“It was while you and Daddy were in the kitchen,” Harry said. “And again just after dinner, when you were clearing away. She said it would be instead of pudding. But then you gave me pudding anyway, so that was all right.”
“Let me get this straight,” Dan said to Dr. Margo. “You gave Harry two different pills, without asking us? Without even telling us?”
“Oh, Harry.” Dr. Margo shook her head sorrowfully. “Didn’t I tell you those pills were our little secret?”
It was a long moment before Elizabeth could trust herself to speak. “You did just right to tell me, Harry. You’re a good boy. Now go to sleep.” She leaned over and pressed a second kiss against his tousled brown hair. “If you start feeling really ill from those pills, just call us. We’ll be close enough to hear.” She turned to Dr. Margo and was glad to see the other woman step back under the heat of her gaze. “We’ll be in the living room, having a little chat with Dr. Margo about ethics and the law.”
She stalked out of the room, her spine rigidly straight. Dan waited, pointedly, for Dr. Margo to leave before he followed.
The other man was already sitting in the living room when they arrived, flipping through one of the horror novels that Dan kept on the top shelves of the bookcases in almost every room of the house, well out of Harry’s reach. He looked up questioningly as they walked in, but Dr. Margo ignored him.
“If we can all please refrain from overreacting—”
“Overreacting? You drugged our son!” Elizabeth kept her voice low for Harry’s sake, but it shook with rage. “How do you think the General Medical Council is going to feel about that? When we report what you’ve done—”
“Oh, I really don’t think you want to do that, dear.”
“Why not?” Dan demanded. “If you think you can walk all over us now, just because Elizabeth let one brainless midwife talk her into taking those pills in the first place—”
“I beg your pardon?” Elizabeth stared at her husband. “You and I both agreed I should try the Bennerol! Everyone said there weren’t any side-effects. They said—”
“Children!” said Dr. Margo. “Please. The pills I gave Harry are completely harmless. All they’re intended to do is strengthen the results of his dreams.”
Elizabeth didn’t say a word. She couldn’t. Distantly, she heard Dan say, “Why in the name of God would you want to do that?”
Dr. Margo sighed. With her carefully-curled grey hair, pink silk blouse, and patterned scarf, she looked the very definition of a kindly grandmother. “You see? This is why I couldn’t discuss it with you ahead of time. Parents are always the same. So conservative. So narrow-minded.”
Elizabeth said, “I’m ringing NHS Direct right now, to find out how to register a complaint. Dan—”
“Do it,” he said. “And as for you two—”
“If you do,” said Dr. Margo, “you will regret it. Because those pills work…and the Government would be very interested in discovering that.”
Dr. Margo no longer looked in the slightest bit vague or harmless. For the first time since Elizabeth had started taking Harry to his monthly sessions with her, four years earlier, she looked past the air of kindly, fluffy condescension. There was a scientist behind the candy-pink blouse, and behind Dr. Margo’s old-fashioned, cat’s-eye glasses, her hazel eyes shone with far more ambition than Elizabeth had ever recognized before.
“I thought he was from the government,” Elizabeth said, gesturing to the heavily-swathed man in the corner. He had moved on from the horror novel to one of Harry’s Calvin & Hobbes collections and was sniggering over the pictures…but with an alarming expression of hunger on his face.
Was that drool slipping down from one of his sharp teeth?
“It made things simpler for you to think so,” said Dr. Margo. “But trust me, dear. I’m the only one standing between you and a whole host of exciting government agencies, all of whom would love to know that our Bennerol babies could turn into real weapons. Without me, Harry and all the little children like him would have been taken away from their parents years ago. You can hardly begrudge me a few experiments of my own, can you? Just for my own personal satisfaction—as a small payment, you might say, for my protection?”
She smiled gently, as Elizabeth and Dan said nothing. “No?” she said. She sat down on the couch, patting down her trousers. “I thought not. Now, I’d like some tea, please. Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth met Dan’s eyes. They looked darker than usual against his pallor. He shrugged, the gesture despairing.
“Fine,” Elizabeth said flatly. “Milk?”
“But no sugar,” Dr. Margo said, as she opened up her notepad. “It’s so unhealthy, don’t you think?”
Elizabeth couldn’t think of any answer that didn’t involve cursing.
Luckily, Dr. Margo didn’t seem to expect a reply. She was already tutting softly over an earlier page of notes. Harry’s parents, it was clear, were old business.
Elizabeth didn’t bother to ask Dr. Margo’s colleague, this time. She already knew what the answer would be.
As she filled up the electric kettle in the kitchen, her eyes went to the darkness outside the window. It felt like a palpable force, pressing in on her chest until she could barely breathe.
She couldn’t see the birdfeeder in the dark, nor the squirrel who’d driven her so wild that morning. Was it really less than twelve hours since she’d stood here idly wishing she could send Harry’s dream-creatures after that pitiful little animal, to frighten him away? It already seemed like a different world. This morning had been just another day of summer holiday. Harry had been safe, warm, and protected in her kitchen, chattering about his dreams, and her biggest worry had been the comic he was reading, because she knew how it might affect them.
Cold water overflowed from the electric kettle. It splashed across Elizabeth’s hand as she stood unmoving, her mouth open.
She might not be a scientist, like Dr. Margo. But she had learned something important all those years ago, after she’d let that damn midwife reassure her about the Bennerol. She’d learned to never, ever again let anyone intimidate her out of listening to her instincts, especially when it came to protecting her son.
And Harry wasn’t the only one who had an imagination.
When Elizabeth stepped into the living room ten minutes later, carrying her best tea service on a tray, Dr. Margo didn’t even look up. She was too busy making notes. Excitement glittered in her eyes. Ten minutes ago, that would have sent alarm flaring deep in Elizabeth’s gut.
Now, Elizabeth lowered her own eyes submissively and set the tea tray down on the coffee table. It was laid out exactly as her mother-in-law had taught her one excruciating Sunday afternoon, like a souvenir from the Victorian era. Normally, it would have elicited a sarcastic comment from Dan. Tonight, though, Dan sat with his head propped on his fist, staring hopelessly into the empty fireplace. He didn’t move to pick up his tea, or comment on the leaf that fell off Elizabeth’s hair as she stepped back from the coffee table.
She shifted casually in place to cover the leaf with her shoe, and ran one hand over her hair to check for any other giveaways. For the first time ever, she felt deeply grateful for just how quiet Harry could be when he was sneak-reading a book in bed after lights-out…especially one that had always been off-limits, hidden on the tallest shelf of the bookcase in his parents’ bedroom.
He had been so thrilled to finally get hold of this one, he hadn’t even asked why Elizabeth was climbing in through his window to give it to him, along with her mini-torch.
When Elizabeth turned around, the man in the corner was leering at her neck. Rather than showing any embarrassment as he met her gaze, he waggled his eyebrows meaningfully, tilting his head toward the kitchen. His eyes seemed to burn with urgent invitation.
Heat swept across the room. The scent of temptation filled her senses. All she had to do was give in.
Elizabeth smiled serenely and sat down beside her husband, patti
ng his knee affectionately. Sometimes, it was good to be a mother.
If Mina Harker or Bella Swan hadn’t managed a single full night’s sleep in six years, they wouldn’t have had the energy to be mesmerized by a vampire’s stare, either. Daniel could have warned the other man about that issue, if he’d been asked.
She picked up a magazine from the table and began to read about the season’s latest fashion innovations. Across the room, she heard a mournful sigh.
“Harry’s dreams always manifest in your bedroom, don’t they?” Dr. Margo asked half-an-hour later, when she finally looked up from her notes.
Dan only grunted. Elizabeth looked up placidly from her magazine and said, “Yes, always.”
“Well, then, I’m afraid we’ll have to use that room tonight. You won’t mind sleeping on the couch, will you, dears?”
Elizabeth sighed heavily. “If you insist…”
It was three a.m. when the first scream sounded. Dan jerked out of sleep, still sitting upright on the armchair. “Wha—? Was that—?”
“Shh,” said Elizabeth, and put one hand on his arm to hold him back. “They wouldn’t want us to interfere.”
It was seven-thirty when she finally opened the door to her bedroom. Harry was still fast asleep, of course—he always slept in after staying up to read a particularly gripping novel.
Powerful though they might have been, his dreams had still dissipated in the morning sunlight. Harry had, after all, had only two doses of Dr. Margo’s experimental pills. She could only imagine how many more doses had been used on some poor child to create Dr. Margo’s “colleague”…or what might have happened before Dr. Margo took over his supervision.
A small pile of ashes lay on the floor next to Dr. Margo. Elizabeth made a note to clear them up as soon as she emptied out the vacuum cleaner.
Dr. Margo herself sat on the bed, glassy-eyed and staring. Her pulse was rapid, but her eyes were glazed. As Elizabeth walked into the room, she repeated, as if by rote, “I will not create vampires. I will not…I will not…”
“Shh,” Elizabeth said. “Of course you won’t. You won’t ever do anything to any of the children again.”
She patted Dr. Margo on the back. The other woman, still in a deeply hypnotized state, didn’t even blink.
Good for Harry, Elizabeth thought. And good for Dr. Van Helsing. He had always been her favourite character in the Dracula book and movies. She was pleased she’d been able to convey her abiding love for him—and all of his varied abilities, from hypnotism to vampire-staking—in the five-minute pep talk she’d given her son last night.
“Come along,” she said to Dr. Margo. “I’m making breakfast. You can drink a cup of tea while you tell me exactly how long it’ll take for Harry’s doses to lose their effect. Because…”
She smiled. Of course, Dan might have his own ideas, but surely he would agree that tonight was her turn?
“…I think today might be the perfect day to introduce Harry to Jane Austen. Starting with Pride and Prejudice—the Colin Firth edition.”
FIGHT FINALE FROM THE NEAR FUTURE!
James Beamon
Agent Brody Omen doesn’t walk with a little swagger. He swaggers with a little walk. Everyone stops and stares as he enters the agency’s command center. Gay men want him. Straight men want to be him. Women are a finicky demographic.
Brody is all pecs and triceps and locks of fair hair. His smile goes without saying. His name is Brody as in bro. Your big bro. He is the agency’s number one, their lead agent, which makes him a leading man.
He is accompanied by a femme fatale. This is obvious. The curves in the leather catsuit make her femme. Her willingness to shoot men for looking at her ass, even though it’s deliciously on display in a catsuit, makes her fatale.
The general stands in the command center, overseeing all. He is a father-mentor. Gruff is his manner. He has more decorations on his chest than most Christmas trees. He leads soldiers, which makes him a leading man.
The general spots his number one field agent. His eyes light up. He says, “Omen! You can’t bring a civilian in here.”
“General,” Brody says, “Katya saved my life and helped me get that cipher. And if things go as they should, you’re looking at my future ex-girlfriend, so watch how you speak to her.”
The general harrumphs. “Well, we’ve used the cipher to decode M. Vella’s plan. You’ll never guess what that madman has built.”
“Vella is the most dastardly villain I’ve ever matched wits with,” Brody says. “Surely, it’s a doomsday device.”
“Wrong!” exclaims the giant display screen in the heart of the command center. The image jumps to life and there, with his sneer sharp as a knife, is M. Vella.
Satan worships Vella. He is dark eyes, dark suit, dark hair slicked back, dark heart. M. Vella leads a legion of nameless goons, which makes him a leading man.
“I have built a doomverse device,” M. Vella says. “The doomverse device is fueled by quantum computers factoring the crushing despair of child sweatshop laborers, the bleak pessimism of calling customer service and discovering it’s been outsourced, the heady anguish of Cubs fans! All this, and a small helping of contained antimatter. It will not only blow up the Earth, but will travel to every Earth in all alternate universes and blow them up, too.”
“Vella, you fiend!” cries Brody Omen. “This is by far the most heinous plot that anyone has ever seen. Now that you have our attention, what do you want?”
“Glad you asked, Agent Omen. I want the world’s most loved treasures: the Hope Diamond, the Mona Lisa, Michelangelo’s David, the Dead Sea Scrolls, the Declaration of Independence, Dorothy’s red slippers, and a mint condition Action Comics issue one. You have twelve hours.”
The screen fades to black. Brody Omen shakes his fist at the inert monitor to utter a curse…
“This plot seems like overkill.” This is not Brody’s curse, but the words of a mysterious stranger.
The voice belongs to a man in plainclothes. He wears a baseball cap and sunglasses, and not cool Secret Service-type glasses, but hard and cheap plastic sunglasses.
“Who’s this guy?” Brody asks.
“He’s your observer,” the general responds. “We received a lot of negative feedback about your last couple of exploits. He’s going with you to make sure that doesn’t happen again.”
The agent and his potential future ex-girlfriend raise their eyebrows. “What do I call you?” Brody asks.
“The Observer.”
This is the last thing the Observer consciously remembers before he is hiding in jungle foliage at the entrance of M. Vella’s secret lair in Laos. Hungry-looking dogs guard the entrance.
“How’d we get here so fast?” the Observer whispers. “Secret government teleporter?”
“Southwest Airlines,” Brody replies. “Chairs so comfortable it’s like riding on air. Knocked you right out.”
“How do we get past the dogs?” Katya asks.
“Like this,” Brody says as he marches over to the dogs.
They surround him, barking, jowls slathering. Then they sniff. And then they run off, tails tucked.
“How’d you do that?” the Observer asks.
“I asserted myself as pack leader. All it took was my insane level of confidence and a dab of Old Spice.”
“Old Spice can’t do that,” the Observer states.
“Oh, you’d be surprised what Old Spice can do,” replies Katya, eyebrow appreciatively raised.
Brody looks at the Observer. “You know what, I hate ‘ob’ words. Observer, obstetrician, obfuscate, obelisk, hate them all. I’m going to find a better name for you.”
“To hate them you sure know a lot of them,” Katya says. “Obfuscate?”
“Dictionary.com word of the day once. But enough playful banter, let’s go foil evil.”
Foiling evil involves stealth in some places, stylish fight moves in others. Brody is an expert on when to apply each technique. The goons eithe
r don’t know the team is there, or wish they didn’t. On level three, Brody runs full speed, jumps, and extends both legs so that he is rigidly parallel to the ground when he dropkicks a guard. On level five, Katya kicks a goon and her legs spread like juicy rumors. She holds the pose and she is perfectly balanced on one leg while her other leather-clad toe almost touches the ceiling. The Observer observes.
They reach the doomverse device. They guess. It’s not like any of them have ever seen a doomverse device before, but the giant metal sphere pulsing purple lightning from the seams looks ominous enough. Besides, what else do you keep on the top floor of a secret lair filled with progressively tougher obstacles to surmount? Plus the metal sphere is suspended over an abyss and accessible only by a precarious catwalk. By all accounts, doomverse device is a good guess.
“You both stand back,” Brody says. He walks carefully across the catwalk. Then he hears the hammer of a gun cock back.
This is a needless gesture, as the only guns that require manually cocking to fire are Old West single-action revolvers. But he hears it, and cringes despite the fact that anyone who wanted him dead would have killed him already unless their firearm was made before 1890. Brody turns slowly to face his nemesis.
Brody sees M. Vella on the catwalk. Behind the villain, Katya is tied up. M. Vella has left the Observer alone because observing never hurt anybody. Apparently, stealth is also useful for foiling good.
“And now, Agent Omen, I will explain to you my plan’s finer points,” M. Vella sneers as he raises the gun. “I call them hollow points.”
A shot rings out, loud, jarring. Silence follows.
M. Vella looks down. The slow spread of red from the wound in his chest stains his dark suit. He turns and discovers the source of his distress. It is the Observer, holding the smoking gun.
“Fool!” M. Vella cough-spits. “I’ll never get this blood out without the stain fighting power of Oxi-clean!” He staggers and falls off the catwalk into the abyss below.
“That wasn’t an optimal use of product placement,” observes the Observer. “State Farm would’ve paid through the nose for him to plug their term life policy just then.”
Unidentified Funny Objects Page 4
