Grasslands

by Andrew McEwan

‘Stan?’

  The darkness, the black had grown.

  Vern tore up his imaginary ticket and left, blinking in the early evening sun.

  The gold Honda was gone.

  He wandered round the side of the cinema and looked at the layers of graffiti instead, most of it faded, as old as the building in spots, dates as early as fifty and fifty-two.

  Well, he thought, at least it was in colour.

  Today is a Tuesday. Vern walks home, pausing briefly in order to purchase a tin of beans and a loaf of white bread. The clouds roll across the sky, herded like sheep by a windy shepherd, his crook a westerly breeze...

  6 - MENTAL FILINGS

  ‘He's not wearing any clothes,’ Lucy said.

  ‘He's meditating,’ answered a tired Almeric. He yawned. ‘He often does that.’

  ‘Meditate?’

  ‘Wears no clothes.’ Almeric scratched his face. The bomb, he realized, needed a timer. He glanced at his watch.

  ‘It's ten o'clock in the morning,’ said Lucy.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Almeric. ‘It's been a long night. You talk in your sleep. Did you know?’

  ‘What'd I say?’ She sat up straight, eyes bleary.

  ‘You told him you loved him and that you wanted to bear his children.’

  ‘I did?’ She grimaced, winking at Al.

  ‘No,’ he admitted; ‘I was kidding.’ He winked back.

  ‘You keep winking at me,’ said Lucy.

  ‘I have a tic.’

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘Maybe you should love me instead,’ he suggested. ‘Our kids could all wink at each other.’

  ‘You're disgusting,’ she retorted. ‘He's disgusting. I don't even remember his name!’

  ‘Vern. His name's Vern.’

  ‘Goodbye Vern,’ Lucy said disgustedly.

  ‘Goodbye Lucy.’

  The door slammed, waking Edgar. He squinted, getting his bearings.

  ‘It's ten o'clock,’ said Almeric.

  ‘In the morning?’

  ‘Right. Lucy just left.’

  ‘Gone so soon,’ said Edgar.

  At three in the afternoon the phone rang.

  ‘Answer that, Ed.’ Almeric shouted from the shower.

  ‘Briinnng-briinng,’ said Edgar, ‘briinng-briinnnnng.’

  The phone went silent.

  ‘Who was it?’ questioned Almeric, dripping in the doorway.

  ‘Wrong number...’

  Almeric spun round and tripped back to the bathroom, feet catching in the rug.

  ‘Briinnng-briinng,’ said Edgar, ‘briinng-briinnnnng.’

  ‘Answer that, Ed.’

  ‘Rello...He's not in right now, can I take a message? Uh-huh, yeah, I got it.’

  ‘Who was it?’ questioned Almeric, dripping.

  Edgar snapped his fingers. ‘Damn!’ he cursed. ‘I forgot to ask.’

  Almeric sighed. He opened the window and sat on the ledge to dry.

  At seven o'clock that evening Vern approached his front door, a westerly breeze hooking crooked fingers in his pockets in an effort to steal his keys. Waiting for him outside the end terrace was a girl in a long grey Mack.

  She had red hair.

  ‘Is it my birthday?’ he asked.

  She moaned.

  ‘Did someone die?’

  ‘You live here, don't you?’ she accused.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know a man called Hugget?’

  Vern dwelled a moment. ‘Eh, not quite.’

  ‘Meaning?’ She stamped her foot.

  ‘I know a mouse whose name is Hugget,’ he said.

  ‘At this address?’

  He nodded meekly.

  She stamped her other foot. ‘I can't get in,’ she said. ‘I can't get an answer.’

  Vern took a step back and thought about running. ‘He lives in a cage,’ he tried explaining. ‘He can't make it to the door.’

  ‘You're disgusting,’ she responded. ‘What's your name? I don't remember.’

  ‘Vern,’ said Vern.

  ‘Vern?’ She took a step forwards.

  ‘That's right -Vern,’ he repeated.

  ‘Not Hugget?’

  ‘No, Planes. Hugget's the name of my mouse.’

  ‘Hugget's the name of the man I'm supposed to sing Happy Birthday for.’ Lucy unbelted her Mack. ‘See?’

  Vern dropped his loaf. ‘Yeah...’

  ‘Do you have a toaster, Vern?’ she inquired, belting up.

  ‘No,’ he said; ‘but I have a grill.’

  ‘That'll do,’ said Lucy. ‘I'm starving.’

  He picked the loaf up and fumbled for his keys. At the foot of the stairs was a sign that read: Out Of Order.

  ‘Does this mean we take the lift?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Nah,’ said Vern, ‘it's off the telephone.’

  She bent to retrieve the sign and stuck it back on the phone, which rang.

  Vern answered. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Briinnng-briinng, briinng-briinnnnng!’ said the caller.

  Vern hung up. ‘Wrong number.’

  Upstairs was chaos and disorder.

  ‘Looks like you've been burgled,’ Lucy said.

  Vern was stunned. ‘But I haven't anything to steal...’ He dropped the loaf again, and the beans, and ran around the bedsit in a state of confusion.

  ‘My sister was burgled once, not long ago,’ Lucy was saying, her nails gleaming redly as she stooped to collect the tin and the loaf, removing her red shoes while she was down there, ‘and all they took was her underwear.’

  ‘Hugget!’ Vern yelled. ‘Hugget!’

  ‘Where? Where is he?’

  ‘Gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ She threw aside the bread and beans in disgust.

  ‘They stole my mouse,’ said Vern. ‘Hugget's gone.’

  Lucy sat on the disarrayed bed and lit a cigarette. ‘I won't get my danger money,’ she lamented. ‘I need his signature.’

  Through the open door walked Stanley Nex, grinning like he'd just won the pools. ‘Hey, Vern, guess what?’

  Vern held his head in his hands.

  ‘My car was stolen,’ Stan told him. ‘Can you believe it?’

  Lucy turned the portable the right way up and switched it on, quickly changing channels.

  Stan noticed her for the first Lime. ‘Hello,’ he said.

  She winked at him. ‘Hello Vern.’ Then, ‘There's no colour. ‘

  ‘It's a black-and-white set,’ Stan informed her.

  Lucy stared at the yellow plastic casing. ‘Who're you trying to fool?’

  Stanley folded his arms. Downstairs, the phone rang.

  ‘It's no good,’ Edgar said to Almeric, ‘he won't answer.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘I was over there the other day; the phone's out of order.’

  ‘It can't be,’ said Almeric, ‘it's ringing.’

  Edgar shook his head. ‘That's just some lunatic doing a phone impression.’

  Almeric looked disgusted.

  Vern took his work's jacket off and cast it on the floor with the rest of his junk.

  ‘Are you making toast?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Toast?’ echoed Stan. ‘I'd love some.’ He glanced round the bedsit. ‘Nice place you've got here, Vern.’ Then back to the TV. ‘Vern, come see,’ he said; ‘it's Harold Lloyd.’

  In the tiny kitchen Vern was reaching behind the oven for his roach trap. It was unexpectedly heavy. His eyes widened.

  Lucy came in, bringing the bread and beans, a cigarette stuck to the red lipstick at one corner of her mouth. ‘Can I help?’

  Vern didn't hear. Amazement transformed his features. He put the trap down on the workbench and gently coaxed his mouse from inside.

  ‘What's that it's eating?’ Lucy wanted to know.

  ‘A cockroach,’ said Vern.

  ‘Yuk: ‘

  ‘Hugget see
ms to like them.’

  ‘Hugget?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Vern said. ‘My mouse. Somebody's stolen its cage, though.’

  Lucy took off her long grey Mack and sang, ‘Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday to you, Happy Birthday dear Huuuggg-et, Happy Birthday to yooouu!’

  Vern's amazement turned to incredulity.

  Lucy removed the cigarette from her red lips. ‘I've never had to kiss a mouse before,’ she said. ‘He won't bite me, will he?’

  ‘It's a her,’ said Vern.

  ‘That's okay,’ said Lucy, ‘I prefer girls.’

  Someone hammered on the door, as yet ajar, rattling under the assault.

  ‘Someone at the door,’ Stan called, adding, ‘You're wanted on the phone, Vern.’

  Vern gave Lucy the mouse and went to hear who it was.

  At eight minutes past nine that night Vernon Planes, Almeric Jones, Edgar Ritsky and fourteen girl-guides stood waiting in a Chinese takeaway.

  ‘Whose idea was this?’ questioned Vern.

  ‘If we'd come earlier, like I suggested,’ said Almeric, ‘Then we'd be at the other end of the queue.’

  ‘If you'd brought your car,’ said Edgar, ‘then we'd be home by now, and not hungry.’

  ‘It's only two streets,’ Almeric protested. ‘Besides, you lost my keys.’

  ‘It still would've been quicker to drive,’ Edgar came back; ‘and you always start your car with your screwdriver anyway!’ He glared at the ceiling in victory.

  ‘My place was broken into,’ Vern said. ‘Somebody sole my mouse cage...’

  ‘Eeeeeeeeeeeee-eeeeee-eeee!’ chorused the girl-guides. ‘Eeee-eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee-eeeee!’

  ‘You should've run if you're in such a hurry,’ Almeric said to Edgar, brandishing his screwdriver as was his wont.

  ‘I'm going to take the afternoon off work tomorrow and go shopping,’ Vern decided.

  ‘That,’ said Edgar, ‘is a great idea.’

  ‘Running?’

  ‘Shopping.’

  ‘What're you going to buy?’ Almeric asked.

  ‘Food,’ replied Vern. ‘Food.’

  ‘Just food?’

  ‘And some rubber washers, so I can fix the toilet in my place,’ Vern added. ‘I'm sick of having to take a crap wherever I can.’

  Almeric fished in his pocket for a pound coin and slotted it in the flashing, luring, trilling bandit.

  Vern continued, ‘I used thirty-two different toilets last month alone and expect to get over the forty mark this time round.’

  ‘You count them?’ Edgar said.

  ‘I must do...’

  The queue dwindled. The girl-guides screamed and exited the too cramped takeaway.

  ‘Fish and chips three times,’ ordered Edgar.

  ‘No feesh,’ said the girl at the counter on which he leaned, polishing. ‘No cheeps.’

  ‘What did she say?’ queried Vern.

  ‘She refuses to serve us,’ said Edgar.

  ‘That's ridiculous - let me try.’ He smiled at the girl who didn't smile back.

  ‘Be my guest,’ Edgar told him. ‘But I don't think she likes us or something.’

  Vern hesitated. ‘What're we ordering, Ed?’

  Almeric waved his hands in the air and did a little dance. ‘I won! I won!’

  ‘What did he win?’ asked Vern.

  ‘Peanuts,’ scoffed Edgar over the rich clatter of money, bright warm coins, silver and gold.

  ‘No peenots,’ said the girl behind the shiny counter.

  ‘No fish,’ said Edgar.

  Vern looked at the menu on the wall. ‘Who wants fish? This's a Chinese.’ He ordered numbers at random. They waited.

  At five minutes to ten Almeric said, ‘What's this I'm eating, Vern?’

  Vern was abashed. ‘Fish,’ he said.

  ‘I hate fish,’ said Edgar. ‘I'm going to get a kebab.’

  ‘I hate kebabs,’ said Almeric.

  ‘Food,’ said Vern. ‘I hate food.’

  ‘You still going shopping tomorrow?’ Edgar wanted to know. He fiddled with his plastic fork.

  ‘Sure,’ Vern nodded; ‘I really need some rubber washers.’

  ‘I hate rubber washers,’ said Edgar.

  ‘I hate Edgar Ritsky,’ said Almeric.

  Vern belched. Forking fish into his exhausted mouth he made a mental note, filed it under W for washers, and then forgot.

  At two o'clock Wednesday morning he woke from a dream of red sands and yellow oceans.

  At five o'clock he had heartburn and was unable to sleep. The night was dark, he observed, pieces of his consciousness floating in it; blue, green motes his eyes told him were outside his head. But his brain knew better, that and his stomach. The motes were flecks of his tortured mind, he thought, the blown particles of his sleeping ego that had leaked from his nose and ears.

  ‘I'm not really awake at all,’ he said.

  ‘Be quiet,’ Lucy replied from the bed. ‘I'm trying to sleep.’

  Vern turned on the hard floor and ached, confused his feet with his hands and scratched his chin with his toes, curled his fingers inside his socks.

  I grow more solid. I am able to move larger objects and consume greater amounts. I sit and read, and my laughter rings, spinning colours the sight of which is pleasing.

  The new day comes, and I fade...

  7 - SUPERMARKET TROLLEY PUSH

  Edgar stared at his bruises in the mirror. ‘What colour would you say space is, Al?’

  ‘Space is black.’

  ‘What about during the day?’

  ‘Blue. ‘

  ‘And when it's cloudy?’

  ‘Grey-white.’

  Edgar scraped his front teeth. ‘Did you know those grey-white clouds were really spaceships full of evil aliens come to invade our planet and eat us all?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Almeric, ‘I knew that.’

  ‘And did you know that they make the weather, the rain and the snow and the fog?’

  Almeric nodded.

  ‘Supposing they went away then,’ posed Edgar. ‘What would happen?’

  ‘All the seas and rivers and lakes would dry up,’ Almeric replied.

  Edgar grinned. ‘We'd all die in that case, wouldn't we?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Almeric.

  ‘Which proves my point.’

  ‘What point?’

  ‘That the aliens are really on our side.’

  ‘Then why are they attacking us, Ed?’

  ‘A communications foul up,’ explained Edgar. ‘A long time ago the people of this planet sent out an order for pizza and it got mixed up somewhere with an order for southern-fried chicken from Venus and so the Galactic Overlords sent out these aliens to see if they couldn't sort it out only the aliens received the wrong instructions and the wrong directions and came here instead of Saturn where the pizza and southern-fried chicken places are and as a consequence they got stuck.’

  ‘How? How did they get stuck?’

  ‘Simple, the aliens ordered pizza too, only they got chicken, and so the Venusians, who got the pizza they didn't order, they declared war on us Earth people.’

  ‘So it's the Venusians who're attacking us?’

  ‘No, no, it's the aliens the Galactic Overlords sent; they made a deal with the Venusians, you see, that in exchange for the southern-fried chicken, which the aliens had intercepted on its way to Mars, they'd bombard us on Earth with all this weather we couldn't live without.’

  ‘And they got our pizza?’

  ‘No, the Venusians kept all the pizza, just in case.’

  ‘Just in case of what?’

  ‘They ever got hungry enough to want to eat it.’

  ‘It seems to me,’ Almeric said, ‘the aliens got a bad deal - but I still don't see why they should be stuck.’

  Edgar brushed his hair in a haphazard fashion. ‘The alien's spaceships run on pizza,’ he said. ‘The Venu
sians tricked them, so now they're stuck.’

  ‘Couldn't they order more pizza?’

  ‘They tried that, but the Venusians bought Saturn and ceased its export. They keep all the pizza to themselves.’

  Almeric rapped his screwdriver off the cold tap. ‘I hate pizza,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Edgar; ‘so do the Galactic Overlords. I think that's why they gave the aliens the wrong instructions and the wrong directions in the first place.’

  ‘They did that on purpose?’

  ‘Sure. It all makes perfect sense when you consider that just before the Venusians bought Saturn and all the pizza the Galactic Overlords took over the southern-fried chicken business and now have a virtual monopoly.’

  ‘Sneaky.’

  ‘Very sneaky. The Venusians went crazy.’

  ‘Why? I thought...No, they ordered chicken,’ Almeric reasoned, ‘which means they like it, only they got stuck with pizza.’

  ‘Like the aliens didn't.’

  ‘Right, they got stuck without it:’

  ‘And so on Earth it rains and snows and fogs and everybody stays living.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Almeric. ‘Yeah.’ He was truly impressed.

  ‘Which is just as well,’ Edgar concluded. ‘Because if there weren't any clouds you wouldn't have been able to tell me what colour they are...’

  Almeric moaned.

  ‘What's the matter?’ asked Edgar.

  ‘My screwdriver,’ Almeric said; ‘it's rusting.’

  Vern leaves work at noon and walks to the supermarket where he meets Lucy. She has brought her sister Harriot along...

  ‘These places terrify,’ admitted Vern.

  ‘Me too,’ said Harriet. ‘One time I got lost in the freezer section and had to spend the night with a lot of chilled beef and yogurt.’

  Lucy shivered. ‘Don't say that.’

  A screeching of tyres in the car park turned their heads. Two old ladies in a Porsche had narrowly missed ramming Almeric's VW Beetle.

  The old ladies swore and promised vengeance. Almeric got out and locked the door with his screwdriver, a smug expression on his face as he had succeeded in occupying the last parking space. Edgar took longer to emerge. Caught up in some hidden duty, he sat quietly fuming.

  ‘Well,’ said Almeric. ‘Here we are.’

  My name is Broken. I fix things. It's what I do.

  I am in danger of neglecting my mission, such are the overt distractions of this world. The city on wheels is visible across the ocean as I speak. The leaders of my kind plan their attack on the nameless leviathan, their brown ponies and brave hearts stern and resolute. I must locate our champion, the man with strong lungs of whom my beads tell, and return with him to the grasslands of my home, there to fight and die under a too blue azure, amongst the many generals, the few real warriors, the gathered army of fools and silver eagles...