He passed the graffiti-ridden community centre, dark and empty, then slipped from the lurid amber streetlights across a waste-ground that was once a cinema. Back under the surreal lighting he was again among the rows of houses. Across the street, above the rooftops, he caught the bright white gleam of the floodlights from Rhydycar Park, home of Merthyr’s perennially underachieving football club. He walked among the shadows toward the towering main stand and listened to the voices of the reserves echo around the empty terraces as they practised. Football was the closest thing to a religion these days, even if the Martyrs’ miracles were much less impressive than the multi-million pound cathedral in which they were performed.
The stadium was behind him now, a few more streets and he was nearly at his destination, not so much home but a temporary resting place. His pace quickened as another downpour filled the skies, an icy rain that stung his eyes and face. Ahead was the three-storey block that housed his bedsit and his treasures. Once a proud Georgian guest house, it was now just a squalid ensemble of self contained apartments. But it was better than nothing, Marcus reminded himself as he searched for his keys.
Marcus Smith lived on the third floor of the once grand building and, each night, he would close the heavy wooden door behind him, pace the threadbare lobby carpet and clasp the banister to aid him up the many stairs to his room. A host of familiar sounds – babies bawling, music throbbing, snatches of conversation from the soporific soap operas, a heated argument from one of the second floor suites, soon to descend into violence – greeted him. He did not choose them but they were part and parcel of his life nonetheless. The staircase narrowed as he reached the last flight of steps. His chest wheezed with the effects of cigarette smoke as he climbed it. A second door, a second key, which Marcus fumbled with before turning it and pushing his way into his darkened sanctuary. As the door closed behind him, the sounds from below deadened. Neglecting the light for a minute, he waited in the darkness, breathing in the dust of time. Surrounded once again by things that were old, antiquated objects from another era, Marcus Smith finally sensed his tension easing. Marcus felt calm.
He sat, as always, in the deep 50s armchair, the sound of Mozart’s 24th piano concerto filtered through the room from his antique gramophone. To most of his contemporaries his bedsit would have seemed more like a junk shop, a seedy back street room cluttered with ancient wooden furniture, strange brass ornaments and sepia tone or faded colour photographs of long dead people in odd looking clothes. But few of Marcus’s contemporaries had ever found their way into his quiet haven and he was inevitably alone each night with his treasured icons.
Almost in time to the morose melody of the piano, he leaned forward and lifted the Victorian teapot from the 70s maple and glass coffee table, gently pouring his instant tea into a chipped bone china cup, circa 1936. The milk had curdled but he did not mind. At least it was not the powdered kind. Adding a spoonful of sugar from the matching blue-patterned bowl, he reclined, stirring the liquid in his cup. He did not like sweet tea particularly, but he thrilled at the ritual he had mimicked from his collection of period dramas that he had transferred, at great expense, from ancient videotape to laserdisc. If only he could have afforded real tea leaves, or even teabags.
Marcus looked around the room and the faces in the many photographs gazed back. They were frozen moments…real people who lived real lives…people who were interesting. A rugby team posing with a trophy, a rag and bone man with his horse and cart, two old men playing cards, a shift of coal-blackened miners emerging from the pit shaft, a woman scrubbing at her husband’s shirts in a foam-filled wooden tub. The rich variety of once-upon-a-time real life. Marcus loved them. He named them. And, each day, he told them: “I will be like you.” Yes, one day he would join them. He, too, would find a meaning to his life.
Later that evening Marcus rose from his armchair and tidied away his tea set. Returning from his pokey little kitchen, he collected his cigarettes and ashtray and left his friends in darkness, moving to his bedroom. There, hanging in solitary splendour above his ageing four-poster bed, was the painting. It was the only painting he possessed, for he did not care for them much. Paintings were not reality, more imagined or dreamed, unlike photographs. Yet this tranquil watercolour had pleased him. It had a quality unlike any other painting he had seen. The artist, whose signature he had failed to decipher, had captured the reflected sunlight on the water, the contrasting textures of the grass bank, the clothing, the wooden punt and the picnic basket with a camera-like realism. But the coup-de-grace was the way the delicate brush strokes had brought the flesh tones to life, her flushed cheeks, the rise and fall of her ample bosom, the moistness of her rouged lips, framed by a dimpled chin, sparkling blue eyes and her curling auburn hair. He could not resist Picnic On A River from the moment he spotted it in the window display of Morgan Bros’ back street antiques emporium years ago, around the time of his 18th birthday…around the time his mother died.
Marcus remembered the picnic basket in the National Museum, the moment of exhilaration as he finally came face-to-face with the reality, the precious minutes when he transcended his mundane life and reached out to touch heaven. His bile returned as he recalled too the shattering blow of intrusion that left nirvana agonisingly beyond his grasp. He needed another chance to taste such glory again, another chance to be, to feel, to breathe. He kneeled on his bed and reached up to touch the solid wooden frame that held his solitary painting, then caressed its lovingly polished glass covering. The New Cathays development find was a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fulfil his long-held dream. He could not let it slip away so easily as he had this morning.
Marcus sat, cross-legged, on the bed and gazed up at the painting. He lit another cigarette and considered. Perhaps arrange for a private viewing? No, too expensive, too complicated. Why not simply sneak in, just before the museum closes, and wait…wait until everyone else had gone. He would be left undisturbed for a whole night. The picnic basket would be his and his alone for a good many hours. Marcus began to tremble with excitement. A private viewing at no extra cost. It could do no harm. Who would even know? He could hide until they opened up again and slip out unnoticed the next morning. Nobody would be any the wiser. But when? He pondered…tomorrow, the next day? It had to be soon, especially if they were going to mess around with the display. It would mean another day off work, his wages for the month diminished, but it would be worth it. The Edwardian umbrella stand at Morgan’s would wait another week or so while he delayed the final payment. The picnic basket was more important.
Marcus lay on his back, planning and re-planning the adventure in his mind and blowing smoke up to the artexed ceiling. It wasn’t wrong, it couldn’t be. He was not stealing anything. In the pale blue cloud above his head he caught a glimpse of his forgotten youth and he remembered one of those long lost bible stories about a man called Moses and his tablets of stone. “Thou shalt not steal!” warned the sharp voice of the Sunday school teacher. She held him with her stern gaze. “One of the 10 commandments…thou shalt not steal!”
“I only want to look,” he said aloud, his adult voice strange in the cold air of his bedroom. The memory faded, leaving him staring at the yellow nicotine stained swirls on the ceiling above. “I only want to look,” he repeated quietly.
Some time later Marcus awoke from the dream he had experienced most nights for the past few weeks. The river, the grass, the jetty, the boat, the basket, the flame-haired girl - they were all there…except for the dashing young man. This time it was Marcus who stood on the boat and let its mooring slip before pushing it out into the gently lapping water. There was, unusually, no sign of the man with the white flannels, navy blazer and straw boater. Marcus was alone with her, a picture of innocence and beauty, and the picnic basket, a feast for the senses. He watched the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the pure white lace of her gown. He felt himself growing hard. They were alone at last and drifting further from the bank. She smiled, white teeth gleami
ng behind full red lips, her blue eyes sparkling like the sun on the water. He kneeled in the centre of the boat, pushing the picnic basket aside, then reached for her. He peeled back the layers of her lace gown to reveal the swell of her peach-like breasts, then lowered his head to them. She pressed her lips to his ear; he felt the touch of her hair against his cheek.
“Taste me, Marcus,” she whispered. “Suck me.”
And, as he sank against her, his eager mouth pressed against the welcoming warmth of her rounded flesh, he remembered the picnic basket. Too late! He felt it tumble from the side of the boat and heard its mighty splash. Then, as he gazed in dismay, it sank without trace and, as he turned to face her, her eyes clouded with fury.
Marcus was awake and gasping for air. He was flailing, fully clothed, on his bed. He stopped, sat upright and gulped in the cold night air. After a moment or two he removed his clothes and let them fall into a heap at the foot of his bed. He lay back, naked and shivering. He tried to shut her out, but he could not. His desire could not be iced over like this barren world. Tonight was worse. Tonight she had been his to taste, not just to watch. He tried smoking but, after eventually stubbing out the butt in frustration, his craving was still as intense. Finally, he reached beneath his bedside table, 1990s Swedish, and fumbled for Friday’s Merthyr Express. Turning to the back he found the ‘personal’ section and ran his finger down the columns of telephone numbers until he found it.
‘Your fantasy…just call Misty,’ it read, and then the number. Marcus clutched the telephone, standard post millennium Telecom issue, the basic non-vidi-link model. He preferred it that way. Marcus dialled, hating himself as he did so. He hoped she would not look, that she would lace up her pretty white gown and turn away from his betrayal. She should not have to watch this. The number rang…once, twice, three times…then, a click.
“Hello caller,” said the voice in a sultry, if mechanical kind of way. “Thank you for dialling Misty’s fantasy line. In a moment I will let you speak to Misty but first, let me tell you about some of the other premium rate services we have to offer…” Marcus dropped the receiver to his chest and stared at his ceiling, waiting. The pre-recorded message continued and he knew he should stop, hang up. He couldn’t. The betrayal continued. Soon enough the voice of a real live woman breathed into the handset.
“Hi, this is Misty. Who’s on the line?” Marcus lifted the plastic to his ear and began to touch himself.
The night was filled with voices and visions. Marcus slept, but it was an uneasy slumber that left him edgy and weary. When he rose again it was Sunday, the start of another working week. He dressed, as ever, in his crisp grey uniform trousers, socks and shoes. Leaving his shirt and jacket until last he padded quietly to the bathroom to wash and shave. Returning to his bedroom, he averted his eyes from the girl in the painting and slipped a white shirt from its laundry-fresh bag. Pressing in his silver buttons, each emblazoned with the CMS crest, he pulled it on over his head then snatched his peaked cap and jacket before marching to the kitchen. Breakfast consisted of instant tea, toast and jam. The curdled milk had finally gone off, so he drank it black, dispensing with the ritual of the teapot. While he sipped and chewed he watched the early morning news on his portable television.
The news was one of the few things he watched, other than the re-run classics on the Golden TV satellite channel. His favourites were the costume and period dramas, like Quadrophrenia, Four Weddings and a Funeral and The Italian Job. But then he liked most programmes from the last century. It was only the archive science fiction he couldn’t stomach – full of 20th century optimism for the future, gleaming spaceships, moon colonies, genetic perfection, robotic servants and time travel for all. There was one time traveller he did admire – Catweazle, a scruffy magician from Norman times who flew through time. Marcus often wished such power could be his - to leap into the water, an ancient spell on his lips, and emerge spluttering in a long vanquished era. But Marcus knew the difference between an impossible dream and a 20th century children’s television fiction. He returned his attention to the news.
“Police are still hunting outlawed British Nationalists who sparked a riot at yesterday’s third division derby between Merthyr Tydfil and Hereford United. Eleven people were injured including two club stewards who both needed hospital treatment. And governors of a Cardiff primary school will meet tomorrow morning to decide the fate of teacher Lynette Swinn who has been accused of peddling Christian dogma among pupils in her classes. Miss Swinn, a self confessed ‘Pentecostal’ extremist, has denied that teaching children bible stories and proclaiming her Christianity to pupils was, in any way, racist. Now the weather, with…”
“Thou shalt not steal,” Marcus remembered his Sunday school teacher’s dire warning. “Or you will go to hell when you die.” But science had long ago exposed the myth of Christianity as nonsense, and legislation under the Race and Faiths Equality Act had banned its spread through educational establishments and public meetings or gatherings. The fact that Christians preached Jesus Christ was the only way and boasted all gods but theirs were false was inciting racial and cultural hatred, ruled the secular Eurostate. Who said ‘thou shalt not’? God? God was dead, surely, thought Marcus. According to the government, Christianity was, officially, aerie-faerie nonsense. And, if God was dead, who else had the right to say ‘thou shalt not’?
Marcus wiped a smear of jam from his lips, gulped the last of his tea and switched off the television set. Pulling on his jacket and peaked cap he left his bedsit, locking it carefully, and descended the stairs. Stopping in the foyer to savour the sleeping silence of his neighbouring tenants and to pick up his delivered copy of Saturday’s Echo, Marcus walked out to meet the wind and the rain.
Marcus Smith worked as a ticket clerk for CMS-Cardiff, one of two who were responsible for the ticket booth on Merthyr Tydfil’s modest terminus. He had barely met his colleague, Sasha, as they worked opposing shifts. If there was ever a need to communicate, and such occasions were rare indeed, it was accomplished through text messages left on the auto-till. In fact his, and Sasha’s, livelihood was superfluous and CMS-Cardiff would have made them redundant years ago but for the whim of the company’s fare-paying clientele. Customer research had shown that monorail passengers enjoyed the ‘human face’ of their service and did not like the impersonal mechanics of the cheaper autofare machines adopted by the bus and rail companies. CMS passengers preferred to exchange pleasantries with a ticket clerk, to speak aloud their destinations and travelling requirements, than to simply punch digits and letters into a swipe machine. And while they were paying, CMS did not mind. Marcus, and his invisible colleague, were the ‘middle men’ between man and machine.
There was no room to move in his booth but it was warm and sheltered from the wind and rain. He could read or watch television on his computer when his glorified swiping and punching skills were not required. His only other task was to carry out an hourly check of the platform area, its toilets and vending machines, filing an electronic report if re-stocking, cleaning or remedial work was required. Occasionally he would be asked for detailed timetable and destination information. That was the most challenging aspect of his duties although that, too, was mercifully rare as the majority of his passengers were regular commuters. All in all it was not a bad job. At worst he occasionally had to engage in conversation, as opposed to responding in time-honoured clichés, but it paid for his frequent excursions to the Morgan Bros and other such emporiums and, at best, it gave him plenty of time in splendid isolation to think…and dream.
This morning Marcus was thinking harder than usual, paying scant attention to his copy of yesterday’s Echo or the cyclical news bulletins on his monitor. He was glad it was Sunday…fewer commuters making the routine trip to or from the city though the down side was the weekend day-trippers who tended to be more exuberant and verbose. Most of the day’s passengers were, however, pleasingly preoccupied with their seemingly purposeful lives and few strayed from the
well-worn rut of polite exchanges. Marcus was more deliberate than ever to avoid engaging them in anything other than the business of buying tickets.
“Thou shalt not steal,” he pondered. Why not? Who would it harm? Nobody was really that interested in the fate of an old picnic basket to care if it went missing. City Developments certainly didn’t care…and the guessed the museum curator could think of far more worthy displays to spend the sponsor’s generous donation on. It was just a picnic basket. It held no secrets of the past, no enlightening insight into 20th century culture. It was probably sealed and buried as no more than a student jape. Marcus pictured it against the far wall of his bedroom, opposite the four-poster and his solitary painting. If he moved the teak wardrobe slightly he could make a proper show of the basket and its contents…though nobody must ever find out. Perhaps he would tell Misty. No, even that was too dangerous. He, alone, would enjoy his private exhibit. He, alone, deserved to.
Soon Marcus had shed the guilt of his desire and turned what had been a moral dilemma into an exciting opportunity to take another step closer to the reality of the past. He concentrated instead on a new problem – that of how to remove the picnic basket from the display annex without a fuss. Slipping in, hiding in wait and then sneaking out the next morning at opening time was no longer an option…and he needed something to transport the basket from the museum to his home. Taking the bus would be no good. Marcus hardly noticed the day passing as he pondered long and hard, just as the commuters in the evening rush, albeit modest, hardly noticed the curious smirk developing on their ticket clerk’s face.
His Sunday shift ended as every Sunday shift did, but with one deviation to the order of his established routine. At 7pm he locked the tiny booth, checking the barriers were switched to ‘unmanned’ mode. He would not begin the next shift for another eleven hours and Sasha was on nights next week. But, instead of making his exit through the automated turnstiles, Marcus returned to the platform and walked to the end of the covered area.
Experiment With Destiny Page 3
