An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  My eyes! They’re beginning to open!

  Hardly daring to hope, I try moving my fingers. If I aim small, I figure I won’t be too disappointed if I fail. Nothing happens at first – my eyelids are no longer moving either – but then the digits twitch and so do my lids. Opening my mouth, I breathe in the sweetest gasp of air in history, then jolt upright and ready myself to scream abuse at the idiots who had written me off as one of the dead.

  The outraged scream dies on my lips. I’m not in a morgue or a hospital. Not even in Casablanca. I’m back in the city, in Franz’s boarding house. The sun is low in the sky. I’ve slept through the majority of the day. It’ll be night soon.

  I walk around the room, enjoying the use of my limbs, taking deep breaths, giving my thoughts time to adapt. I don’t know how I should feel. I’ve slipped from the real world again, so I should be miserable, desolate, aghast. But at least I’m alive here. In this city I don’t have to lie on a slab, face-to-face with death.

  Knuckles rap on my door and I stop. “Who’s there?” I ask. It feels good to be speaking again, though my first words are shaky.

  “It’s Cheryl. Can I come in?”

  I consider the request silently.

  “Newman?” she calls, puzzled. “Are you alright?”

  “I’m… fine,” I croak, crossing to the door but not opening it. “Do you mind leaving me alone a while? I have a lot on my mind.”

  “But I thought we were going out,” she says.

  “I’m sorry but I don’t want to go out with you tonight. Some other time.”

  “Newman, what’s wrong?” She’s moved closer to the door.

  “Nothing,” I lie. “I just need some time to myself. I’ll call in on you later.”

  “Oh, you will, will you?” she huffs. “Well, maybe I won’t be in. Maybe I’ll be gone. I’m not –”

  “Please,” I groan. “I can’t cope with this right now. Just go away and leave me be. If you’re in when I call, fine. If not, that’s fine too. At this precise moment I don’t give a damn one way or the other.”

  “Alright,” she says stiffly. “If that’s how you want it. Goodbye.”

  Seconds later, a door slams. Silence descends. I use the solitude to think.

  Hours later, I’m still thinking. It’s dark in here. Franz came up earlier to light the candles but I wouldn’t let him in. I’ve drawn the drapes across the window. I lie on the bed, a sleeping pill in hand, wondering whether or not I should take it. I’ve no desire to return to that slab and the horrors of a possible cremation, but what are the alternatives? Stay here? While life in the city is preferable to what I experienced when last in the real world, it’s only marginally more attrac-tive. And maybe I’ll be alive this time if I go back. Maybe I took the second pill too soon after the first, resulting in the death-like state of my body. More time has passed. If I wait a few more hours and try again, maybe I’ll…

  The door handle twists and somebody tries forcing their way in. I glance across, disinterested, figuring it’s Franz or Cheryl. Whoever’s out there lets go of the handle when they discover the door’s locked, but then there’s the sound of keys jingling. The lock clicks and the door opens. I sit up and stare into the gloom, heart starting to thump.

  “No lights,” somebody says and I gather there’s more than one intruder.

  “Hang on, I’ve got a candle,” a second voice mutters. A match strikes and a candle’s lit. Two medium-sized men enter the room and close the door. They’re carrying some weird kind of apparatus, I can’t tell what it is.

  “Who the fuck are you?” I bark as I struggle to my knees on the bed.

  The men jump with alarm, dropping whatever it is that they were holding. When they see me glaring at them, they relax.

  “Snuff, man,” one of them chuckles, “you nearly stopped my heart. You shouldn’t do that to people. We thought you were asleep.”

  “He’s supposed to be asleep,” the second man says, squinting at me. “Franz said he was a day worker.”

  “Maybe we got the wrong room,” the first man says.

  “Nah,” the second man says, stepping closer. “I remember this one from the last couple of nights. He’s the guy who’s always dressed.”

  “Oh yeah,” the first man says, joining his partner at the foot of the bed. “I took his clothes off last night, didn’t I? Thought he’d be more comfortable that way. All heart, I am.”

  “Who are you?” I ask again, less harshly this time. They’re not burglars, that much I’m sure of.

  “I’m Andy,” the first man says. “This is Isaac.”

  “How do,” Isaac smiles.

  “And you’re…” Andy thinks for a moment. “Newman, right? Newman Riplan, the guy with two names?”

  “Yes,” I say, staring at them suspiciously.

  “See that?” Andy beams, nudging Isaac in the ribs. “Am I great when it comes to names or what?”

  “A wonder,” Isaac says drily, then points at me. “Come on then, off with your clothes. We haven’t got all night. Twelve more boarding houses after this one. Or is it thirteen?”

  “It’s fourteen,” Andy pipes up. “A new place opened for business today.”

  “Is that on our route?” Isaac asks.

  “Sure is,” Andy says.

  “Snuff!” Isaac curses.

  “Excuse me,” I mutter, “but who the hell are you?”

  “Andy and Isaac,” Andy says again.

  “I’ve gathered that much,” I sigh. “I mean, why are you in my room? What’s your business here?”

  “Oh,” Isaac chuckles, “he wants to know what our job is.”

  “Oh,” Andy smiles. “Why didn’t he say? You have to speak plainly round us. We’re not the brightest of men, are we, Isaac?”

  “Wouldn’t be enemaists if we were,” Isaac grins.

  “En-eh-mah-ists?” I echo uncertainly. It’s not a word I’m familiar with.

  “We’re clean-up artists,” Isaac giggles, patting the thing on the floor that they were carrying when they came in.

  “Clean-out artists, you mean,” Andy says, and the two howl with laughter.

  “Look,” I say impatiently, “I don’t know what you jokers think you’re up to, but if I don’t get some answers pretty quickly, I’ll call Franz and have him throw the pair of you out.”

  “We’re enemaists,” Andy says, as if that explains every-thing. “You know what an enemaist is, don’t you?”

  “No,” I reply.

  The men exchange a wry glance. “We’ve got a raw one,” Isaac murmurs.

  “Franz said he was odd,” Andy nods. “I see now what he meant.” He clears his throat. “Do you know what an enema is?”

  “Of course,” I snap, “but what does that have to do with…”

  I stop. Enema. Enemaists. Uh-oh.

  I lean forward and ogle the large container on the floor between the men. A long pipe sticks out of it and my nose detects a heavily disguised but unmistakably unpleasant scent. I recall looking in vain for toilets. Last night, when I took my first sleeping pill, I needed to shit. I didn’t – I conked out before I could – but when I woke in the morning, the urge had passed. Now I know why.

  “You give people enemas,” I gasp.

  “The boy’s a genius,” Isaac dead-pans.

  My sphincter tightens at the thought of what the men have been up to in my room the past two nights. “What about urine?” I ask. “Do you drain that too?”

  “Of course,” Andy says. “Wouldn’t do to leave it inside.”

  “Do you do this all over the city?” I ask light-headedly.

  “Just our section,” Isaac says, “and only boarding houses. Different teams handle private homes.”

  “You get paid more for privates,” Andy sighs. “We used to be on privates but we got demoted. Complaints that we were taking liberties with some of our female customers.”

  “All fabricated of course,” Isaac adds quickly.

  “This is sick,” I
moan. “What’s wrong with you people? Haven’t you heard of toilets?”

  “What are those?” Isaac asks.

  I try explaining the principles of lavatories but I might as well be talking to a pair of chimps.

  “A bowl,” Isaac grins.

  “With water in it,” Andy adds.

  “And pipes going through floors and out walls, under streets and…” Isaac can’t continue, he’s laughing so hard.

  “We’ll have to tell the rest of the gang about this,” Andy cackles. “I don’t suppose you could draw us one of these toilet thingies, could you?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I snap.

  “OK,” Isaac says when he’s calmed down, “no more jokes. Drop your pants.”

  “What?” I back away from him nervously.

  “We’ve got to clean you out,” Isaac says. Can’t leave that messy stuff inside. Think of the damage it would do.” He lifts the tube leading into the dumper and points it at me. “Get the suds ready, Andy.”

  “Stop right there,” I bellow. “The first man to set foot on this bed loses an eye. I’ll claw it out with my fingers.”

  The pair of enemaists stare at me. “You don’t want to be sluiced?” Andy asks.

  “Are you insane?” Isaac growls.

  “Maybe,” I laugh hysterically. “But if you think I’m going to lie here and let you stick that thing up me, you’re out of your minds.”

  “It doesn’t hurt,” Isaac assures me.

  “Quite a pleasant sensation in fact,” Andy says. “Lots of wealthy folk have their enemas while they’re awake. Costs more but they think it’s worth it.”

  “But we won’t charge you extra,” Isaac promises.

  “You’re not putting that thing up me,” I roar again. “I won’t have it. I’ve put up with a lot of shit lately, and I suppose it’s only fair that I give some of it back, but I’ll be damned if I do it like this.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Andy challenges me. “Just leave the piss and shit inside to accumulate? Does that sound reasonable?”

  “I’ve no intention of letting it accumulate,” I tell them. “I’ll piss in the sink and shit in the parks. That’ll see me right.”

  Their jaws drop. “Piss in the… the…” Andy can’t bring himself to say it.

  “He’s an animal,” Isaac gawps. “Nothing more than a filthy, mindless animal.”

  “The thought of it,” Andy whimpers, face whitening.

  “OK, sicko,” Isaac says, “I’ll give you one final oppor-tunity. If you drop your pants now and apologise, we’ll say no more about this. If you don’t…”

  “Yeah?” I jeer, secure in the knowledge that they don’t have police here.

  “If you don’t, we’ll spread the word,” Isaac grunts. “Franz will kick you out. You’ll be refused work wherever you go. Public car drivers won’t let you in their cars. Nourishment houses won’t accept you. You’ll be treated like an animal and you’ll end up with them, roaming the streets, foraging for food.”

  “You’re bluffing,” I snort.

  “You reckon?” Isaac smiles thinly. “Come on then, Andy,” he says, picking up the dumper. “We’ll have a word with Franz, then go finish our rounds. I’d pack my bags now if I were you, Mr Riplan. I don’t think Franz will wait for morning. No landlord is going to let a stranger piss in his sink. And though you’ll probably be able to find a bed in another boarding house tonight, rest assured, this will be your final night indoors. By this time tomorrow, everyone will know about Newman Riplan and his disgusting predilections. The game, as they say, is up.”

  The two of them head for the door. I consider letting them go but their threat’s a dire one. “Wait,” I yap.

  They stop and turn. “Yes, sir?” Andy asks, mockingly polite.

  “If you ever get reincarnated,” I say bitterly, “I hope you come back as an intestinal worm.” Then, shaking my head grimly, I lie flat on my stomach and begin undoing the button on my trousers.

  “Now you’re being sensible,” Isaac says, making his way back.

  “Choke on it,” I snarl, then shut my eyes and think of England.

  Matters of the bowels attended to, Andy and Isaac depart, plunging me once again into darkness. Ignoring the empty feeling inside, I return to my original dilemma — the sleeping pill. The enemaists have pretty much decided things for me – I don’t want to stay in a city where my privacy is invaded every night by a pair of grubby state employees who’ve been reprimanded for molesting sleeping women – but I hesitate a few final minutes, remembering what it felt like to be dead yet conscious, alert but motionless. I’m dreading the thought of return, of discovering I’m still dead, of maybe suffering in flames. But I have to try. One last go. Monte Carlo or bust.

  I down the pill.

  This time there’s nothing. A veil of black that makes my room in the nameless city seem as bright as Las Vegas. No sense of body. No sounds or scents. It’s a void, inhabited only by my consciousness.

  Is this true death? Was my last experience merely an intermediate phase? If so, this place is far worse than the city. At least there’s life there, odd as it is. This is an area of extinction. Even time can’t penetrate this placeless place. I hang in the void for what seems an eternity, screaming silently. Days pass. Weeks. Months. Longer. Or maybe it’s just been seconds. I can’t say. This is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. Timelessness, pure and terrifying.

  Eventually, long after I’ve thought all is lost, a faint light materialises far ahead. It drifts towards me slowly, growing steadily. I’d cry for joy if I could. I try moving to meet it but I’m pinned to an inescapable, non-material spot. Finally, after many more days, weeks or years, the light washes over me. I can feel the warmth even though I’ve no body. Then I shudder. I become aware of a physical form. Limbs twitch. A heart beats. Eyes open.

  And I’m back. In the city.

  I roll off the bed, check to make sure I’m real, that this room is real, that I’m not imagining it. Then I sink to the floor and weep. The sun rises outside the window – I can chart its course through the chink in the drapes – and when it gets to about midday I stop crying, pull back the curtains, wash my face in the sink and head down to explore the streets.

  I’m here for good. I know that now. Time to swallow my pride and accept it. No more pills. No going back. I couldn’t face that void a second time. Anything’s better than nothingness, even if it’s only a purgatorial dreamworld. My old life is part of an irretrievable past. This city is my home from this point onwards. I must make it my reality. As little as it is, it’s all that I have.

  TEN

  Six days have passed. Or is it seven? I’m beginning to lose track of time, which is a good thing, seeing as how I’m the only person in the city who took any notice of it in the first place. The sooner I junk my preconceptions, the sooner I’ll fit in.

  It’s not so bad a place once you get used to it. Simpler than the real world — I mean, the world I once knew. This is the real world now. I must keep reminding myself of that. People accept life as it is. No philosophers tearing their hair out by the roots, wrestling with the secrets of life. No bitter divorce battles. No lawyers, no family feuds, no war, no pollution. Hell, you don’t even have to worry about bowel movements, as they’re taken care of for you. (I sleep soundly now, though the first few nights – when, try as I might, I couldn’t slip off – were pretty hairy.)

  The only flies in the ointment are the animals. I’ve seen loads by this stage, wolves, bears, lions, snakes, along with mutated monstrosities I can’t put names to. They roam the city at will and can attack any time, and the chances of someone coming to your rescue are slim. I don’t play the hero any more. I’ve watched three people die and not stepped in to help. Cheryl warned me that prostitutioners don’t take kindly to competition and would come after me if they got wind of my good deeds, assuming I was doing it to build up my own stable of sex slaves. Nobody knows where the animals come from or why there are so
many of them. They just are, and in this city, that’s explanation enough.

  Cheryl and I are an item. I found her that night after my third and final sleeping pill. Made my apologies. Said I’d been on a down but had recovered from my slump and was ready to get on with life again. It didn’t take her long to forgive me – one of the bonuses of short-term memories – and within hours we were out on the town together, wining and dining (well, sapping and lapping) and having a ball. Two nights later she arrived home from work and said she’d thought long and hard about it and had made up her mind — she was in love with me. As soon as she’d said it, she started to strip.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “We have to bond,” she said, “to make it official.”

  “Who am I to argue with the rules?” I grinned, loosening my belt.

  Sex with Cheryl is fine. She’s not the most passionate of lovers but she’s game for most things. The only time she draws the line is when it comes to ejaculation inside her. She won’t stand for it. In my hand, on the sheets, even over her stomach or breasts is fine, but never inside her vagina or mouth.

  When I do ejaculate, I have to douse the sperm with a salt-like substance that’s issued by the Alchemist (of whom I still know virtually nothing, aside from the fact that he has his fingers in pies all over the place) and can be found in small bottles in every room. I’ve asked Cheryl why it has to be done. She doesn’t know but says it’s vital. Her instincts tell her that the sperm can’t be left as it is or bad things will happen.