by Vi Grim
I plant an apple tree, a Peasgood Nonsuch, up against the back wall in memory of Scruff. He was so valiant taking on the slimeball. I collect up all the sheep bones I can find and bury them around its roots. They might just come in handy in his doggy afterlife.
That night, I dream of gardening. I'm planting out the garden and the seeds grow like straight away, really quickly and keep growing and growing. At first I'm a little kid in a magic garden and skip around popping open giant pea pods and picking strawberries the size of watermelons, then the veges grow up blocking out the sun and I feel like an ant in the Amazon rain forest. A slimeball appears out of nowhere. I run but are trapped by the high walls and the slimeball chases me around devouring everything until there's just me and him, like in a Roman arena. I pull off my red jersey and use it like a matador's cape sidestepping nimbly out of his way as he charges. Ole! The crowd roars and whistles, throwing flowers at my feet.
Trumpets sound as the slimeball prepares for its next charge, then the crowd turns nasty. The music changes to a nightmare throb and the crowd chant, 'Get her, get her, get her.'
The slimeball charges. I run but he has me cornered. There's no way out. He opens his mouth wide and sinks his fangs into me.
In the morning, I'm all jittery and freaked out. I don't want to get up; I don't want to go out. I hide under my covers and cry. I just want to be somewhere safe where there's no slimeballs. I might go back to Sheffield and live with Mum and Dad. It'll be a bit of a shock for them at first, but once they get their heads around it, I'm sure they'll be happy to have me back. I'd be safe there, and we could watch daft game shows on tele and have roast lamb with Yorkshire puds on Sundays.
There's a soft knock at my door. I stay hidden under my covers. The knocking gets a bit louder. 'Hello, is there anyone in?' calls a familiar voice, with a heavy German accent.
'Wait a minute,' I call back. 'Have a seat on the sofa while I get dressed.'
I jump up and throw some wood on the stove and put the kettle on, then have a shower, pull my clothes on and go out to see my visitor.
He's sitting on the sofa gently stroking Negrita. No one strokes Negrita. When he sees me coming he puts her gently on the ground and she rubs up against his leg. Not even a hiss or a snarl!
'Emily, lovely to see you,' he says giving me a big hug.
'Freud, so nice to see you too.' I say. It is, he's just one of those people.
'Do call me Sigmund!' says Freud, then looks me up and down. 'Zeus said that you're going through a bit of a rough patch. You beautiful blond hair, it's gone. Have you turned Gothic?'
'Oh, my hair. Yes, I’ve gone Gothic; maybe I should dye it black and get a few studs. I haven't had time to have a teenage crisis, not yet. I had an accident.'
The kettle whistles impatiently. I make us a cup of tea and some toast and go and sit with Freud.
He compliments me on my lovely asteroid and we chat about Juno, then I tell him about the slimeballs.
'You really are a survivor,' he says. 'The slimeballs are a psychological weapon. Yes, they do gobble things up but their main purpose is to unsettle us, to freak us out.'
'They certainly do that!'
'Yes, that means the Titans are winning. Do you want them to beat us?'
'No.'
'So, we need to get you strong. We're going to put Emily back in charge and stop those nightmares.'
'How do we do that? I pee myself just thinking about them.'
'Do they chase you?'
'They do.'
'Have you ever had dreams about other things chasing you?'
'Yes, there's always things chasing me.'
'Tell me about it.'
I tell him about Sheryl and Charlene, the bullies at school, about the hippo, Gamel, Abdullah the bear and all about the slimeballs.
'Because you're such a lovely person, the bullies of this world like to pick on you. They want to cut you down to their level,' says Freud.
He stays all day. We walk along the beach and have hot choccies in Azziz's cafe. We watch Jesus surfing. 'He's so relaxed and at one with himself,' I say to Freud. 'I wish I could be like that.'
'You can, you will be like that. You're a girl with an incredibly strong will. You make things happen.'
'No, I just bumble along.'
'You bumble along in a very determined way.'
We skim stones and walk back along the beach. The afternoon is wearing on.
I have so much to say. I like Freud visiting. 'Would you like to stay for a few days?'
'It'll be my pleasure,' he says.
I make up the bed in the spare room and he stays.
We walk up to the bluff and throw bits of banana for the gulls to catch. We find Trigger and gallop across the prairie and have a go at surfing at the stream mouth. The water is icy cold and we get brain-freeze.
I feel much happier and we haven't even done any therapy.
When I say this to Freud he smiles and says, 'Life is therapy.'
He does say that I need to get over my fear of slimeballs.
'I think it's quite healthy being scared of them,' I say. 'I run away so they can't get me. It's self-preservation. Look at what happened to Scruff.'
'It is healthy to be scared but not paranoid and petrified! Can big red buses kill you? Yes. Do you treat them with a healthy respect? Yes. Do you have nightmares about them chasing you. I hope not.'
'So what do we do?' I ask.
We master slimeballs. We get you out there shooting them down, we fry them up as an aperitif and we go and find that fang.'
'What are we going to do with the fang?'
'Keep it in your pocket and use it as a worry ball, open tin cans with it and use it's secret powers to murder the evil Hades when he attacks.'
Twiddling with Enzo in my pocket, I almost say that I already have a worry ball but think better of it; somethings are best kept secret.
'Might it not have secret powers of evil?'
'It might but I'm sure your secret powers of good are stronger!'
So we go looking for the fang. I threw it in the sea in front of my cottage but that was weeks ago. We launch Olive and peer over the side using empty jam jars.
After an hour of fruitless searching, Pollux says, 'Do you give up?'
'Are we warm?' I ask.
'No, miles away.'
'Okay, we give up.'
He fires a laser, way down the other end of the beach. We stroll along then dig in the blackened sand until we find the fang.
I don't want to touch it at first. When I do, I imagine that it's sucking all the good out of me. 'I'm going to turn into an evil witch and it’ll be all your fault,' I say to Freud.
'When you do, can I ride on your broomstick?' answers Freud.
'Only if you come and visit my witch's lair,' I answer, hitting him, then add, 'Negrita will make a great witch's cat.'
I stick the fang under my belt like a dagger, and there it stays. I get quite attached to it; I twiddle with it, I use it for weeding in the garden and for killing fish, and when my hair grows long again, I pile it up in a bun on top of my head and use the fang to hold it in place.
Freud cooks up slimeball. It's like toasted marshmallows, just a bit meatier and not so sweet. Everyone else up here seems to adore it but it just doesn't do it for me. It has the same appeal as eating slugs.
After a week Freud heads back to Juno. It's been nice having him stay and the slimeballs aren't as scary as they were a week ago.
My nightmares go and are replaced by dreams of ponies, unicorns and princesses. It's all a bit too nice, too mushy. I get suspicious because it's just not me. I'm just not into all that sickly, gooey stuff. It makes me want to throw up.
'Who's messing with my dreams?' I demand.
'It's me,' says Castor guiltily.
'Really Castor; unicorns and princesses. What sort of girl do you think I am? Stop messing with my dreams!'
Zeus arrives with some scones. They're a bit chewy and the ch
ocolate chips look a lot like weevils. 'I baked them myself,' he says proudly.
I have mine with lashings of butter and jam, spit out the weevils when he's not looking, then wash it down with lots of milky tea.
'Thanks for sending Freud,' I say. 'I'm sleeping much better now.'
'My pleasure,' he says. 'I'm here to take you on patrol.'
'Patrol?'
'Yes, patrol. We're going up in fighters.'
Zeus takes my hand and clicks his fingers. We arrive in a hanger fill of little space ships. Some are obviously fighters, festooned with canons and missiles and parked in neat lines, others are simply clear bubbles and cubes with nothing but a bean bag inside. I've been here before; we’re on Psyche, the factory moon. There's lots of activity with zinodes repairing damaged ships and loading missiles and ammunition. I have to cover my ears as fighters taxi out through the massive outer doors and shoot off into space.
Stopping beside a fighter, Zeus says, 'Climb on in.'
'But don't we do training first. On Earth, only the best of the best get to fly fighters and go through years of intensive training before they get airborne.'
'Not here,' replies Zeus. 'I'll give you a leg up.'
I find myself sitting in a snug cockpit. It's designed for Anodes so is a perfect fit for me, as long as I don't grow too much more. Much to my surprise there's no controls, just a blank screen, a stereo system and a coffee machine.
Pishit.
The clear cockpit cover slides into place.
'How would you like you coffee?' asks the coffee machine politely.
'No thanks,' I say, 'I've just had a tea.'
'Well don't hesitate to ask if you need something.'
I turn to Zeus, who has climbed up and is pushing his face against the window.
'How do I fly it,' I ask. 'There's no controls.'
'It makes life a lot easier. You think, it flies.'
Suddenly the fighter lurches forward a couple of meters, knocking Zeus over.
'Great,' he says, picking himself back up. 'You've got it.'
He climbs into the next fighter and off we go. I'm a little jerky at first and knock over a pile of missiles and clip the tail of another fighter while I'm taxiing but get the hang of it in no time.
'What weapons do we have?' I ask.
'Don't worry about that,' says Zeus.
'But if we see a slimeball, how do I fire my canons?'
'You don't like slimeballs?'
'No not at all,' I reply.
'Good, well neither does the fighter. It's an extension of you. It goes where you want it to go, it attacks things you don't like.'
'Cool!'
We fly off into space, leaving Psyche far behind.
The stereo, which has been playing inane alien elevator music, suddenly puts on the Star Wars theme tune.
'Star Wars, that's a bit tacky, isn't it?'
'It's trying to figure you out, give it a few minutes,' says Zeus.
He's flying along parallel to me, just far enough away that I won't hit him when I do something daft.
'Where are we going?' I ask.
'Here,' says Zeus stopping suddenly.
I back up a hundred klicks until I'm upside-down above him. My stereo starts playing some classical music. It's bright and cheerful like a spring day and relaxing at the same time. I would never of picked it myself but it's just perfect. I wonder if they'll notice if the stereo goes missing.
'Why here?'
'Because-,'
The music suddenly changes to loud rock & roll and my fighter lurches to the left, firing its lasers into the darkness. There's an explosion and bits of flaming slimeball spin past, bouncing off the fighter. Slimeballs appear on all sides, travelling so quick that they're just blue blurs. My fighter sets off in pursuit of one, getting right up behind it before letting loose a photon torpedo, then loops back and blasts another one. There's too many for us to pick them all off.
'They're getting away!' I shout.
'Don't worry,' says Zeus. 'We're just the first line of defence.'
We mosey on back to where we started, and stop.
'As I started to say before, we're waiting here because it's the e-zone, the entry zone for incoming slimeballs aimed at our sector of the Asteroid Belt.
'Why do these fighters even need a pilot?' I ask. 'I'm not doing anything. I'm hardly the best of the best, caressing the controls to make it loop de loop.'
'That stuff is best left to machines. The fighter needs your passion and emotions. They get to know you after a while. It can be quite upsetting when a fighter refuses to fly for you.'
'Has it happened to you?'
'Well yes, once or twice,' Zeus admits, reluctantly. 'They'll like you, I know they will.'
The beat of the music slows down and becomes Buddha-bar. The fighter must sense that I need a bit of Zen. I nod off, then jerk awake to the rousing sound of what Zeus tells me is Tchaikovsky's 1812 Overture. My stomach feels like it's being pushed out my behind and my eyeballs head for my ears as the fighter does it's best to turn me inside out.
My fighter starts firing its lasers even before Daisy's little asteroid, Panacea, comes into sight. We swoop down and atomise a slimeball that's on the football pitch heading for the crowd. Zeus, riding on my wingtip, picks off another then we set up station above the asteroid and pick off incoming slimeballs.
'It's that Renard again,' says Zeus. 'He's standing in while Aeolia, Panacea's normal sentry slug, is getting her moon upgraded. He's shirking round the back claiming he's got winkles.'
My fighter shoots off to get him, but Zeus calls me back, 'Control yourself girl. Stay on station and protect the footballers.'
The game resumes down below and I watch the two local teams playing their weekly match. Brazil versus Dead Footballers, makes great viewing. I wish I could be down there cheering for Brazil from the side-line. They've been beaten four matches in a row. Zeus says that they're on top form but with a spate of dead football stars in recent months the opposition has got stronger.
After the match, Renard reappears.
'All in order now, you can go,'
No word of thanks or anything.
Pratt!
Back out at the e-zone things are quiet. We're half way through our third game of virtual backgammon when...
Splat!
My fighter takes a massive blow and everything turns blue.
'Ha, ha, ha,' chortles Zeus. 'You got splattered! We'll return to base and get you cleaned up.'
Once we’re back on Psyche and my fighter is in the cleaning bay, Zeus explains, 'The slimeball materialised right where you were. You either need to shout the clean-up team a round of beers or sing them a song. It's tradition.'
I sing them a song. They beg for mercy half way through and then pass the hat around and pay me to stop. I thought my singing was okay but they suggest that I spend the money on lessons. The cheek of it!
Zeus says he knows just the person, one of Azziz's girlfriends, Janice someone. I've never heard of her. She's probably from the fourteenth century.
4
The early morning sun slices through the dust and smoke and paints a golden rectangle on the opposite wall. As the sun rises I watch the rectangle slowly move down and make its way across the floor. As it passes the door it lights up a letter. I jump out of bed and grab it, then snuggle back under my duvet and inspect it. It's simply addressed to 'Emily'. Tearing it open, I find a note, Azziz's cafe tee time toddy.
No prizes for spelling, it must be written by Azziz.
I wonder what's going on. I haven't been out for weeks, it's that quiet time of the year at the tail end of winter when the whole world seems is slumbering, waiting for spring to awaken it from hibernation. Maybe they're having a party and need a barmaid or a waitress.
I can't decide what to wear, my clothes are either too small or look too girly. I've grown so much in the last year that clothes either don't fit or I don't like them anymore. I'm a whole lot taller
and I've got boobs.
The surf's up and waves wash right to the top of the beach. At first I run ahead of the waves to try and stay dry, but after a sneaky one catches me out, I splash along and arrive at the cafe half soaked.
Jesus makes me a hot choccy and I sit in front of the fire, my clothes steaming as they dry out.
It's busy in the cafe, the tables and sofas have been arranged on both sides and zinode carpenters are just putting the finishing touches to a raised boardwalk that runs down the middle from the stage. Loud speakers whistle and hum, as a sound engineer and his assistants set up their equipment, run wires and connect things up. Elegant girl anodes are arranging masses of ferns and orchids that make the stage look jungly. Little hummingbirds flit from flower to flower, giving an occasional twitter. I throw a jug of water at Negrita when she jumps up and catches one. That'll teach her.
Once I've warmed up, I ask, 'Azziz, can I help?'
'Yes, you can help me put this up,' he says, unrolling a long banner. 'Grab that end.'
We hang the banner up behind the stage and adjust it to get it straight. Once it's up, we stand back to admire our handiwork.
1st Annual Camillo Fashion Parade.
A fashion show, Cool! Maybe I can get some new clothes.
As the afternoon draws to a close the guests start arriving. Jesus and Azziz's friends give me big hugs and kisses when they see me. They all want to hear about the slimeball attack. I really like them. Maybe some of them will come and visit me sometime. I should invite them.
A flying saucer lands and some human models climb out, followed by an elegant woman with a long dress and pearls, like something out of the movies. By the looks of the models, they all died of skinniness. I say hi to the models but there's nobody home. They have that same vacant look as the ones you see on tele. Maybe I'm just not cool enough for them to talk to. The woman looks me in the eye and gives a cold smile.
As the sun is setting, torches that line either side of the boardwalk are lit and, after a respectful moment's silence as the rim of the sun vanishes behind the hills, a clash of cymbals kicks the show off.
