We went back into the house.
Heather was sitting on the floor, calmly eating the pizzas. "Catch him?" she asked, guiding a slice of ham and pineapple to her mouth.
"No," I said. "Mike ate him instead."
"What do you mean, ate him?" She looked dubiously at the half-slice in her hand.
"Well, maybe ate is the wrong word. He’s gone."
David retrieved his laptop. The connection with Max was still open.
Starman: what’s going on? the camera went crazy there for a while
DavidNuq: The laptop got knocked over. There’s been a bit of trouble.
Starman: what sort of trouble?
DavidNuq: You’d better not come here. They’re closing the street to the public. We’ll get back to you as soon as we can.
He disconnected before Max could ask any more questions.
"You mean he got away?" said a voice from the front door.
We had forgotten Steve, the real pizza guy. He was still standing in the doorway, looking rather sad. He’d been having a bad night too, I guess, and had been punched hard as well. Outside, police were trying to push the crowd away, but not finding it easy. The reporters were having none of it; even the general public seemed to feel that, if they had been allowed here initially, there was no way they were going to be excluded now, particularly since there was some excitement at last.
"The area’s being cordoned off," I told him. "You’ll have to go."
"What about that guy?"
"The police have got him."
"I heard screaming."
"Yeah, they really got him."
He looked at the mass of confusion in the street, sighed, and headed off. He had a few things to tell his boss, and wasn’t looking forward to it.
I secured a slice of supreme and ate slowly. I really had no appetite. I could hear David having an argument with the sergeant.
"You don’t understand," David was saying. "That plant is a very valuable specimen."
"I don’t care," the sergeant replied. "The Chief Inspector is coming down now. I’m going to recommend it be burned."
"But why?"
"You were there. That guy was either killed or seriously injured."
"But you’ve sealed off the street. No one is going to go into the back yard now. Look, I know some people from the university who can come out and have a look at it. Scientists. This is a unique plant and I know they’re very interested in seeing it. They can advise you what to do."
"I’m going to wait until the Chief Inspector gets here. In the meantime, you’d better just calm down and wait. You can discuss it with him."
"Wait? We can’t wait. We - we have things to do."
"No one is leaving. Not until we sort this out."
"But..."
The sergeant squared up to David. They were both fairly large men, but the sergeant had a few extra kilos on his side, as well as police training. "No one is going anywhere," he said.
David nodded and backed down. He started to pack up his laptop. He caught my eye and by the slightest raise of an eyebrow called me over. I went and stood next to him, helping to wrap the camera cable.
"What do we do now?" I asked softly. The sergeant had gone to the front door to check on crowd control. We could hear him yelling at his constables. He was a good yeller, rich and full-throated. He obviously did a lot of it.
"I’m calling in reinforcements," said David. "The police may be able to stop us leaving, but I’ll get the uni guys to join us here. Maybe they can talk sense into the Chief Inspector."
He nodded over to where the Maestro was standing in the middle of the room, rocking back and forth on his heels, eyes closed, looking almost ecstatic.
"He’s beginning to give me the creeps, though," said David.
I must say, he wasn't doing me any good, either.
I felt bad. However much of a jerk he'd been, the fake pizza guy had probably been killed, and it was my fault. He'd gone where I'd feared to tread - or rather, where I'd been stopped from going by the combined efforts of my friends. He was where I was supposed to be. Something had to be done about it.
Heather was still sitting on the floor, transferring pizza crumbs from the empty boxes to her mouth. She sucked a greasy finger as I sat down opposite her.
"Heather," I said. "I need your help."
"I know," she replied. "You always do. What is it this time?"
I ignored her smug tone. The situation called for honesty, not conceit. What was on my mind was a question I'd been wanting to ask since Heather had first moved in with me, bringing her bicycle, her DVD collection, her posters of various black American rap artists, and the various other bits and pieces of her life that had now been forcibly removed by the circle in our house.
"Where did you get Mike?" I asked.
"I found him," said Heather. "On holidays at the beach. He was growing in a little patch of dead grass behind one of the sand dunes. I dug him up and kept him."
"Why?"
She looked puzzled.
"I liked him," she said.
Bizarre. Nobody liked him.
"That's it? You liked him?"
Was she in the habit of collecting plants at the seaside? I know my collection of cats – both the living, which was still with me, and the manufactured, which had vanished into nothingness – might be viewed as a little obsessive, but digging up a plant and taking it home to keep in your kitchen was downright weird.
"Did you feel...I don't know...attracted to him?" I didn’t know if that was the right word – how do you describe the subtle but obviously meaningful relationship between a young woman and a houseplant?
"Not anymore," she said. "Not since he outgrew the house."
I must have looked unsatisfied by her explanation. At any rate she sighed deeply and continued:
"It was three years ago. I was walking by myself, one evening. On the beach. Just as the sun went down I came across Mike. He was totally alone, nothing else was growing around him. I guess I felt a little sorry for him. I wanted to take him home and look after him."
My silence spoke volumes. I'd never been sorry for a plant. But since Mike had done his Silly Thing I found I could be angry with one, so I guess sympathy was possible too.
"Well I think your little pal just killed someone," I said. It was cruel, I know, but I was feeling bad about it myself, and had to share the blame. I was generous, if nothing else.
Heather suddenly couldn’t look at me. "Yeah, I know," she said. "But what can we do?"
The Maestro had been standing quite close, looking at us. We had all gradually become used to ignoring him. He was always eavesdropping, sitting or standing quietly, saying nothing himself. But now he stepped across to us and leaned down.
"A word with you, my ladies," he said.
Polite as always. He was a gentleman, even if I had never seen him change his clothes, or wash, or even (and this was the really eccentric part) visit the bathroom. I mean he had to, sometime, I'd just never seen him do it.
He had removed his white robes now, and was a little more acceptable in the dark suit he'd had on yesterday, his flood of white hair surrounding his face, spilling onto his shoulders. He looked like some ancient druid in modern dress. He could have been a thousand years old. As he stood over us I could actually hear him creaking. I wondered which part of him it was, then noticed the book in his pocket, his book: Shadowplanes. I had left it in Joanna’s study. The Maestro followed my glance and smiled.
"It may seem a little strange," he said, smiling. "But I do actually know something of what I am talking about."
He led the way to the library. I had only been in here once before, and had been a little spooked by it, surrounded by all the mysterious books Joanna had collected. We stood between the shelves and the Maestro pulled the book out of his pocket.
"A Shadowplane is my name for an alternate reality," he said. "A world that is not ours."
"Another dimension," I hazarded.
&nbs
p; "Evet. That is where your man with the pizza has gone."
Suddenly something clicked. My mind isn’t always quick to grasp what’s going on. Sometimes it’s fogged by alcohol, sometimes it’s just too busy or too selfish to take things in. Sometimes – rarely – it’s actually thinking of other people. But not now. I grabbed the book off the Maestro (rather viciously, actually) and stared at the front cover.
"What the hell?" I said.
There it was, on the cover, behind the printing. The maelstrom of light and form I had seen several times now, the clash of colour and shape that was undefined and multi-layered. The Thing in the circle.
"That’s it!"
The other two were looking at me like I would have had I been in their place, heads on one side, faint smiles of incomprehension playing over their mouths. But I knew what I meant. The indefinable pattern of colour and form was not new to me.
"I have to go back."
Heather shook her head. "Back?"
"Into the circle."
The Maestro nodded. "That is what I would suggest," he said, completely without surprise. "And remember to take the talisman with you."
***
I must have been crazy. But I saw no other way. The circle frightened me beyond belief, but things were getting rather out of hand. Whatever it was I’d seen in my visits there was printed on the front cover of the Maestro’s book about alternate realities. The multitudinous links and correspondences that make up the continuum of being were starting to all connect, and I was the main plug. Mike; the book; the circle; the sausages. They were all related through me.
Heather was, of course, dead set against it. So were Joanna and David, when we broke the news to them. But I vetoed them all. Let’s face it, I was the one who was going back in, not them, and I was the one who had to live with it. Only the Maestro was on my side, and now he stuck to me closely, flipping through his book and reading out various sections that made absolutely no sense at all. The worst part was when he tried to elaborate on his ideas and lapsed into Turkish in order to do so. Even Joanna gave up trying to translate.
"You don’t know what’s going to happen to you," she persisted, following me round as I tried to walk away from her. I had enough on my mind without worrying about Joann’s concerns about me.
"That’s why I’m going in," I responded.
David, after some reluctance about my intentions, had reconnected his wireless broadband and was telling Max what I intended to do. The latter seemed quite unconcerned about my safety – even as eager as the Maestro to see me lay my existence on the line. All in the cause of science, of course.
Starman: fine. ill meet you at emily’s house. just one thing. there’s been some activity in the gap.
DavidNuq: What sort of activity?
Starman: some movement. the main part of it hasn’t shifted, but it seems to be changing shape. u should be able to see it if u look.
I didn’t like the sound of that at all.
The Maestro had come up with a plan. I was hesitant about it when he told us, but then decided that since I had probably just been responsible for someone’s death, then escaping police custody and resisting arrest would be no problem at all. I mean, once you’ve done the big one, all the little ones are pot boilers, really.
He also insisted on taking Mike with us. Why, he wouldn’t say. Heather pointed out this was a little difficult, as he would hardly fit in the car, but the Maestro said that just part of him would do, the main stem.
Surprisingly, Heather agreed to this, and even insisted on grabbing the specimen herself.
"He won’t eat me," she said, picking up the pruning saw. "Besides, I threw him out there, I’m the only one who knows where the pot is in all that mess." She slipped out the back door before anyone could stop her – not that anyone would have been able to anyway.
A moment later we could hear a policeman shouting, and Heather’s calm voice replying. Then she came back inside, the white pot in her hand, with almost a metre of Mike’s main stem, a few leaves and single yellow flower growing from it. She smiled in triumph.
"That was either incredibly brave or incredibly stupid," Joanna said.
"Probably both," she agreed, puffing hard. "But if anyone could convince Mike to let us have a piece of him, it had to be me."
She was right there. I shook my head. "Please don’t do that again."
The sergeant came barrelling through into the kitchen. He was not happy.
"What are you doing with that?" he asked, pointing a rude official finger at Mike. "That’s a piece of evidence in a police investigation. Put it down, girlie."
That was his big mistake. If there is anything Heather will not be called, it’s girlie. The fire ignited in her eyes. Deep inside her terrific frame something began to build, something akin to the Big Bang – or to an even Bigger Bang. The spark began very far within her pink-clad exterior, spread like a fire to every fibre and muscle, before finally exploding with irresistible force. I had seen nothing like it since I had accidentally scratched her favourite CD a year ago. I had managed to escape with my life on that occasion. However, I feared greatly for the sergeant.
It all happened too quickly for me to intervene. There was just time for the words "Oh, shit," to run through my mind before she struck: a right uppercut that connected beautifully, dislodging the sergeant’s cap which flew off and hit the wall. He fell stiff as a board, straight back, landing between the table and the refrigerator. The rest of us stood there, almost as stunned as he was.
Heather shook her hand. "Ow," she said.
Joanna was the first to recover, perhaps because it was her house and she was worried about further damage.
"I think it’s time to go," she said.
The plan for getting to my house was simple. If it worked, we would be away and free. If not, all of us would probably be spending the night in jail. Which, as Heather pointed out, might actually be the safest place around at the moment.
I suddenly realised they were now supporting me. Once they had stated their opposition to my intention of re-entering the circle, they were on my side. Of course, they weren’t the ones who would be going in, and maybe they just felt that if I vanished like the pizza man, they would be rid of me once and for all. They could go down to the coffee shop and chuckle about how they put one over poor old Emily.
Once it takes root, paranoia is a hardy plant indeed.
The policeman in the yard – Constable Fraser, the officer who had bravely clambered over Joanna’s fence into Mike, trying to save the pizza guy – was arguing with the Maestro, who was trying to open the door of David’s car. Of course, the sergeant had given orders that none of us were to leave, but that was a minor problem as far as the Maestro was concerned. "You had better help the çavuş," he called, and pointed towards the house where the unconscious sergeant lay.
The policeman turned away from the Maestro long enough for him to slam the car door and start up. The rest of us piled in there with him, David patting his pockets and wondering how the Maestro had acquired his car keys. But he realised it was no time to argue the issue. He climbed in the back with Heather and Joanna; I sat next to the Maestro. We locked the doors hastily.
Fraser had one of those pesky gun-shaped objects hanging off his belt which make things so awkward when you’re trying to sneak away quietly from something illegal. He paused for a moment, then placed his hand on the butt, but didn't draw it. Perhaps he wasn't sure of his authority in detaining us. We hadn't threatened him in any way.
He hammered on the door of the car, calling for us to open up.
"Let's go!" I shouted at the Maestro.
"They have blocked off the driveway," said the Maestro, revving the engine. "I am sorry, Joanna’cığım," he muttered under his breath as he floored the accelerator and we took off forwards, straight towards the back fence.
"No!’ screamed Joanna, but it was too late as we skirted the Poinciana tree, crunching over the outer edges of Mike, and hit t
he back fence at about thirty kilometres an hour. It was constructed of wooden posts and folded very nicely under the impact of the bull-bar mounted on the front of the car. We drove into the neighbour’s property, turning left just before the swimming pool, and headed down their driveway. The gate had been left open, and there were no cars in the way. The Maestro drove out into the street, turned right, and accelerated.
Joanna was scowling behind me. I was expecting another withering blast of Turkish to be flung in the Maestro’s direction, but she was menacingly quiet. Too quiet. Scary stuff quiet. I flinched at the thought of what was to come when there was time to complain, and took the opportunity to put my head out of the window and glance up at the Gap.
Things weren’t too good up there, either. It had changed, just as Max had warned.
The straight edges weren’t straight anymore. Thin streaks had emerged from the main mass of blackness and were spiralling away, obscuring more sky. I didn’t like the look of it at all. The streaks looked almost purposeful, like the Gap knew what we were doing and wanted to stop us. Some of the streaks looked like they were reaching down towards us. I was reminded of the ruler in the circle, as if there were more than three visible dimensions to the thing.
I pulled my head back into the car. Everywhere I looked, the view was disturbing. Even here.
The Maestro was driving too fast for safety, and slamming through the gears in a way that wasn’t at all good for them. Or for us, perhaps.
It was only a matter of time before the police tracked us down. None of us had any desire to be in a car chase, as they almost always ended badly for the people in front. I’d watched those reality shows on TV, the ones where they show you the results of police pursuits - "World’s Most Pathetic Morons Behind a Wheel" – that sort of thing. Final shots lingering over a pile of twisted metal and shattered glass, with occupants bisecting power poles.
I wondered what the Turkish was for "For God’s sake slow down!" then decided it sounded urgent enough in English.
"For God’s..." I began, until a particularly violent swerve, by means of which the Maestro managed to avoid an aforesaid power pole, made me change the ending.
Plato's Cave Page 18
