An Other Place

by Darren Dash

  I’m trapped. There’s no way out, no way home, nothing other than this city, this time, these people. If I run into the Alchemist tomorrow and he asks me about life in the outside world, I’ll say, “Outside? What’s that, old boy? What’s that?”

  I pick up where I left off and it’s as if I’d never been absent. I take to the stage at Kipp’s and regale my audiences with tales of mad scientists, werewolves, crooked businessmen, gangsters and – of course – drones. I restock my wardrobe. Make what should be the long trip to Barbersville to have the remains of my beard removed, only to find that it takes less than an hour in a public car. (I don’t reflect on the impossibility of that, as I’d only drive myself insane.) Cheryl goes back on day shifts so we can spend our nights together. I fatten myself up with plenty of meals. I even continue asking occasional questions of random passersby – Where am I? Where does the city end? How can I get out? – going through the motions, though I no longer anticipate or hope for answers. Everything back the way it was in what I failed to realise were the good old days.

  Except it’s not exactly the same. I’ve changed. I act as I did before and nobody – not even Cheryl – notices any differences, but the old Newman Riplan is no more. As relief at having come to the end of the quest recedes, bitterness and anger seep in. I’m stuck here, no say in my destiny, at the mercy of elemental changes, waiting for the lykans to reappear.

  The days drag. Before, I was genuinely interested in this city and how it functioned. No longer. I don’t care how things work. I’ve stopped popping into factories – as I used to do before the quest – to ask questions of the foremen, to see drones being melted down, to see cars being manufactured. I no longer wonder how they get by without glass and electricity and computers, how everything falls into place, how people know instinctively how to act and react.

  I now spend my time brooding in Kipp’s, or sitting by fountains and staring moodily into the water, or going for long, directionless drives in public cars. I spotted the Alchemist parading down a road yesterday but didn’t even stroll over to say hello. Couldn’t be bothered. I chewed on a crispy drone finger instead and kicked a stone into the canal that I was resting by.

  It’s not just the city I feel bitter towards. It’s the people. I’m being nice to Cheryl, taking her wherever she wants to go, smiling, kissing, playing the part of the lover, but inside I’m starting to despise her. I tried telling her about my quest but I might as well have been talking to a drone. “I walked for days and days and days, in one direction, and ended up back here.”

  “So?” she asked, smiling prettily.

  “You don’t think that’s strange?”

  “No.”

  “I went straight, Cheryl. Straight ahead. Yet I ended up back here.”

  She shrugged — couldn’t see the problem.

  It’s not that she’s stupid – she’s not – it’s just the way these people are. I’ve nothing against her personally, but as the person I’m closest to, she bears the brunt of my disgust and frustration for her unquestioning, gormless clan. I’m trying hard not to hate her but I’m fighting a losing battle. One of these days I fear I’ll snap and evict her from my life. I don’t want to, but my wants no longer serve me as they once did. That’s what happens when you take a man’s control over his life out of his hands.

  I’ve just got through making love with Cheryl. She’s sensed my antipathy. She was straining too hard to please me during sex. She lies on the bed, naked, and tickles my testicles with her toes. I force a smile but it’s thin and unconvincing.

  “Do you want to talk?” Cheryl asks and I shake my head wordlessly. “You were wonderful at Kipp’s tonight.”

  “Thanks,” I grunt.

  “Wonderful in bed too,” she giggles, poking me playfully with the toes.

  Again, a weak smile and a muttered, “Thanks.”

  “Did you sprinkle the sperm?” she asks, abandoning the small talk.

  “Yes,” I sniff. I always sprinkle the sperm. Sex wouldn’t be permitted if I skipped that routine.

  “Good.” She stares around the room – she’s moved back in with me – and searches for something further to say. Finds nothing. “Well, it’s sleep for me then,” she sighs and pops a pill. “See you in the morning.”

  “Yeah,” I reply and remove her toes from between my thighs as she falls into a deep, instant sleep.

  I spend a few sour hours reflecting on life and the blows it’s dealt me. I wonder if I did anything to deserve such a fate, if this is a godly punishment that’s been meted out. I can’t think of any awful, dark deeds. I’ve screwed over some business colleagues but nobody ever suffered unduly as a result of my efforts to get ahead. Could it be the whoring? I haven’t treated women with much respect – if I’d met Cheryl back in the old world, I’d probably have dumped her by this stage without thinking twice – and if God, as the feminists claim, is a woman…

  The more I think about it, the more it seems like something only a spiteful god could dream up. “He loves computers and technology — right, out they go. He likes to know how things work, so we won’t tell him. We’ll even strip the city of names and history, so he feels doubly confused. And to top it all, we’ll ruin his sex life by interfering with the natural rhythms of intercourse.”

  Am I being childish? Certainly. But this city would retard the most magnificent of minds, so there was never much hope for poor old Newman Riplan, who was a smart operator but hardly a genius. I think it’s to my credit that I’ve come this far with only one minor breakdown – my lion-hunting phase – along the way.

  I study Cheryl’s slumbering form and feel jealous contempt. How dare she sleep so soundly while I’m writhing in the flames of a waking hell? Life’s so simple for her. If things go wrong, all she has to do is wait a few days for her subconscious to smooth over the cracks. She wouldn’t last pissing time in my world. Give her a fortnight and she’d be a gibbering, howling wreck. It’s not fair that I’m suffering while she blithely carries on, nothing to rock her boat by even a fraction.

  My eyes narrow as I think of a way to ruin her day, so that she can understand what it feels like when the universe doesn’t work the way you want it to. She breathes deeply when she’s asleep. I know from experience that nothing short of wild yelling and shaking can wake her. I murmur her name — no response. I say it louder this time but her face remains the same, composed, oblivious. I dig her in the ribs. She emits a groan, her face puckers, but otherwise there are no changes.

  I roll on top of her, bitterness directing my actions. Part of me screams with outrage and orders me to stop but I ignore it. I’ve had enough of bowing to this city’s bowdlerized ways. It’s time I flexed my muscles. I’m not ruled by the same laws as the others and I’ll be damned if I go on pretending that I am. Newman Riplan is through being dictated to. From now on I make the rules.

  I slide inside Cheryl as I have done so many times since we hooked up, but this time with a cruel end result in mind. I’m hard before contact and begin pumping away as gently as possible, ready to withdraw at the first sign of consciousness.

  It doesn’t take long to climax. At the last moment I almost pull out – afraid that something terrible will happen – but I stick to my guns as I explode silently inside her. I lie tensely locked in for several minutes, waiting for the predicted big bad to happen, but nothing does, apart from the natural limpening of a certain appendage.

  I eventually slip out and recline on my own side of the bed, both disappointed and relieved. She was so sure I’d do damage if I came inside her that I’d started to believe it, even though I knew it must be nonsense. All that fuss — for what? A few minutes later I clean up the mess, check to make sure Cheryl’s still asleep, then lie back and wait for Morpheus to claim me too.

  FIFTEEN

  I’ve never felt grimier. Two days have passed since I took advantage of Cheryl while she was sleeping and I’ve spent them calling myself every foul name under the sun. How could I have don
e such a thing? I’m sure she would have agreed to have sex with me if I’d woken her and asked – she’s never refused – but I didn’t. I stole in like a thief while she was sleeping, no better than a rapist, and did the one thing she’s always vehemently resisted. It doesn’t matter that my sperm didn’t do any harm. She believes it’s a dangerous substance and I promised never to shoot it into her, yet in the heat of the moment I reneged on that promise and became a vile, spiteful, predatory bully.

  I’ve been extra nice to Cheryl, buying her all sorts of gifts in a futile attempt to ease my guilty conscience. She doesn’t know about the nocturnal transgression – I watched her cautiously as she woke and she was completely unaware of what had taken place – but that makes me feel worse. She’s so happy that I’m being nice to her again. To see trust and love in her eyes and know I’m undeserving of them…

  God damn this city for what it’s made of me. I can’t shift responsibility for the blame – I’m guilty, hands-down, no arguments – but if not for this wretched, rat’s shit of a purgatory I’d never have resorted to so cheap a shot. If I ever get out, I’ll return with a couple of nukes and level the joint.

  I’m beginning to lose my audience at Kipp’s. I can’t work up the enthusiasm any longer. I sleepwalk through the stories, adapting Frankenstein and Psycho, but I’ve lost the knack for rousing a crowd’s interest. They no longer hang on my every word or sit glued to their seats in anticipation of my story’s next terrifying twist. I try different approaches – I give Westerns and war movies a shot – to no great effect. Kipp keeps me on – I’m still a good opening act for better yarn spinners – but cuts my pay.

  “I don’t like doing this,” he says miserably, “but with business so poor, I can’t afford to pay you more.”

  The money’s not a problem – with what Cheryl earns, we’ve plenty to survive on – but my stage failure does nothing to lift my spirits. I feel like someone who’s wandered in from a lousy Ingmar Bergman movie, having to suffer through endless replays of ten reels of Swedish depression and angst.

  I’ve been having a hard time sleeping since that night with Cheryl. I’d take a pill if I dared, but I’ve experienced nothing worse than that time I returned to what should have been the real world, only to find myself immersed in timeless, con-scious blackness. I’m tossing and turning, trying to drop off, when the door opens and a pair of enemaists enter.

  “Sorry,” one says, realising I’m awake. “Want us to come back later?”

  “No, that’s OK, come in,” I reply. As the enemaists set to work on Cheryl I recognise one of them. “It’s Isaac, isn’t it?”

  The enemaist looks up and smiles politely. “You got it. Know me, do you?”

  “We spoke a long time ago. My name’s Newman Riplan.”

  Isaac frowns. “That sounds familiar. When did…?” He clicks his fingers. “You were the snuffer who said he was going to piss in the sink.”

  I laugh. “Right. That was me.”

  “Here, Fen,” Isaac says, nudging his partner. “Remember me telling you about this guy?”

  “Yeah,” Fen says, rubbing his nose. “Didn’t think it was funny though. Pissing in a sink — a revolting idea.”

  I ask Isaac where his old partner – Andy – is, but he doesn’t know who I’m talking about, so I write Andy off. We chat about what Isaac has been up to – that lasts all of a minute – and I tell him the names of some of the enemaists I met in the course of my quest. He knows a few of them and is amazed I got about that much. “I’m stunned you’ve any feet left,” he laughs. “All that walking, I’d have bet on you wearing them down.”

  He recalls attending one of my shows at Kipp’s and asks how things are going. “Not so good,” I sigh. “My tongue’s turned traitor. I can still think up stories but I can’t deliver them ably.”

  “That’s a shame,” he says earnestly. “You were good. I would have gone to see you again if I hadn’t been working so hard. Are you planning to give up?”

  “I don’t know,” I shrug. “What else am I fit for?”

  “You could always join us,” Isaac chuckles. “Plenty of openings in the enemaists.” He laughs and so does Fen.

  “That’s a joke,” Fen explains. “Plenty of openings. Get it?”

  “I get it,” I grin. “Thanks for the offer. If I ever get des-perate, I’ll bear…”

  I stop as a half-remembered thought flickers through my brain.

  “What do you do with the waste when you finish your rounds?” I ask.

  Isaac squints. “It goes down the Swanee.”

  “The Swanee?” I echo.

  “A load of pipes in our factory. They lead beneath the city.”

  “Pipes?” I blink. “Beneath the city?”

  “Yeah. Hey, are you OK?” Isaac steps towards me, con-cerned, as I sink back on the bed. “You look white around the gills all of a sudden.”

  “I’m fine,” I gasp, waving him away.

  Pipes beneath the city. I can’t leave by conventional methods – walking, driving, flight – but I’ve never tried burrowing out. Perhaps I’ve been looking in the wrong places for the exit signs. Maybe this city comes equipped with an underworld, through the tunnels of which freedom lies.

  “Are there really vacancies?” I ask.

  “Sure,” Isaac says.

  “Do you think I could apply?”

  “You’re serious?” he asks.

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I won’t say anything to deter you,” a surprised Isaac mutters. “We’re severely undermanned, so we’ll take any recruits we can get. And it won’t so much be an application as a signing on — they’re not turning down anyone.”

  “Could Cheryl join too?” I ask on a whim.

  “Who’s that?” Isaac asks and I give her a slight shake. “Oh, your woman. Sure. There aren’t many female enemaists but that’s not because we don’t want them, we just can’t normally convince any women to join.”

  “So it won’t be a problem if we turn up looking to start work tomorrow?” I ask.

  “You’re eager,” Isaac laughs. “You ain’t got nothing devious on your mind, do you? Because, listen – and this is the voice of experience speaking – if you’re looking to join so you can fiddle with people’s privates while they’re sleeping…”

  “No,” I say, grinning sickly, “that’s not why I want to join.”

  “Well, great,” Isaac says. “Tell you what, drop by my place in the afternoon and I’ll take you down to the recruiting office, put in a good word for you and get things fast-tracked.”

  “That would be wonderful,” I smile. “You don’t mind?”

  “Course not,” he says. “We get a bonus for bringing in newbies. See you later.”

  “Later,” I agree, shaking his hand and escorting him – once Fen has emptied my bowels – to the door.

  I do a little dance as soon as I’m alone – pipes beneath the city! This is it, freedom, I can sense it – then pace anxiously round the room, forming plans, some wild, some reasonable, some that might actually work, waiting for Cheryl to wake so I can tell her the news about her revised employment prospects.

  Cheryl, understandably, is less than thrilled. “Give up my well-paying, enjoyable job to go sticking pipes up people’s bums? I. Think. Not.”

  I try explaining that the job has nothing to do with my decision. “This is a chance for us to escape,” I tell her, “to get out of this crazy hell hole. Things mightn’t work out as planned – given what happened to me on walkabout, I’m pretty sure they won’t – but we have to try. At least I have to. This city is your home. If you don’t want to leave, I’ll understand.”

  She studies my face, tears in her eyes, wanting to say yes to me but afraid.

  “This world of yours,” she mumbles. “If it exists and can be reached… is there a place in it for me?”

  “I don’t know,” I answer honestly. “I love you, Cheryl, and want you to come with me, but it would be a huge change. You might
not be able to cope. Still, I’d like you to try. If things don’t work out, you can come back.”

  I’m not sure why I’m so eager to take her, given that I was happy (determined) to leave by myself before. Maybe I think I’ll be rewarding her by taking her into my world, and wish to make things right with her that way.

  “This means a lot to you, doesn’t it?” she asks quietly.

  “It means everything,” I croak, thinking about what I did to her when she was asleep. “I’m rotting here, turning into something I despise. If I don’t get out, it’s going to prove the end of me.”

  Cheryl smiles bravely. “Alright. I’ll hand in my notice and accompany you.”

  “Seriously?” I gasp.

  “Seriously,” she says.

  “You’re an angel,” I hoot, kissing her.

  “I’m a fool,” she sighs. “I wish I wasn’t in love with you, Newman. Life would be much simpler if I could walk away and forget about you.”

  “Simpler,” I agree, “but would it be as much fun?”

  “This isn’t fun,” she says solemnly. “This terrifies me. But I’ll do it because I love you and I’m hoping that love will win out over terror in the end.”

  If I wasn’t so desperate to escape, that would stop me, and out of love for her I’d drop the crazy plan. But this city really will grind me down if I stay, so I selfishly allow her to live with her terror and send her off to hand in her notice ahead of the move into our new jobs.

  We fill several canisters with water and stuff them in a bag. I’ve no idea when the chance to explore the pipes will arrive – it may be weeks or months before access is permitted – but it’s best to go prepared. Maybe Isaac or one of his colleagues will offer to show us round the plant and a situation will arise where we can slip away on the quiet. There’s no telling how long we’ll be down there. The exit – if one exists – could be minutes away or it could involve another long and arduous trek. That’s why we’re bringing the water.