting for the download. Here we go, Nepalese instruction manuals again, translated into Uberlingos by AIs who were never gonna be smart enough to master proper grammar of any kind. Or spelling. Freaking things always came out spelled in Yank. Grade4s were only expected to clean up to 80 per cent. You had to be a 5 before anyone really cared about accuracy, a 6 before you got to edit properly.
Thank you for chosen this extreme quality juicer extractor ... ‘For fuck's sake,’ mumbled Nemo, replacing chosen with choosing, Thank you with Thank you, and knocking the r from the end of juicer.
He needed coffee, but he was all out of the good stuff. Homeshop was due for a drop any day now, but he'd have to pay extra if he got evicted before the chopper turned up. What a hassle! Just one goddamn thing after another. It was starting to get to him. His chair said his heart rate was 180. Maybe it was time for another fuck, only he was really sick of Mariah and that boring beach. He was far too busy right now to fab a new scenario, not to mention having to download a whole new girl, and like that didn't cost credit he didn't have. Nemo tapped the console impatiently. Things were getting serious. He was running out of sex. If he didn't do some work soon then that wouldn't be the worst of it. What if they cut off his Popperjoys? Or his power? Sure, he could go a week or two on backups, but the batteries would only cover essentials. What would meals really taste like without sensoratic enhancement? What exactly was that stuff he ate? Nemo didn't know, and neither did he want to know. He'd get on with the stupid orange juice brochure, waste of time that it was. Who the fuck could afford real fruit?
A vibrossage would be really good, and he still had some time on the aromatherapy channel left on his card. Nemo bit his nails, thinking. He really should be working right now. If he didn't do it now, then he'd have to do it later, and later he might be in Casula, or Nihll, and who knows how dependable the Satcom nodes were out there?
Journeys of the Mind Page 6
