Dumpiter

by David Fletcher

  'You mean you… errh, you provide the service?'

  This question was redundant. Renton began to really look at Brunehilde for the first time, and he could imagine no one else he had met in his life to date who looked more suited to provide the service in question.

  Her clothes seemed under tension, expectant, waiting to spring off to the nearest chair-back at the drop of a hat. There was a body under there that simply wasn't designed to be clothed. And what a body! Even with its transient covering of restless garments, its power and its particular purpose were only too clear.

  'Sir, at The Excessive, your pleasure is our business.'

  Brunehilde took a pace forward and her hands reached for the fastening at the neck of her jacket.

  'Uhh, hold on, Brunehilde. RP sounds very tempting and it's very nice there's a discount an' all, but really tonight I… well, I… I've a lot of work to do. I… I don't want to sound tiresome but… And well, I don't want to offend you, but… well, no thanks. You know, I'd rather give it a miss on this occasion, if that's all right.'

  Brunehilde smiled and her hands fell to her sides. 'Whatever you say, sir. I'd just rather assumed that the way you were dressed… well, that you'd been studying page 20 and…'

  Renton had entirely forgotten his state of undress and immediately cast his eyes around the room for something more to wear.

  'If you change your mind, you'll find the number to call on page 20. You can ask for me by name if you want.'

  Brunehilde's body pouted.

  Renton abandoned his interest in more clothes and sat on the edge of his bed. 'Brunehilde, you have my assurance that page 20 is now synonymous with your name. I wouldn't dream of not asking for you - by name - if I wanted… errh, if I wanted any… errh, you know… errh, RP services.'

  'Thank you, sir.'

  'Renton, Renton's my name.'

  'Oh, thank you, Renton. I'll let you get on with your work now. I'm sorry to have kept you.'

  'That's no problem, Brunehilde. I've found our little exchange intriguing. But well, I suppose I should get on now…'

  'Of course… Renton.'

  Brunehilde turned to the door and Renton's eyes immediately took their first opportunity to lock onto her inevitably pretty bottom. A moment later they were obliged to return to her own eyes as she waved him goodnight.

  'Have a nice night.'

  'You too,' said Renton with a half wave and an indecisive sort of smile.

  Then the door closed. And Renton stared at his cooling meat. The duck looked less enticing than usual.

  'Adventure,' he thought. 'It doesn't present itself, eh? Well maybe just as well if that's your reaction to something a little out of the ordinary. I don't suppose you'd find even the dullest lava skier turning down Brunehilde's offer. You're pathetic, Renton. You're a wimp!'

  He shrugged and sighed and then he ate. Thoughts of Brunehilde - and of how things had changed at The Excessive since his last visit - accompanied his dinner, but soon left him when he returned to the console and his task for the night.

  He found what the discs were all about within half an hour. But, of course, he had no idea then that his success would catapult him into an adventure even bigger than Brunehilde.

  Just the next day.

  11.

  Renton had woken early. And by being less than leisurely in his ablutions and by replacing a hotel breakfast with a small packet of tiger nuts, he emerged into Spazum's reception area at well before nine. He was that keen to talk to Den. And he also wanted to make quite sure he had plenty of time to do this before he had to attend his rescheduled paint demo - at eleven.

  As it turned out, he could have had a lie-in and a full-blown Ranamavana fry-up, because Den wasn't there. And not only wasn't he there, but also he wouldn't be there for a number of days. Donna, his secretary, said so. And yes, it had all been a bit sudden. Mr D'Kemba had only told her when he'd come back from seeing Mr Lysaars. And it was certainly out of the blue. She'd had to cancel any number of his meetings, and she didn't even know where he was going, and she couldn't contact him. And it was just so unusual, and so… well, so unlike Mr D'Kemba. She couldn't recall him ever doing anything like it before.

  Renton could only agree - with the oddness of it all. But very soon after agreeing with Den's attractive secretary, he found he could do something else. And that was to worry. He had, after all, been given some information by this character - or not so much information, as data - from which he'd had to extract the information. And not only that, but the character in question was somebody with whom he no longer had a professional relationship, but who had presumably chosen Renton as the recipient for the data, in the belief that (a) he could interpret this data as required and (b) he could be trusted with the data. And God, that was the killer. He'd been entrusted with something. And it was something he didn't fully understand, but something that was probably pretty important. And maybe even important enough to make Den disappear…

  This paint-buying trip was turning into a nightmare. And it had hardly been a dream to begin with…

  12.

  Den D'Kemba, it could be argued, was the principal architect of Renton's developing nightmare, and this rather upset him. He sat now in his study at home, a room even darker than his office at work. And yes, he was distinctly upset.

  Clearly, there was no way he could foresee precisely what would happen. But, there again, he had a pretty shrewd idea that in telling Lysaars that Renton had stolen the discs, he would almost certainly be putting his former auditor's future into some very serious jeopardy. Add to that the fabrication that Renton was now an investigative journalist, who'd presumably smelled the scent of a story when he'd been here before as an auditor - and there was no question about it; Renton's future was not looking good.

  But as upsetting as this was, he'd had to do it. Just as he'd had to get mixed up in all this nonsense in the first place. And the whole idea of trying to stop it, trying to put a brake on this juggernaut of a scheme, had been nothing but a dreadful mistake.

  Yes, he should never have passed that stuff to Renton. But he had done. And he'd then needed to put matters right. And when he spoke to Lysaars, he'd also needed to make it sound all very credible, so not only would he believe the bit about Renton, but also so he wouldn't suspect poor old Den himself. There was still a pretty big survival instinct in play, and no way did he want to end up on the wrong side of Lysaars. Hell, it was bad enough being on the right side of the bugger.

  So he'd had to do it: betray a former colleague to save his own skin…

  …But there again, it could have been a lot worse. After all, Renton could have been a real former colleague, and not just the guy who turned up every year to poke his nose in… Then, having to tell Lysaars would have been really upsetting.

  13.

  From 9.15 to 11.00, Renton considered all his options, including the forced precipitation of premature dementia, the enrolment in a scared-witless-witness protection programme, the possibility of immediate reincarnation as a ceiling panel, or the taking of holy orders - preferably to the other end of the universe. But at 11.00 he was still undecided. And it was now time for his body-paint appointment and, as it was to turn out, another option he hadn't yet considered.

  It all started in a very business-like manner, with a Mr Redhead, who didn't have one, talking about body-paint colours, of which he did have thousands. And when Mr Redhead had finished, there was then a scoot through some of the commercial aspects, by a Mr Bluetooth, another misleadingly named manager of the company - which proved about as interesting as the proverbial paint drying. And then there was the demonstration phase itself, which promised to be not in the least bit business-like, or for that matter in the least bit uninteresting. For in the first place, it was to be conducted in a windowless, basement room, to which Renton had been taken and then left - by Mr Redhead and Mr Bluetooth. And then, in the second place, it was to be performed by a charming young lady who arrived just seconds after her
colourful colleagues had departed, and who, just seconds after that, had dispensed with her conservative outerwear to reveal her rather more liberal underwear. And surely, thought Renton, not the sort of underwear she'd have been wearing under her uniform on the occasion of their first meeting. For yes, standing here before him was the lady of the lupins and harebells, the lady police officer who had attended his motor mishap just two days previously, and who was either now off duty or in the middle of the sort of undercover assignment that Renton had only ever encountered in his fantasies.

  'Heavens!' remarked Renton, in response to this barely credible apparition. And then by way of contrast: 'What the hell's going on?'

  'I'm Madeleine, Mr Tenting. Madeleine Maiden. And during working hours, Officer Maiden of the Ranamavana Traffic Police - as you possibly remember.'

  Renton thought of responding at this point in the proceedings - with just a simple 'yes' or a nod of acknowledgement. But there was clearly a malfunction in the actual delivery mechanism, and all he could manage was a gradual widening of the mouth until it became an idiot gape, and a look in his eyes that one associates with babies and trapped wind.

  This seemed to encourage the slightly clothed Madeleine, and she hurried on into her explanation.

  'You see, I want to be a film star. And, Mr Tenting, I'm prepared to do anything to achieve this. Even if it means a spell in the porno world. And well, you probably already know this, but there's nowhere here on Corcul where they do that sort of stuff. You know, make porno flicks…

  'So, how often do you think I meet a porno film director - in the course of my duties, as it were? And how long would I have to wait until I met another one? Well, I'll tell you, Mr Tenting. A bloody lifetime. That's how long. And frankly, I'm not prepared to wait even another day, let alone a lifetime. So that's why I'm here. To show you what I've got - and how good it looks when it's painted…'

  Renton's body was now being sorely tested. It had an awful lot to deal with, and all at the same time. There were the knees, for example, and their capacity not to buckle and thereby land their owner in an inelegant lump on the floor. Then there were the eyelids, and the question as to whether they would remember to lubricate the surfaces of Renton's eyes - or whether they would stick indefinitely in the open position and allow those still staring eyes to become arid and scratchy. And let's not forget the lungs and their essential breathing duties - as apoplexy takes a firmer hold and even the automatic functions of the body are starved of their momentum. And as for the brain, or at least the sentient, thinking bit of it… well, will it freeze up forever or just for a while?

  Well, unbelievably, the old vessel of the soul rose to the challenge like a hero. The knees stayed locked, the breathing held, the eyelids flickered - almost manically - and the brain forced some words from the mouth. Albeit, they weren't very coherent.

  'What? What? I mean… What?

  'Well, I knew you'd be a bit surprised, Mr Tenting. But you must understand.'

  'How? How? I mean… How?'

  'Oh, how did I do it, you mean? Well, it wasn't very easy, I can tell you. But straight after I'd left you at the autocab, I started making a few phone calls. And well, you'd be amazed at what you can find if you've got the right access to police files, and the right contacts - and the right things to bring to certain people's attention - who might then do you a few favours - like postponing certain demonstrations and rearranging them - with different demonstrators - and in different circumstances…'

  'Why? Why? I mean… Why?'

  'Why did I do it? Well, I told you. I wanted to…'

  'No…' Renton was now ready to try a sentence - with a real verb and everything. And then he did. And it came out cleanly and clearly, and for Madeleine, with a suitably attention-grabbing effect. 'No.' he said. 'I mean why didn't you check - on me, that is - to find out what I really do?'

  Madeleine looked surprised - and now, for the first time, outrageously underdressed in just her underwear (which was by no means of the sensible or even remotely comfortable variety).

  'What do you mean? You direct porno films. You told me so yourself. And there's all this paint stuff. I didn't need to check. And if you're trying…'

  'I'm an apprentice make-up artist. And I work for a children's TV station. And I'm here to buy some body-paint for all these kids we're going to paint up as… as elves and goblins…'

  'As elves and goblins!?' queried Madeleine. 'Did you say elves and goblins!?'

  'Yes,' responded Renton. 'Elves and goblins. And we're thinking of green for the elves and maybe red for the goblins…'

  'Green for the elves and red for the goblins?'

  'Yes. Although maybe orange rather than…'

  But Renton didn't finish the sentence. Because he realised, really rather quickly, that this Madeleine lady wasn't especially interested in the preferred colour schemes for small fairy-like people back on Omoria, and that her questions were merely her way of gathering herself - for a performance. And then it came: a play in four acts concerning the stupidity and duplicity of every last man in the universe and the way that they ruin women's lives. Act One was full of heart-felt emotion. Act Two contained some of the most colourful prose Renton had ever heard in his life. Act Three was simply devastating. And Act Four was no less than frightening, climaxing as it did in a string of expletives, screamed rather than shouted, and tailing off into a shudder of uncontrolled rage. And then Madeleine looked at her audience as though she meant to kill him.

  Now, to say Renton was good at dealing with this sort of situation, particularly when he was still recovering from the shock of disturbing revelations, would be as silly as saying that women who wear their sunglasses on the top of their head look other than entirely stupid. And rather than “good” one would have to apply the term “absolutely hopeless” or even “wouldn't know where to start”. So when, rather than trying to defend himself, he picked up her discarded jacket and put it around her shoulders, and murmured something that sounded like “mush, mush”, but that in the absence of a dog sled, was probably intended to be “hush, hush”, he was doing outstandingly well. And when, by doing this, he had managed the impossible and actually got her talking again - but this time coherently and quietly - he had clocked up a personal best…

  'I cannot believe what I've done,' she said. 'I know I can be a little impetuous at times. And even a bit reckless on occasions. But never this reckless. And never when I don't need to be. God, it wouldn't have taken much time, would it? I mean, it wouldn't have been exactly difficult to check you out. But no. I didn't bother and now I'm completely buggered. I'm completely and thoroughly screwed.'

  Renton thought these last observations were a tad contradictory. Or maybe they were just an area of modern human relationships he hadn't yet visited - and wasn't ever likely to - even with his wrongly-attributed porno credentials. But he kept these thoughts to himself. For it was now time to build on his already remarkable achievements. And to do this by offering the still traumatised and still boiling-inside police person his ideas on the subject of redemption, and in particular how a police person who has abused her position within the force, might make up for her indiscretions by unearthing and then solving a possible fraud. And the fact that it would also dig an apprentice make-up artist out of a hole, into which he'd been dumped by a thoughtless-in-the-extreme finance director, with whom he no longer had a relationship, was a thought that had not crossed his mind…

  14.

  'But I'm just a traffic cop,' insisted Madeleine. 'And before that, I worked in a circus. And before that, I was a dancer. And before that, a barmaid. So I'm hardly going to understand accounts, am I? And frankly, I wouldn't know a fraud if it hit me. So I think you're wasting my time by even suggesting it. And what I should really be doing is getting myself out of Ranamavana. Now. I mean somebody's going to rumble what I did pretty damn soon. And then I'm sunk. '

  'What did you do in the circus?' countered Renton. 'Was it something involving balance?'<
br />
  'Well, yes. Sort of. I was a trampolinist. Not the star turn or anything. Just one of the chorus, one of the girls who sort of made up the numbers. But why do you ask?'

  'Well, that's all accountancy is, really. Just a balancing act - only with figures. And you're obviously a natural. It stands out a mile.'

  Now, up to this point, Madeleine's demeanour and her dialogue had both been a significant improvement over those she'd employed in her outburst performance, and her relationship with Renton had progressed from the openly and potentially-dangerous hostile to the almost cordial. But now that progression was looking threatened. It had stumbled. Indeed, there was no doubt about it. You could see it in her eyes. It was about to slide back.

  'You mean a natural with bookkeeping and accounts and stuff?'

  Renton caught the whiff of menace in her tone. But he had to respond. After all, he still had his objective - even if it had just receded into the distance…

  'Well, yes. And you'd certainly grasp what I have to tell you. No question about it'

  'Oh would I? Would I indeed now?'

  'Yes. I…'

  'You tell me you're a film director - which you're not. You hold out the possibility of a new life for me - which you can't deliver. You make me act like a complete fool - which I've never been. You land me in a pile of shit - which is not what I want. In short, you destroy me. And you do it with the wit of a breadstick. And, I might say, with about as much charm as a breadstick. And then to top it all, you come out with a load of old bollocks about balance!

  'What the hell do you take me for? Some sort of bimbo? I might have lost my dignity, Mr Tenting, but I haven't lost my friggin' marbles! And I haven't lost my ability to spot a load of old hooey when I hear it. And all that balancing stuff and all that "you're a natural" garbage is the biggest load of hooey I've heard for some time…'