Experiment With Destiny

by Carr, Stephen

  Far away an iron-like bell tolled against the oppressive city din. The Big Ben Diner chain was summoning its loyal all-you-can-eat-for-a-tenner breakfasters across British Eurostate. As he listened to the melodic synthesized chimes, Marcus remembered there were five Big Ben Diner franchises in Cardiff alone – forty across Wales in total. A drop in the ocean compared to the number of M-Burger and Colonel Chicken outlets. His recall of detail from television commercials never ceased to amaze him. The overhead roar of a shuttle drowned the ninth and tenth chimes. Marcus checked his watch. It was time.

  He pulled his coat tight about him and pressed into the stinging wind and rain. Crossing the road, side-stepping the first of another cluster of buses, he remembered the media’s ironic obsession with global warming just a decade or so before, and how the scientists suddenly changed their tune. It was at one of those summits…G30 or whatever they were called. The Americans started first, no surprise, and their claim that global warming wasn’t happening quickly enough rubbed a few nations up the wrong way. But the new hype soon caught on and Eurostate Ministers began speaking the same language. Global warming, they said, could actually help save humanity from the big freeze that had crept up virtually unannounced. Problem was, thought Marcus, there was precious little of humanity left to save.

  Marcus reached the foot of the grand entrance and leapt up its steps, two at a time. He looked up to see the heavy oak doors swing open. The security guard acknowledged his arrival with a nod. Marcus paid him no heed. Wiping the water from his face with a sweep of his hand, he paused only to swipe his credit card through the auto-style. The barrier lifted and, at the same instant, his account yielded 10 euros – the price of a Big Ben Diner breakfast buffet. Marcus paced through excitedly, eager to be swallowed up by the vast, hollow chamber of the museum.

  Marcus Smith felt almost light-headed as he traversed the dimly lit corridors of time toward his goal. He had come occasionally, forcing himself to make the unpleasant journey from his bedsit in the outer suburbs whenever something new, or rather, old was added to this worthy collection. But with each visit to this temple of history, his aching heart turned greener with envy until he experienced, as now, a lust to make all that these walls contained his very own. His private collection of icons and artefacts paled to insignificance compared to these treasure-filled arcades. Yet it was sufficient for his present needs. Now, as he restrained his pace to avert unwanted attention, he filled his lungs once again with the dust of centuries gone by…and with each breath he became more real, more wholesome. Under the shadows of the high arched ceiling, along the corridors of polished stone, marble and ancient wooden panelling, between the cages of distant memories, Marcus knew his greed was growing.

  He stood, admiration flooding his soul. Outside, beyond the reverent silence of this sacred chapel, his contemporaries busied themselves in the twilight of humanity. Marcus was no longer aware of them. He was captivated. He could barely believe it…but it was reaching out with its god-like resonance. Identical, almost, to the one depicted on the framed print that hung, encased in glass, above his bed…only infinitely more real.

  It was a picnic basket, just over two feet high, two feet wide and nearly three deep. Intricately woven in the traditional fashion from thin strips of malleable willow, it was set with precise care and attention to detail on a red and yellow chequered rug or blanket. Its lid was open and, inside, was an Aladdin’s cave of treasures from a long vanished era. Sandwiches, cakes, biscuits, pies and fruit, bottles of red and white wine, jars of pickle, tins of boiled sweets, cups, saucers, plates and cutlery. Unlike the scene depicted in the post-impressionist watercolour that looked down over his pillow, there was no river and the grass was clearly a large sheet of deep green felt, encircled by a rope barrier. Marcus quickly forgot this annoying detail, however, as he spotted the display’s crowning glory. To the side of the basket, almost eclipsed, was an old wind-up record player.

  Minutes slipped into obscurity. Marcus was oblivious to all but the centrepiece of this display annex, part of the City Developments-sponsored temporary Old Cathays and University Exhibition. The picnic basket and its surreal stage seemed at odds with the stained wood and glass shrines that housed memorabilia, books and trinkets from another world. Yet, to Marcus, these relics were now irrelevant, distractions to the main event…the basket.

  It was too good to be true, like waking to find the emptiness inside had been filled, only to wake again. But Marcus was not dreaming. The food, rotten and decayed, had been replaced with moulded, hand-painted plastic. The basket and its accessories, however, were the genuine articles. For a while he was transplanted to that other place, the faraway place, and he stood on the gentle, grassy slope that dipped to the river’s edge. He listened to the feathered arias, heard the wash of the breeze through the leafy boughs and the soothing ripples of the water. He smelled the air of an open, unspoiled world and tasted the breath of freedom. His eyes caught the sparkling dance of sunbeams on the river, drawing his attention to the small wooden jetty that protruded invitingly from the bank. At the end of the jetty was a punt, squatting effortlessly on the gently moving surface of water. Aboard, a young man, elegant beneath his straw boater, navy blazer and white flannel trousers, prepared to cast off. Opposite him sat a maiden of Pre-Raphaelite charm, long auburn hair flowing over her delicate rosy complexion and resting, in breath-taking contrast, against her ruffled white lace gown. They were like two atoms, adrift on a deep blue void, and the nucleus at the centre of the punt was the woven basket of untold riches.

  This was his dream, the vision he beheld each and every night…a picture framed, captive, yet elusive, upon his bedsit wall. For some, the impossible escape was a remote cottage in the distant hills. Others wished for a gleaming automobile like those that ruled the highways before the private traffic ban. Still others left their cares behind them in fantasies of riches as they dreamed of owning their own homes, riding the sleek monorail high above the city’s cares and, once a year, holidaying abroad in a place where the sun still shone. The lure of wealth and romance of the road were not for Marcus. An isolated cottage, perhaps, but where is the happiness in a silent outpost on the borders of a dying world?

  For Marcus, the future was a waiting hell, the present, his demonic master, and the past; his messianic deity…and this moment captured his god with crystal clarity. To feast on the water and then make love on the grass was heaven itself.

  “It’s not finished yet.” The dry voice snatched him rudely from his blissful reverie. Marcus blinked, confused, and found himself once more in the annex, on the wrong side of a rope. “They’ve decided to do it up a bit more, do it justice and landscape it…maybe add a period mannequin or two.”

  Marcus turned to the dark outline of the security guard who had joined him alongside the barrier. His eyes adjusted to the shadows and he slowly pieced together the man’s crumpled features.

  “City Developments were so pleased the New Cathays project wasn’t held up because of this find, they’ve made a donation to the museum,” he added matter-of-factly. “And because they’re already sponsoring this exhibition, the curator’s decided to do a bit more with this latest addition.” Marcus studied him wordlessly, contempt seeping through his gaze. “A case of mutual back-scratching, if ever there was. If you ask me, City Developments were bloody lucky not to have an order slapped on them to halt demolition until that area’s been properly looked at by the experts.” The guard looked back at the picnic basket, oblivious to Marcus’s growing agitation. “But nobody cares for history much nowadays,” he added with a resigned sigh. “The way visitor numbers are dropping off, I’ll probably be out of a job before too long.”

  For Marcus it could not have been worse. The security guard’s incongruous smile was the final irritation. His perfect moment had been tarnished by this rude interruption and was slipping away. As the last lingering traces of blissful serenity vanished into the dark recesses of his mind, Marcus turned and marched awa
y from the picnic basket display. He did not pause at any of the other displays but walked quickly toward the exit, his heels clicking against the polished stone floor. The guard swung his head, eyes following with curiosity as Marcus disappeared along the corridor.

  “Queer bloke,” he muttered and continued his round through an otherwise empty museum.

  The bus that returned him to the coach station was on time. Marcus hated tardiness. He climbed aboard and swiped his card through the autofare. Avoiding the stares of his fellow passengers he found a space at the back. This time the warmth of the engine was little comfort as the black oppression descended upon his aching frame. The short journey out to Western Avenue Terminus seemed unending, stopping…starting…stopping, a snail’s progress through the peopled streets. Marcus felt the irritation boiling over into fury but managed to retain his composure until the creaky old vehicle finally turned into the station.

  Marcus disembarked, agitated and trembling, to find himself adrift in an ebb tide of humanity. His head began to pound, his chest tightened and his heart raged within. The reaction was so sudden it surprised him. He fumbled for his cigarettes, his hand shaking as he pushed one to his chapped lips and lit it. With each breath he tried to draw the strength to stop his world from spinning. It was useless. Hemmed in by the crowd there was only one means of escape.

  Hands thrust deep into his pockets, head down and elbows pulled in, he charged the wall of bodies. There was a moment of resistance when the growing chorus of startled and angry protest mounted against him like a wave. Then the wall broke and he was pushing free. Leaving the shouted objections behind, he paced toward the number 7 bay and his waiting Valleys coach. Soon he would be free of the city.

  Suddenly a young couple struggling with a suitcase blocked his way. Marcus refused to hesitate, even for a moment. The girl, raven black haired with stunning green eyes, was sent flying into a nearby queue and the suitcase tumbled into the gutter. Marcus glanced over his shoulder to see her scrambling to her feet, apparently unhurt. There was something about her eyes…he felt a twinge of guilt that rapidly dissipated with her partner’s outburst of righteous fury.

  “Hey you fuckwit! I’ll…” Marcus turned away.

  “Leave it, Scott,” she implored, stemming his threat. “Let’s just get out of here.”

  Marcus reached his coach as the first passengers were allowed to board. He stood panting, leaning against the muddied red and white bodywork and scanning the terminus for a sign of the angry young man. He and the girl were gone. He glanced at his fellow passengers, worried in case they had seen his disgraceful haste and lack of chivalry. They paid him scant attention, their minds on other matters. Marcus waited his turn then stepped aboard and slipped his card through the autofare, punching the ‘Merthyr Station’ button. No sooner had the machine deducted the appropriate number of euros and punched out his ticket, he strode toward the back and found a space on the seat over the engine. There, he pressed himself against the window. Minutes later the coach pulled out of the terminus and began its short northward journey. The coach was full but Marcus spoke to nobody. Instead he gazed blankly through the rain and condensation-smeared window, alone with his thoughts.

  The streets and semis of Whitchurch eventually gave way to the jaded greens, yellows and browns of hills and reclaimed slag heaps as the bus crawled slowly out of Greater Cardiff. The hills were lined with terraces of two-up two-down houses, painted like ageing crones and spread to the left and right against a backdrop of misty ruin. Occasionally the regimented lines were punctuated by buildings of once grander scale and ostentation, derelict Victorian tombstones to the former mining industries upon which these communities were forged. Libraries, social clubs and other public buildings that had become too expensive to maintain but too architecturally important to knock down. These communities were once distinct towns and villages, each with its own identity and character. Over the years they had sprawled together and become little more than Cardiff’s extended suburbia. But even the Welsh capital had its limits and Merthyr Tydfil, once the iron capital of the world, was it. Marcus’s hometown was the northernmost suburb of Cardiff, the last stop on the CMS-Cardiff network and the end of the road for his bus.

  Marcus stepped off as the bitter wind surged toward him, tugging at his coat. He wrapped it tightly around him, hugging its pockets, and walked through the arcade beneath the monorail station toward the Crown pub. A few doors on from the pub was a newsagent. A hollow bell jangled flatly as he entered and closed the weather-beaten door behind him. Marcus did not look up. The girl serving recognised his hunched demeanour.

  “Twenty?” she asked. Marcus nodded. The packet of cigarettes slid across the counter and he held out his card. A moment later he collected it from the cold glass counter and retreated without so much as a glimpse of the girl. “Bye!” she called softly. He did not acknowledge her and her voice trailed away as the door closed to the dimly chiming bell. Marcus paused for a moment to study the abandoned and boarded up church opposite. He had been to Sunday school in St Tydfil’s many years ago and vaguely remembered the strange stories they told, the rarefied atmosphere, picture windows and scented candles. Few people went to church any more, and nobody went to this one. Turning away from the old ruin, he walked back to the Crown.

  Its brick and paintwork had dulled through decades of neglect and its hanging sign creaked loudly in the ever-present wind. Marcus peered had through its smoky glass windows. It was too dark to make out any details but the silhouettes were few enough. He entered.

  “Usual?” asked the barman. Marcus nodded inside the collar of his coat, looking around to avoid the barman’s eyes. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the battered open packet and took out his last cigarette. As the barman pulled his pint of bitter, he proceeded with the ritual of removing the cellophane and foil tab from his new packet, scrunching it into the old and crushing the useless packet in one fist, dropping it onto the side of the bar. Then he lit his cigarette, paid for and collected his pint and inhaled deeply, searching the shadowed corners for an empty table. He found one near a fruit machine that bleeped hopefully at him before launching into an annoying electronic jingle. Marcus sat down and sipped his beer. It tasted stale and watery, it always did. He remembered real ale and malt whisky. Such flavours were unattainable now. Not for us moles, he thought.

  The jukebox jarred into life. Two skinheads were sat beside it, sneering at the untidy collection of ageing drunkards who sipped, cursed and argued over loudly in their shaded corners. The guitar riff sounded first, joined by the bass and then drums. Marcus recognised the style, late 1970s post punk, though this particular single was not amongst his prized collection of ancient vinyl. The vocalist was howling like a crude impression of a dog. London Calling by the Clash…Marcus had heard it before.

  A pensioner, perhaps someone who worked in the local collieries at the time the record first came out, his grey, bristled face squashed beneath a stained flat cap, stood unsteadily and bawled drunkenly at the two skinheads.

  “What do you know about music like this?” he slurred, his finger jabbing at the smoke-filled air. “You don’t know nothing, butty!” The skinheads stood and squared up to him as he swayed helplessly and prodded one of them in the chest. “You’re a disgrace!” he accused.

  “And you’re dead meat, fucker!” The youth lashed out and sent the old man sprawling against the table from which he had risen. Glasses shattered and beer sloshed as the table toppled and the stench of ale became suddenly stronger. Marcus looked away, trying not to catch the skinheads’ attention as the barman moved in to hastily resolve the scuffle. His sympathies were with the pensioner, another relic of better days.

  *

  II

  IT was dark when Marcus emerged from the Crown. He buttoned up his coat against the assault of the wind and turned along the road toward his bedsit. He walked briskly between the terraces that fronted onto the street, sometimes peering into their windows as he passed. H
e saw sullen faces, wide-eyed but lifeless, lit by the lulling hues of the evening transmissions. Opiate for the people, he mused. He saw lamps, tables, chairs and a variety of garish modern décor. Fathers snubbed their children, children snubbed their mothers, mothers turned their backs. House after house, terrace after terrace, Marcus saw people with nowhere to go, nothing to do and no one to believe in. Yet life went on. Normality undaunted.