Twelve Places

Twelve Places

Folkestone

“There it is!” I looked at him, eyes narrowed, wondering what he meant. “Everything, it’s all right over there! We’re on the edge of the universe!” I smiled as best I could, inwardly perplexed. As he glanced back at my face, his features slid from exhilaration to crushed disappointment, then sallow frustration. “You have absolutely no idea what I am talking about, have you?” He paused, his brow in knots. “Look,” he said, as patiently as he could. “Behind you, that’s just, dunno, childhood and small towns and buses and, you know?… Out there —“ he waved his hands expansively “— that’s… that’s everything! The whole world!”

I stared across the sea and attempted to grasp his point, but the grey waves were refusing to reveal any such grandeur. Not his usual, articulate self, I thought. What was he on about? And what was that about buses? Surely they would have buses “out there” as well, wherever that was… I exhaled, deeply. “You dumb oaf,” I said, putting my arm through his and nudging him in the ribs. I sensed his entire body relax. “Come on, I’m getting cold.” We turned and walked back up the cliff path, pushed close together by the undergrowth. And I knew, in that moment, without any shadow of a doubt, that I loved him.

When I reached the top, I opened the small, brown envelope. Stupid, selfish, childish idiot, I thought to myself, putting me through this. I don’t know what he wanted to achieve, apart from rubbing my nose in the past. It’s over, get over it! But of course, he couldn’t. Slowly shaking my head, I tipped the envelope and watched as the particles whipped in the air, hanging in space before a sudden gust flicked them out of existence.

Granada

We had been walking all day, the weary trudge into the city at some godforsaken hour setting the rhythm for a constant stream of monuments and artefacts, of cobbled streets and castle steps. “Come on, it’ll be too hot later!” he had enthused, and I’d gone along with it. By about ten a.m. I had already admitted defeat, my senses overwhelmed by the maelstrom of mementoes. I remember him glancing at his watch, his eyes calculating. “OK,” he said, “We’ve time for a stop. Coffee?” I almost cried with relief. Settling myself down, I rubbed my feet as he queued at a kiosk, quietly hoping that the service would be unreasonably slow so I could have more of a break.

On we went. Before long the pavements were glistening in the heat, the sun’s stifling rays pushing any remaining shadows into the side alleys. We darted like lizards through the verdant gardens of the castle, its tightly-clipped hedges and bright bushes offering some, though meagre respite. Eventually even he started to flag. “Hot, innit,” he said, his brevity speaking volumes. Not far away, a lime tree dappled shade onto a grassy bank. We collapsed in tandem and lay for some time, our touristic wherewithal slowly recharging. I idly flicked through the guidebook while he simply stretched out, eyes closed.

“Hungry?” he asked, breaking the silence. I realised that I was — not hunger-pangs-desperate, but I had that light-headed, serene feeling of starvation that comes from eating nothing but a vending machine sandwich all day. We stood unsteadily, two wide-eyed Bambis on ice, finding or feet before descending towards a winding street of eateries, their laminated menus in five languages stifling any pretence of authenticity. Eventually we rounded on a place that appeared genuine. The tapas was good; the proximity of a chain smoker less so. We paid and left, conversation muted as we made our long, winding way back to the hostel.

The grassy bank had not changed at all — it could have been yesterday. Running alongside the street was a small river, mountain waters still flowing despite the heat, fed by the watershed hills above. He’d known I wouldn’t be able to resist coming here, of all places. Slowly I watched as the stream of silver descended, merging with the sparkling water before disappearing under the bridge.

Bury St Edmunds

It didn’t take long to unload our possessions from the white van, its high-roofed shape still looming outside the kitchen window. A motley catalogue of clothes, books and CDs, a lamp stand and a stack of framed pictures, two kettles, a toaster, a sandwich maker, a frying pan and a fistful of vaguely matched cutlery represented all that we were. Having opened the back and started carrying boxes back and forth, we found ourselves drawn into a pattern of to-ing and fro-ing which proved impossible to stop — until the last carrier bag of extension leads, light fittings and other random objects was carried across the threshold.

For no reason I could fathom, he had carefully stacked our worldly belongings to create a Close Encounters-like mountain which now filled the part-furnished front room. “Naa naa naa naa naa naa,” I said, looking on in admiration as he collapsed into an armchair. Fact was, the van would still have been full if I had been in charge. “We should order a pizza,” I said, looking at a leaflet left pinned to the notice board by the previous tenants. Without waiting for an answer, I dialled. “Twenty minutes,” I repeated out loud as I replaced the handset.

Suddenly he jumped to his feet, energised. “Well, what are we going to do for twenty minutes?” he asked, perkily. He grabbed my hand and we dashed, giggling, upstairs.

“You absolute bastard,” I thought as I took the trowel from my bag. Kneeling down, I dug a small hole and quickly emptied the contents of the envelope into it as quickly as I could. I’d chosen a spot round one side of the house, hoping to God I wouldn’t be seen. No, I had no idea why I was occupying myself with this, just another of his oh-so-clever games. Once the deed was done I stood, face flushed, and shoved the trowel back into my bag, mud and all.

Carcassonne

“What are you thinking?”

“Oh, nothing.” I knew that wasn’t true — he had that funny look on his face, and “nothing” had become a codeword for “something quite important”. A small part of me went cold, knee-jerk trepidation to what was wrong. Perhaps I had forgotten his birthday? No, it wasn’t that. “Go on, what?” I asked.

“I think…” — the pause verged on the theatrical — “I wonder if…”

“Go on!” I laughed, pushing him, perhaps a little too hard, judging by the expression of hurt that flashed across his face. “Go on,” I repeated, moving closer to him.

“Well… I was wondering… if we should live here.”

“Serious?” He started to look crestfallen again, so I pulled him tighter still.

“Serious.”

I thought about the life we were already building, the little house in Bury St Ed’s, my graduate management scheme, his perfectly adequate, yet bland job.

“What would we do?”

“Don’t know - same stuff? Perhaps not here,” he said. “We could go to… a town? A city? We could go to Montpelier? Marseilles?” I’d never been to either and nor had he, not to my knowledge. We’d have to go visit, weigh up options, find jobs, leave jobs, and what about the paperwork… this was not a decision to be taken in a hurry.

I found myself grinning uncontrollably. “Sure,” I said.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Will you marry me?”

“Sure.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

Of course, I thought to myself. I had to come. The place was so packed with tourists, so noisy, so unpleasant I could not imagine what we had seen in it. Still I walked up the steps, past the shops full of medieval kitsch, past the hotel with the mannekin, past the ice cream stalls and wasp-infested, overflowing bins. I found the well next to the basilica, expecting to feel something when I saw it but… nothing. I emptied the packet into the grate, the specks barely having time to glint in the sun before disappearing.

Les Saintes

The ladder extended upwards, vanishing through a small, square, dark hole in the ceiling. “Up you go,” he said, gesturing. A thousand bad thoughts, of bogeymen and modern-day pirates and Hannibal Lecter jostled for position in my head. “You’re not… scaaaared, are you?” I shook my head, weakly. “Oh, come on!” Up he went, acting full of bravado, his boots clattering on the rust-scarred rungs. I watched as the soles of his feet vanished into the darkness; then, realising the room I was in had become the scarier place, I mounted the ladder.

Above was a second dark chamber and a second ladder, this time stretching up to a rusty trapdoor. He was already half way up, torch in hand. “It’s unlocked,” he said, his voice echoing round the brickwork. He pushed the metal plate upward, allowing the morning light to flood in. No sooner had he done so than he vanished. Exasperated now, I repeated the exercise, clattering up and poking my head through the hole before inelegantly stumbling to my feet on the platform above.

“Look,” he said, and I did look — back down the tiny mountain, across the trees and towards the island’s main town, our honeymoon hotel hidden somewhere in the haze of rooftops. “Made it ma, top of the world!” he shouted. I laughed, though I did not know what he meant. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered, nothing at all.

I buried the silvery dust on the beach, digging a small hole with my hands. I could see the look-out post far above, gently tugging at me but I was in no mood to make the final journey, nor had he asked me to. Slowly I heaped sand back over the ash pile, almost absent-mindedly letting it run through my fingers, shaping it with my palm. Even as I stood and walked away, the tide was already coming in.

Denver

“We’ve come all this way for… pizza?”

Damn right I was angry. The day had been scorching; I felt jet lagged; and he’d done his usual trick of, well, not thinking about anything other than some deeply held set of goals only he knew. We had stood a mile above sea level, on the steps of the monument for the briefest of moments before jumping back in the air conditioned Jeep and heading up into the mountains. Any suggestion of stopping to look back at the view, to check whether that had been a deer, to investigate that vaguely curious tree had been met with a let’s-just-get-there grunt.

And “there” had little to endear itself, all blocky buildings and empty parking like a ski resort out of season. With nothing else to do he settled on the notion of food without waiting for any opinion from me, pointing and striding like it had been the plan all along. The dingy restaurant could have been a film set, with its dark-varnished wood and broken neon signs advertising mass-produced beer. All that was missing was chicken wire.

“What’s your problem?” he asked, flipping out the Americanism with a shrug.

“How about a, ‘What do you fancy doing today?’ “ I retorted, my voice a strangled whisper as I tried not to make a scene. Oh, how I wanted to make a scene. “A ‘How are you feeling’ would have been a start!”

“I’m not your mother,” he said. As my eyes were still adjusting to the gloom, I couldn’t tell if he looked sheepish or hurt, or just plain indifferent.

The sanitised steps didn’t seem appropriate; nor could I convince myself that passing tourists would appreciate a face full of, well, him. At the bottom of the steps stood a carefully manicured shrub in a giant pot. I sat on its edge and scraped away some of the bark chippings, then leaf mould — surreptitiously, I hoped — then trickled the envelope into the hole I had made, before smoothing back the layers of vegetable matter. When I left it was like I had never been there at all.

Caen

I watched as the men unhitched the hawsers from their moorings, letting them slide into the harbour waters. Their compatriots hauled the heavy ropes onto the ferry, coiling them onto the deck like snakes.

Beyond, a small lighthouse flicked its solitary beam on, off, on, off, its rhythm a quiet talisman against the dusk. “I will be here,” it said. “Whatever comes next, I will be here.”

Below deck, a small van with all our belongings. Haven’t we been here before, I thought. The stereo, the lamp stand, even some of the cardboard boxes had been unloaded into our two-bed semi in Bury St Ed’s, five years before; and, in a matter of hours, would be again. How quickly will it feel like home, I wondered. How soon will it all feel like so much of a dream.

Behind us and a long way to the south, Bèziers. Across eighteen months we had been overwhelmed and thrilled in equal measure, before adapting to our new life. Eventually we realised it would always be a foreign place, and us foreign to it. France would never sustain our souls, however many friends we had, or films we watched, or meals we ate in the pizzeria beneath the castle wall.

Beneath and between us nagged a darkness, an undercurrent making itself known only through meted silence, the occasional word left unsaid. I’m not sure even he knew what it was, some part of him locked away, the consequences of its release too awful to contemplate. “What’s up,” I would ask; he would shrug, invariably, leaving neither of us the wiser.

When we decided to go back I’d felt a quiet sense of relief, even optimism. Time to start afresh, I thought. Get back to how we were and, indeed, decide what might come next? I had ideas, obvious, important ideas that nagged at me, but the time had never seemed right to broach them.

Beside me, he stared into the middle distance.

Finally I stood and looked up at the ferry as it hauled itself out of the harbour. Families leaned against the rails, waving at whoever waved back — I found my arm lifting, involuntarily, before letting it fall. “Biodegradable,” I muttered to myself as I pulled the twist of paper from my bag. Screwing it into an even smaller ball, I flicked it downwards, between bow and brickwork. It bobbed for a while, taking on water before sinking beneath the surface.

Portmeirion

The tea arrived eventually, the chinking of cups and saucers breaking the stagnant silence. I poured, pushing a cup towards him. He pulled it closer with his fingertips, saying nothing. “Scone?” I said, forcing my eyebrows up and, I hoped, smiling. He shook his head.

With nothing else to do I took one for myself, carefully cutting it in half, smearing it with cream and jam, taking a bite, chewing slowly. “Mmmm,” I said, consciously over-animated.

Don’t mention children. That had been my mistake — if mistake it was. I felt conflicted. Perhaps there would never have been an appropriate moment to broach the subject. In hindsight however, I could have chosen a better environment than the energy-sapping, paint-peeling insincerity of someone else’s folly village. In the rain. “Not like the TV series, then,” he had said when we arrived. I don’t remember him saying much else.

Whatever. The moment I had floated the idea — barely reaching the end of my first sentence — he had plunged into one of his black moods, shutting me out of any further conversation. Having traipsed in silence through the motley collection of buildings, he let me lead him to this, equally worn and washed out tea shop, his body responding even if his head could not. At least it was warm, for a time.

“Mmmm, that was lovely,” I said, conscious of my repetition. “Are you sure you don’t want one?” No answer. “Shall we go, then?” A barely perceptible nod. We stood and put our coats on, heading back out into the drizzle.

“There’s the car, look,” I said for no reason. I smiled, holding his arm like a young lover, or a carer, I was not sure. He walked on, head furrowed. I wanted to scream, to run away as fast as my legs would carry me.

The beach was as bleak as I remembered, the wind-whipped droplets of rain could have been the same ones that had surrounded us, eternally swirling, destined to never quite hit the ground. I walked quickly to the sea’s edge and did the deed, turning and striding back to the car. The same car, I thought. I turned, half expecting to see him, but no. Of course not. How stupid of me.

Los Angeles

At first I couldn’t place my finger on it. Something was different, I knew that much. He was altogether more firm in his footing, less dishevelled, more lithe, less lumpen. His jacket sat on his frame like it was supposed to be there, rather than hanging from his shoulders. And his eyes — they possessed an awareness, a sense of purpose that I had not seen for years. Truth be told, I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen it.

It took a while for the cogs to whirr, for the puzzle pieces to click together. Then I realised. That transatlantic trip, several weeks before. He’d come back clean shaven, which should have been my first clue. “You look nice,” I’d said. “Did you get a haircut?” “Yeah, there was a place in the hotel. Only took ten minutes,” he’d replied. He’d never had haircuts off his own bat, not until I almost dragged him to the barbers myself.

When the reality dawned, as I was loading the dishwasher one morning (yes, that mundane), it felt like a crevasse yawning open. I stood back involuntarily, leaned myself against the kitchen surface for support. Not that I knew anything at all. Simply an unease, a dull feeling of something, somewhere, somehow different.

After several days I broached it. “What happened in L.A.?” I asked, my voice tentative. “Nothing,” he said. It took me a while to work that one out as well. That he knew exactly what I was asking, and why. I could be so thick, sometimes.

I sat in the diner, people-watching, browsing the menu, doodling on the corner of the paper mat, imagining Meg Ryan and Billy Crystal at the next table. I’d wanted to come here, I’d knew he would ask even before I opened the next envelope. “We’d just talked,” he had written. “You don’t have to believe me but it’s true. It was enough, though.” Ha, I thought. No, I don’t believe you. Call me callous, call me juvenile. I knew I wouldn’t be proud of the moment, but I emptied him into a pepper pot and left, quickly, without paying my bill.

Vienna

We’d joked about it for so long. “It means nothing to me,” was the stock reply whenever the place was mentioned, over time becoming more a mantra than a humorous remark, a Pavlovian reaction in Eighties pop. When we saw the advert for the weekend deal, we both knew we would be going. It was the first moment of understanding we had shared for months. Even the utter kitsch-ness — the organised trips, the fixed menus — seemed fitting. Above all, neither of us would have to make any decisions.

That’s how, a few weeks later, we found ourselves bouncing across the cobbled streets in an open horse and carriage at some unfeasibly early hour. It had rained in the night, lending a damp sheen to the pavements; the morning was crisp yet pleasant; shop keepers were lifting shutters and proudly wielding brooms. While not magical, it certainly felt less than real — neither of us was particularly disappointed to be squashed together in the leather seats, a blanket over our knees and spiced wine cupped in our hands like Narnian children.

Our relationship was over, that was obvious. We’d been through the period of gifts, now thankfully in the past — flowers and chocolates, belated offerings at the altar of what might have been. He’d not taken long to realise it was futile, bless him. The deity had long since moved on, its existence snuffed out by a lack of belief. While part of me wanted things to be different, I could no more conjure gratitude than any other pointless miracle.

The strange thing was, as I loved him less, I liked him more. That cliché — let’s be friends — I now understood: all those fragments of our shared times together, none strong enough to support soulmates, were more than adequate to sustain a friendship. He knew me better than anyone, and I, him. I turned towards him. “To us,” I said. “To us,” he replied, stretching a smile across any other emotion he may have felt.

We chinked our glasses, the steam rising up and dissipating in the morning mist.

I retraced our steps, walking this time. In my pocket, the last of two envelopes, this one somehow more poignant than the others. “Forgive me,” he had said. I hadn’t thought I could, but with each step another strand untangled, teasing apart the weft of our memories. At each cobbled street corner, I took a pinch from my pocket and let it fall from my fingers, sprinkling him along the route.

Dove Dale

“Come on,” he had said. “It’ll be fun.” I could not imagine how. The absolute last thing I wanted was to meet up with his old friends. We’d already said we would, but really? My boxes were half packed, various belongings piled in the front room, personal effects extracted from the morass of shared experience. Another week and I would move into my new flat, we would go public. Etc. Until then, we cohabited, each acting carefully cool, sharing a strange nether-land somewhere between deceit and honesty.

“Please,” he said.

“You do know… don’t you, that…”

“Of course. It’s over. I get it. Please come.”

So we went. Keeping up appearances was not that hard and in fact, I did quite enjoy myself. It would have been difficult not to — long walks, stunning views, hefty meals. I slept better than I had for weeks. Enough people to not feel under any pressure. He seemed to be having a good time and I was content to go with it, a distant stranger among strangers, nodding and smiling on cue.

It was only on the last afternoon that I started to engage with anyone in the group. “That’s more like it,” I had exhaled when we reached the top of the rise, the waterfall crashing beneath us. One of his friends had looked over and grinned broadly. “Of course it is, he had said. Every time.” We walked down together, chatting about nothing at all.

It wasn’t until we were driving back that I asked who it was.

“Martin,” he said. “Why?”

I had not expected to feel so overwhelmed. Initially at least, I could not understand the last envelope, why he had wanted me to go there. I walked the path up the side of the fall, pausing just once for breath. From the top, the view was as stunning as I remembered it — better, if anything. Of course, I thought. Of course. I get it now. As I stared across the landscape, as vast as it was serene, my lack of comprehension dissolved, leaving only a sense of release. “Thank you,” I mouthed, finally. I emptied the final particles into the stream before making my way down, stepping carefully now, listening as the falling waters dashed on the rocks below.

Canterbury

I was surprised how few people turned up. Apart from close family and the handful of friends I’d met just weeks ago, he had little to show in terms of a lifetime’s relationships. I thought you were more popular, I remember mouthing to his coffin. No, in fact, I didn’t — he had been happy enough in his own company. For a fleeting moment, I was surprised I had fitted into his life at all.

Not that he was there. The hymns were not those he would have chosen; the vicar’s cobbled-together eulogy (what a horrible word) bore little resemblance to the person I knew. We filed out as we filed in, welling up at appropriate moments before, during and after the service. “You are so strong,” his mother had told me. If only she knew. Of course, I was devastated — who wouldn’t have been? But even as I absorbed the cold shock of the phone call from the hospital, I already found myself faced with a nagging, guilty sense of relief.

The wake was interminable. While I went through the motions of grief — some genuine, some to meet expectations — I knew I was biding my time before I could leave. Perhaps I could start telling people how tired I felt, I thought. Perhaps someone would get the message and send me on my way.

A voice interrupted my train of thought. “Can I get you a cup of tea?” it said. I turned and recognised the face from the walking trip only a week before.

“Martin, isn’t it? I’m so sorry… to think…”

“Yeah, well.”

“Yes. Please,” I said, realising it was quite possibly the best idea in the world.

A week after the funeral, I found a small, yet bulky package on the mat, from the funeral directors according to the postmark. I opened it to reveal a folded letter, a small bag and another, smaller package. I unfolded the letter with trepidation. “Bear with me,” the message read. “If it’s not too much trouble, take this to Folkestone — you know where. It seems strange to say this, but I’d appreciate it and I hope you will understand why.” A brief anger gave way to a feeling of quiet purpose. Still dragging me to places, you selfish idiot, I thought to myself. But why not? I could be there and back before supper. It was the least I could do.

Epilogue to Suburbia

Epilogue to Suburbia

They wear the suits. It would be stupid not to, whatever the boffins might say; the techs have been wrong before and the plans offer little scope for error. They don each item of the layered costume following an unspoken routine, checking the seams and smoothing the seals before moving on to the next. Finally they check each other, working through the same, subconscious tick list. It is so like the dry runs, the training exercises: they must have repeated each step hundreds, if not thousands of times. This would be just another test drive… but for one, unique factor.

The smell.

The smell is all around them. It is the smell of disuse, of things long since rotted, of dust settled years ago, of the remnants of pollution left by decades of rain. It is the smell of past death, of where fear used to be, and it permeates even into the sterile, filtered environment of the converted MPV. The smell gets under the skin and into the bones, causing them to shudder involuntarily as they complete the equipment checks. Silence follows: on exercise there would be a remark, a gesture, a grunt to say everything is in order, but here there is nothing. The cloying atmosphere allows for nothing: even breathing feels like an indulgence.

It is time. They reach for their helmets and put them on, raising their arms over their heads as they do so, like lunar explorers. Microphones activate as the helmets lock into position, filling the ears of each person with the sudden noise of breathing, shockingly loud in the stillness. Involuntarily they look at one another, a slight widening of eyes and pause of breath being replaced almost immediately by the shared fragment of a smile. Exhalations follow, tinged with relief.

“Shit.” A’s shoulders, a moment ago tense, sag slightly. Her voice is metallic and echoey, both clear and distant due to the dual-transmission headsets, communicating locally and via a longer range backup. “Nervous?”

“Aye.” B nods, the movement barely perceptible though the heavy suit.

“You ready?”

“Guess. You?”

“Course.” This is A’s show. Born ready, she thinks.

They shuffle towards the side doors, past racks of redundant weaponry: so they have been informed, there is nothing alive to pose a threat. As navigator, B picks up the black box, a squat briefcase with a single appendage that looks like a sound recorder, or a Geiger counter: it is both, and more. Following a final series of checks, A presses a button next to the door and the cabin air mixes slowly with that of outside. This precaution is unnecessary, but unavoidable: the MPV is well outside any quarantine boundary, but it is pre-programmed to operate this way. Above the door, a light glows an unerring red. Watching it is like waiting for someone to die: the hiss of air gradually drops in volume, until both are straining to hear the quietest of sounds, scarcely detectable under the noise of their own, steady breathing. And then, a click. The light switches off.

A momentary pause, fractionally hesitant, speaks volumes. In twenty years, nobody has passed through the portal, and nobody has the first idea what might lie the other side. Who wouldn’t be apprehensive, thinks A to herself. It was a coup to get the job, she knows, even if she did get lumbered with laughing girl here. She reaches towards the handle, closing her fingers around it before pulling backwards and to the left. The door does the rest, sliding open even as a set of steps in pre-drilled aluminium emerge from under the chassis. The clanking and rolling subsides, and all is still again.

“Shall we?” B motions forwards with her hand, out of confirmation rather than respect.

“Yeah. Control, you there?” A’s tone cannot hide her exasperation.

“Alive and kicking.” Brooke’s voice is distant, crackling. “Where did you think I’d be?”

They move down the steps, alighting on a layer of dried mud over tarmac and looking around them, glad of the broad visibility offered by the helmets. Once, this had been a high street, the main thoroughfare of a market town. The MPV is parked in the centre of the road, tracks stretching away behind it like the first footprints in virgin snow. The control centre is established half a mile back and well inside the clear zone, it is a standard model used for health scares and public order management. Meanwhile, in front of them there is nothing but decay. The sides of the dead end are lined with makeshift barriers of corrugated metal, concrete and old doors, the occasional fragment of brickwork betraying that these were buildings, once. Each side is coated with graffiti, lewd remarks (“we want to fuck your children”) side by side with the dare game trophies of death-cheating youths: “I got here,” “Mick rools!” and the unnervingly incomplete “Aberystwy…”

Purposefully yet uncomfortably (there is no easy way to move in the protective suits), they walk down the street. In some places the walls are no more than ten feet tall; in others, they reach a couple of storeys, complete with window frames that give a clear view of the sky. It is like walking through a ghost town: no dogs bark, and the birds learned long ago there was nothing to gain by filling this place with song. The only sounds are their own, each footfall crunching an echo that is amplified out of proportion by the oversensitive body mikes. Step by step they move closer to the archway, which looms ahead of them like a temple. Several decades ago and long before the Secession, this structure marked the entrance to a shopping centre: pedestrianised and gleaming, it had been a small-town cathedral to the religion of the time. Walker’s Gate it was called, in honour of some long dead dignitary. Today, a combination of tarnished and spray-painted characters reveal its rebranded identity:

WAnKeRS GaT

To the officials it’s labelled the North Portal, but Wankers’ Gate is the name everybody knows. The name change came early on, with news pictures delighting in its shock value. The name is now the stuff of anecdote and the occasional cautionary remark. “Like the devil out of Wankers’,” says A, who has been around long enough to know both meanings. And a few more things besides, she thinks, remembering the last time she walked this route. All will unfold, says a voice in her mind. Yeah, right.

The orange-clad pair have little time for the history. They know they have a job to do, but they don’t really care about that either. There’s no point, caring: care has been temporarily shelved, and will only regain its status once – indeed if – they find themselves back on this street, walking the other way, job done. The risks are low, say the science techs. So, thinks A, why are they relying on a specialist unit to check out the place? Just your average, low risk, contaminated wasteland, take a peep and check whether we can bring the kids in. We know why. Nobody else is up for the job, and if we fuck up, nobody need ever know.

“It’s shit creek, and we’re going right up it,” says A, realising as she speaks that she is talking out loud. Damn, I meant to think that, she chides herself. What’s wrong with me today.

“Yeah,” agrees B, unperturbed and monosyllabic.

They trudge on, towards the pillared entrance. Unconsciously they fall into step, matching the footfalls to breathing. Trudge, trudge, trudge, the rhythm is hypnotic. They recede from the vantage point of the MPV, every movement followed by the remote-operated camera mounted on its roof. It feeds pictures to whoever is authorised, as do the dual, independently powered headcams and the various other monitoring devices. “Inspector Gadget, eat your heart out,” as Brooke would say.

Whatever that means, thinks A. Trudge, trudge.

The portal looms up and over them as they approach, plaster cracking off its faux-Roman pillars and revealing its true, prefabricated self. A pair of reinforced steel doors dominate the dark space between the pillars, at their centre a burnished metal lock with no noticeable way of inserting a key, card or anything else.

“Control?”

“Hello A, you took your time.” Brooke is still being jovial.

Smart-arse, love to see him here. “Just open the fucking door.”

“Sesame,” he says. Nothing happens. “Oh, hang on – there.”

Click.

The doors swing open, their hydraulics operating with surprising smoothness despite the two decades that have passed since they were installed. Beyond lies darkness, a broken chair and various smaller items visible in the light from the doorway.

“See you inside,” says Brooke, a faint tone of hesitation in his voice. “I – er, rather you than me.”

“Thanks for that.” A’s tone is unforgiving.

“Shit, sorry. I mean…”

“Just get off the fucking radio.”

“Yeah, see you inside.”

“Whatever.”

They reach up simultaneously to flick on the helmet-mounted torches, and enter.

* * * * *

Of all the missions, and there have been plenty, this one has been the hardest to prepare. It’s a forensic and political nightmare – nine hundred square miles of potential evidence, and the entire international community at a fever pitch for what might be revealed. The prospect of residual bioactivity and radiocontaminants doesn’t help matters; satellite imaging may be advanced, but it can’t predict the situation in the as-yet uncharted network of tunnels. This particular trip could only ever be reconnaissance: it will not enter the centre, skirting carefully around the real danger zones. At least, that’s the plan, so meticulously put together over the past months. One by one, options were considered and discounted, until the powers arrived back at the answer they first thought of. No point in attempting to use overland vehicles, which would founder on the remaining defences and be more trouble than they are worth; flying in wouldn’t help towards the primary goal of determining the situation on the ground and in the tunnels. Finally, there’s no point in sending in more than two: the second is only for backup, and if things get bad, it is better to lose two bodies than several. This last point has never been written down, but it is understood.

It is not her first time as A. The reason for the mission codes has vanished into the mythology of the unit, nowadays it is accepted without question. Indeed, it would seem strange to use proper names in the field. A’s own place on the team was not unexpected, but B’s selection was, well, novel. She’d only joined the group a few months before, for Chrissakes, a point A had tried to argue with Brooke. To no avail, as it happened, and there was something in his look that had informed her of the pointlessness of the discussion. Doesn’t mean I’m happy, she thinks as she surveys the scene. The area just inside the entrance is clear, any obstacles bulldozed further inside, probably when the steel doors had been installed. The buggers weren’t hanging around. Together, they pick their way across the debris, using free hands to ward off the straggling pieces of insulating material, hanging down at intervals to give a ghost-train feel to the corridor. Before long it widens into a dark, high-roofed chamber, flanked either side by black entranceways. “Lifts,” says A to nobody in particular, associating what she can see with the old building plans no doubt still laid out in the control room. The route is clearer and there isn’t anything worth pausing for, so they head towards the end wall, its crude, breeze block construction visible in the torchlight. In its centre is a single, flat panelled door, blank apart from a handle and a small sticker bearing the word: PULL.

For a moment A regrets the lack of melodrama. No doubt that will follow, she thinks, when the officials claim the first visit for themselves and take their names in the history books. No worries, let ‘em. She glances at B, who is waiting expectantly.

“Would you like the honour?” she asks, tilting her head and arching her brows.

B’s expression is unreadable as she reaches forward and tugs, to no avail. Her eyes narrow. She pushes: the door resists for a second, then flies open and outward, swinging wide before jamming to a halt on the weed-strewn paving slabs outside. Sunlight floods in like air into a vacuum chamber, leaving them blinking like infants. Framed in the doorway like a scene from a film, a vista of lush greenery stretches as far as the eye can see.

The euphoria lasts almost as long as the verdant facade keeps its pretence: both dissolve before them as they step forward and the landscape reveals its true nature. Far from lush, it is a threadbare carpet of hardy plants, moss and unkempt grass, hastily thrown over the rubble and ruin. Mother Nature is in no great hurry to reclaim her own, weaving a new layer at the passing of each warm season. In one place a cluster of tattered bones emerges, causing B to crouch down for a closer look.

“Suburbian,” B says, frowning. “Can’t have made it to the Site.”

“Anything else?”

“Young. Can’t tell the sex, but I’d guess at male.”

I know you. A is not ready for the unexpected pang. Lad, I know you. In the periphery of her mind’s eye, a fuzzy image makes a brief attempt to surface. A memory emerges of a boy soldier, proud and dishevelled, acting sentry long after his role had become redundant. Quickly, A ushers such thoughts back into the recesses of her mind, letting the more immediate issues jostle it out of the way. Away. Focus.

“Label it – someone can check it out later.”

B reaches to a panel on her left arm and pushes a button, registering the datapoint with a voice text. When she is finished, she stands and takes in the scene. The terminal building stands alone, a squat block of concrete, topping a small rise in the middle of the pasture spreading out before them.

“Where’s the path? The map shows steps.”

“The map shows a lot of things,” replies A, her composure regained. She raises a gloved hand to indicate straight ahead. “We go over the mountain.’

The route is passable, but only just: the greenery hides a minefield of broken debris. Each footfall has to be tested, and the visibility allowed by the suits is unhelpful in the extreme. The airwaves are silent bar the sounds of increasingly heavy breathing and the occasional expletive as they pick, trip and stumble their way to the top of the rise. B gets there first, turning and offering a hand to her senior officer.

“Come on, let’s keep going,” breathes A, ignoring the gesture. “Plenty of time to rest when we get down there.”

The terminal building is bigger than it looks from the outside. Acknowledging the building plans as they go, they walk past the remains of a ticket office, through the stalls where barriers used to be, not pausing for the long-forgotten lifts as they head for the stairs. Given the encumbrance of the suits they descend carefully, silently grateful that the stairwell is wide and clear. However, it is also long. And warm: it seems to get hotter as they descend. They benefit from the use of the side railing for the last few steps, and the bottom cannot be too soon in coming.

“Jeez,” exhales A, catching her breath as she stumbles out onto the platform area. “Enough!” Clearly, this is a good time to rest. The microphone has lost its echo, she notices, which means they’re cut off from the outside, from Control. She knows this information is reflected in the helmet display, but she can’t summon the energy to look up. B comes up behind her, exhaling vocally and leaning with both hands on a low wall. In front of them and caught by the light of the torches are the transits, lined up like so many egg boxes, with their bulky electromagnets beneath them. Time passes, but nobody is keeping track of how much.

For some reason, the real thing is never quite the same as training, a conundrum that puzzles A as she regains her energy. There is no natural end to a real exercise, so it is difficult to pace… or perhaps you just put more energy into it. whatever, the result is the same. It’s a damn sight more knackering.

“Well,” she says, more to break the silence than anything. Then, nodding towards the case, “Are you going to turn that thing on?”

“It is on,” says B. The word “obviously” is silent.

You are pissing me off. “Readings?”

“Irrelevant,” says B. “Underground hasn’t been sat-tested.”

“I know. What’s the readings?”

“Rad low, Air as clean as you’d expect, Bio… maybe its best we kept the suits on.”

“What is it?”

“Dunno. Indicators flying around a bit. Maybe it’s the draft in the tunnels.”

Not that we’d notice, thinks A. All this modern technology, and I still feel I’m modelling a rubber sack. The suits put paid to any idea of feeling what it’s like. They have their own microclimate – clammy, not too hot but warm enough to be discomfiting. Most likely, anyone who tested them for suitability took them off after an hour. Needs must. Better to sweat than to catch whatever might still be down here.

It is time to move on. The techs were almost giggling with delight a few weeks ago, when they claimed to have restored power to the transit line. So they said, this proved easier than fixing the lights – something to do with the relative resilience of the transport circuits, whatever that meant. “This better work,” says A, walking towards the front carriage, its interior obscured by black glass on the silver frame. She reaches over and pushes a button by the door. It makes a sound like it is unsticking before sliding open, smooth and efficient, like it had been used yesterday.

“Result!” murmurs A, quietly delighted.

“Not yet,” says B. “Might not move.”

“Please insert card,” says the transit indifferently, repeating itself every few seconds. They climb onboard, not wanting to prolong the irritating voice. Inside, the console is lit, with blue arrows flashing to indicate a slot. B pulls on a tab on her suit, releasing a key card on a string. She pulls it with her other hand and inserts it into the slot. The lights flicker and change to a steady green.

“Strike two,” says B. She reaches over to a touch screen and taps in a destination.

“Registered,” says the transit. “Stand clear, doors closing.”

“Strike three and we’re out.”

A deep noise, somewhere between a drone and a creak, reverberates through the carriage. It persists for several, uncomfortable seconds before it settles down into a quieter, steady hum. A slight list to one side is felt, as the magnets disengage from the rails; then the dim view outside begins to move backwards and the terminal platform slips behind them. They’re on their way.

“Might as well settle down,” says B. “It’s a bit of a ride.”

Quietly grateful, A takes a seat, or indeed two seats given the bulk of the suits. She leans back to crush the accumulating beads of moisture between herself and the suit. B continues to stand, hefting the black case onto the shelf in front of her so she can monitor the readings.

The ride is seemingly endless, with just the occasional clank of machinery to punctuate the otherwise smooth running. It seems all so familiar and yet strange: the retro feel of the carriage draws comparison with its more modern equivalents, back on the other side of the portal. Above all, it is so quiet – no overheard conversations, no invasion of space, it is like renting a private jet for the day. I could quite get used to this, thinks A, momentarily feeling the chill that her feelings of decadence inspire. Dangerous.

As the shape looms up in front of the transit, A’s brain tries to break out of the reverie and formulate a response. Her eyes dart around her as she attempts to stand, registering B who has already grabbed a safety bar and who is reaching above her head. A sudden jolt is followed by inordinate screeching, drowning out any expletives that A can think of as, caught off balance, she flies forward and crashes to the floor. The transit shudders to a halt, feet from what appears to be a collapsed roof.

“Wha’happened there?” says A, trying to recover her position as well as her dignity, too aware of the spasms of pain being signalled from her wrist and ankle.

“Emergency stop. You OK?”

“Guess so,” says A, still on her hands and knees. She looks round, sees B pointing at a red handle above the door. “I’ll be even better when we reach the surface. Got a thing about being buried alive. Any ideas?”

“We dig, or we backtrack,” says B. “Don’t fancy digging.”

“We backtrack, then. Best hope we don’t hit any more collapses.”

“No guarantees about this working.” B removes the card and re-inserts it, lights flashing in incredulity before settling back down to the steady green. “We passed a terminal back there,” she says. “We can aim for that and take the long way round.” She taps the console coolly, and before long the car starts moving backwards, away from the fall.

“Thank Christ for that,” says A, who has eased herself back on the seat. “How long are we up for?”

“Another hour at least.”

The alternative route passes without incident. They roll into another terminal, which looks exactly like the one they left and the one they traversed. They disembark quickly, neither hiding their relief. The staircase is short, but it is all upward and it is getting decidedly hot in the suits, the clamminess causing even the technofabric materials to chafe. And then they are outside again.

* * * * *

They emerge from the terminal onto another panorama of green, only this time the vista is for real. The path down from the concrete bunker overlooks a valley that stretches for miles in each direction, flanked by the gentle contours of distant hills. Above them, the meadows have sharper outlines, remnants of the carefully tended lawns and gardens of decades before. There are no trees, of course, but there is sufficient brush and shrub to make up for their absence. Three quarters of the way up the hill, the stark ruins of a country residence are outlined against the sky.

A has been here before, in her youth. Each movement of her head sparks a series of memories, which crystallise in front of her eyes like cinema stills. I was probably about your age, she thinks, glancing towards B. I was never as tall, never as fit… but I was here. And I was with him. Thirty years of suppressed emotion wells inside her like a geyser, restrained only by the steady stream of air she inhales through her nostrils. She faces away from B, not to hide the emotions but to give the opportunity to hold herself together. Still looking away, she waits a long, solitary moment before risking conversation.

“What’s the Geiger reading?” she asks, her voice only slightly cracked.

“Clear,” replies B.

“Really?”

“Well, no worse than some parts of Cornwall.”

“Air Q?”

“Clean.”

“That’ll do for me,” says A, almost feeling herself. “How about the biochem?”

“Too soon to tell.”

“Oh,” says A flatly, not bothering to hide the disappointment. It means that the suits need to stay on.

They walk up the hill towards the ruins, or more accurately towards the westerly wing, which at least has a floor still standing. A keeps up a good impression but is unable to disguise the occasional wince of pain when she puts pressure on her left ankle. The microphones don’t hide much.

“You’re limping?” B’s voice is tempered with practicality, not sympathy.

“So?”

“I’d best take a look.”

“It’s no bother.”

“Better sort it now.”

“It’s – No – Bother.”

“OK.”

The doorway is in a remarkably robust state, given the dilapidated nature of the rest of the building. It is framed by a stone archway, filaments of cable indicating where a light fitting used to be. The door itself is studded oak, an iron ring and oversized keyhole giving it additional gravitas. It is decidedly locked.

“Can you deal with that?” asks A, still carefully controlling the bursts of recognition that seem to accompany every feature of the place.

“Sure.” B sets down the case and opens it. From one of its many internal compartments she removes a small cylinder, about half the length of a cigarette, and inserts it into the keyhole. Both take a few steps back, using the protection of the archway as B detonates the charge. The door resists opening, its hinges seemingly resentful of the manner in which it was unlocked.

“After y… oh,” says B.

The body lies just inside the entrance, a crumpled heap of clothing, bones and hair. No identification is necessary: each can see for herself the trademark Che Guevara look, the de facto military greens, calf length black boots and flak jacket. For final confirmation an ancient, faded baseball cap lies a foot away from the head, upside down, but unmistakeable. That cap was the stuff of legend, a symbol of freedom and despair. They already know what it will say but A picks it up in one movement, though the suit makes her action less than graceful. Not to mention the ankle.

The logo is there. A purses her lips and frowns slightly, flicking the cap down onto the floor while keeping her gaze carefully trained on the inanimate, non-contentious objects in the hallway: a canvas bag, another pair of boots, a roll of toilet paper. In this way, she keeps an outer appearance of control. Her gaze is drawn back to the cap: no fear, it says, without irony. The words invite closure: A feels the inner peace, knowing them to be true. Good bye, my love.

Looking up, she sees B gesturing towards an open door.

“Stairs,” says B. “We need to go down.”

“Yeah…” says A, “Yeah.”

“You sure you’re OK?”

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

A moves towards the door. As she walks past B, she feels she knows not what. She takes the stairs one at a time, stepping carefully on each one with both feet, a function of training rather than her injury.

Disasters are collections of unfortunate, coincident circumstances, and this is no exception. The runner on the edge of the stair is only a few millimetres high, but that is enough to catch the edge of the bulky yellow boot. Had A not been as tired, she might have lifted her foot just a millimetre higher; had she not been distracted, she might have reacted just a microsecond sooner, before the strain on her weakened ankle became too much. Had she not been encumbered by the suit, she might have kept her balance rather than crashing down the remaining four stairs and landing in an untidy heap at the bottom. Which she does, unglamorously. It is B’s turn to mutter an expletive as she takes the stairs two at a time, keeping her balance as she arrives next to her superior officer.

“Ow, shit. Shit.” The look in A’s eyes is akin to pleading.

“Hurts?”

“Yeah.”

“A lot?”

“Yeah.”

She feels strangely relieved, and is not proud of this. “Sorry,” she says, resigning to the inevitable. It’s over.

B helps A into a more appropriate position, turning her onto her side and propping her head against a box, ignoring the occasional outburst as she does so. She avoids touching A’s left leg, conscious of the impossible angle where the boot meets the suit. “It’s broken,” B says, speaking slowly to confirm the obvious and to indicate what she is about to do. She kneels in front of the open case, preparing a hypodermic syringe.

“This might prick.” Just do it, thinks A, I don’t need the bedside manner.

B tears back a velcro flap adjacent to A’s calf, to reveal a round circle of rubber. It is not the best place to put a needle, but it gets to the heart of the problem and it avoids unnecessary movement. The needle enters through the rubber patch. A doesn’t flinch as B pushes the fluid down through the tube and removes the syringe.

“Sleep well.”

“What do .. you .. m…” A’s helmeted head tips to one side, and release of breath echoes through her mike. First confirming A is comfortable, B closes the case and stands up.

“Hello, Control.”

“How’s A?” asks Brooke.

“She’ll survive. Broken ankle – I’ve had to sedate her.” Though I didn’t need as high a dose as that, B thinks.

“B, you are the new A. Consider yourself…”

“That won’t be necessary, Control”

“What do you mean?” B could hear the frown.

“Brooke, this is a 3-451. I’m afraid I’m bypassing you. Thanks for listening.”

In a temporary building just outside the exclusion zone, a number of screens flicker and go black. Brooke and his colleagues trigger escalation procedures, for all the good it will do them. B smiles as she considers their loss of signal, before reaching up and pushing a mute button on the side of her helmet.

“Radio, I need a new frequency and an encrypted channel.” She spells out the details and watches as the information is registered on the heads up display, reflected on the inside of her visor.

“Frequency set, channel open,” responds the helmet.

“How are we doing?” A man’s voice, gentle and authoritative, and as clear as if it were in the next room.

“Hey Mark, good to hear your voice.”

“Did you miss me?”

“Course I did. Waltzing Matilda was starting to get on my tits.”

“Now now, you shouldn’t speak about your elders and betters like that.”

“You haven’t been cooped up with her for the past month, getting ready for this thing. I assume someone was on commission, the way they dragged it out.”

“I’ll let you off. Did you have to make her keep the suit on?”

“Protective measure,” she replies, “for me, not for her. What’s Brooke’s Army up to?”

“Not a great deal. We blanked their screens and put them on radio silence the moment you said the magic words. You should have seen their faces.”

“You were watching?”

“Our eyes are everywhere, you should know that. Shall we get on with it? We haven’t got all day.”

“You’re starting to sound like her. Can I lose the suit?”

“No problem. We’ve been monitoring every readout from that box of tricks of yours, and there’s nothing. Completely clean, fresh as a new dawn.”

“Thank Christ for that.”

“Cam…”

“What?”

“Good job.”

“Thanks.”

Cam (to her friends and colleagues, only her mother still calls her Camellia) reaches up and clips the helmet from her suit. Her short, dark hair looks matted, and her cheeks are shiny with the moisture that the helmet’s internal airflows have been unable to wick away.

“You have no idea,” she says, sliding her finger down the Velcro to reveal the outer protective zip, “how good it feels to be getting out of this thing.”

“I can imagine.”

“No, you can’t.” Soon she is free of the garb, with only the head-mounted radio remaining. “Particularly the smell. Hang on, I’ll get you back on a video feed.” Taking a pencil-like camera from the black case, she mounts it on to her headset, feeling for the socket to take the wire that is trailing from its rear.

“How’s that?”

“I see sky.”

“Now?”

“Ground.”

“Bugger. Now?”

“OK, it’s good. Let’s go.”

Free from the encumberment of the suit, Cam skips down the steps, annotating vocally as she goes.

“Heading down into the cellar now. Looks like it used to be for wine, there’s a few broken bottles here, nothing worth taking. A door to the left and one straight ahead, entering left door now. Nothing to see, an empty room.”

The signal is coping, they’re only a single floor down.

“Back in the wine cellar now, heading to the other exit door. It’s a corridor, but more brickwork, old I think. Smells old. Door at end, sensor lock. Mark, I’ll need to fix this.”

“Need any help?”

“I’ll manage.”

Cam opens the briefcase on a brickwork alcove near the door. In the torchlight the alcove looks ancient, like the altar of an underground temple. She removes a small metal box, flicks a switch on one side, and places it on top of the lock. A small readout flicks through numbers before a satisfactory click indicates success.

“Opening the door. This is a large room, looks like a lab of some sort. Oh.” Cam looks at the floor straight ahead of her, where something is protruding from behind a desk.

“Yes, I can see. Feet,” says Mark.

Cam moves closer, supporting herself on the desk with one hand as she looks around the corner.

“White male, not young. Nasty blow to the head. He shouldn’t be here.”

“What do you mean? You know him?”

“No, sorry. I mean, this isn’t a twenty-year-dead body.”

“Ah.”

Stepping closer still. “I’d give it under a year.”

“Oh.”

“Let’s come back to him. Continuing to look – there’s three doors in a row, straight ahead. The middle door should be the safe room. The door is open, Mark, I’m not sure this is going to be good…”

Cam enters and scans quickly round the safe room. It doesn’t give the impression of being very safe: several cupboards that might once have been locked stand open, their doors splintered. On the floor lies a crowbar. All of this is incidental to the main issue. Four metal table legs are concreted into the middle of the room, but there is no table top: someone has cut through the legs and removed it.

“Damn,” comes Mark’s voice over the headset. He can see what Cam sees.

“Indeed. Someone’s been here,” says Cam, as she does so recognising the obviousness of what she is saying. “Whatever it was, it’s gone.”

“Try the side rooms… maybe they just shifted it.”

“Yeah, right! OK… left first.”

The door to the left of the safe room opens without resistance. In front of her and filling most of the small room there is a pallet, neatly stacked with boxes. She has a premonition of what they contain, quickly confirmed as she focuses on the selection of brightly coloured labels affixed to each box.

“Sheesh… Can you see this stuff?”

“Well enough.”

“There’s enough here to blow up the Houses of Parliament…”

“I wouldn’t vouch for its stability either. Cam, can I suggest a retreat?”

“Good plan. It’ll probably be the same on the other side, I think I’ll leave that one.”

“Don’t blame you.”

“This little pile explains why this heap of rubble is still here,” says Cam. “I guess it wasn’t supposed to be.”

Cam backs out towards the door, catching the back of her heel on the lintel as she passes.

“Steady, we don’t want any more casualties,” says Mark.

“No intention of being. Speaking of which, think I’ll leave the body for now. He’s waited this long, he can hang on another couple of days.”

“Not sure there’s much more you can do.”

“You’re right,” Cam says. A pause, then: “OK, you can come in. Seal this area, make this lot safe, let Control handle the transit route or they’ll only get sniffy. Oh – and bring a stretcher, get the injury out of here.”

Job done.

Journeys Beyond The Seaweed Farm

Journeys Beyond The Seaweed Farm

…Memoirs of the Expanding Flan

1971

My first memories of Solomon St Jemain were not gained in the most salubrious of circumstances. I do remember staring upwards and thinking here was someone I would rather not bump into late at night. But then, nor would I have chosen to associate our first meeting with the unnerving experience of peeling my own mouth from a threadbare carpet, rousing my slumped body and discerning from the subdued voices around me that, somehow, three days had passed without my knowledge.

It quickly became apparent that I was in the way, but I knew there was little I could do about it. As I marshalled my bleary eyes into something approaching focus, I saw only a character looming darkly in front of me like a Hammer Count on his day off. “Who the fuck are you?” he asked, without really expecting an answer. Or at least waiting for one, as he stepped over me and went through the door I had been blocking.

St Jemain’s pressing need was to collect a guitar from the attic room of Mr Jelly (with whom I had been evaluating a number of alcoholic concoctions what seemed only a split second before), which was oddly fortunate otherwise we might not have met at all. Realising with quiet distress that this was in all likelihood the person Mr Jelly had suggested I might want to impress with my skills, I hauled myself to my feet.

By the time he emerged from the room, I managed to corral a few relevant things to say from the snatches of thought running roughshod across my still-surfacing consciousness. A flicker of recognition appeared on his face. “You’re the drummer,” he stated flatly, as he made his way back down the stairs with a gecko-skinned guitar case under his arm.

St Jemain’s abruptness phased me slightly at the time: I was only to learn much later that I had already been discussed, and indeed greatly missed, having already expounded on my competence and agreed to participate in rehearsals now several days in the past. No such coherent memories were yet to force their way back into my dimly lit awareness; however I did know that I was staggeringly hungry, so I made my way downstairs in the hope of finding some food.

These sterling efforts on my part were not in vain. As I stumbled into the kitchen, a kindly gentleman immediately handed me a freshly made cup of tea and some buttered toast, in testament to what must have been my appearance. Finding a seat at the table (no small challenge), I remained until I had worked through several more rounds: not least to get my thoughts in order, but also to repay in conversation the generosity of Timothy Tadpole-Jones, as my good Samaritan introduced himself.

Thus I learned the events of the last few days. Item one: becoming lost on my way home from central London, I had taken temporary residence in a house occupied by a locally renowned, but to myself unfamiliar, musical combo. Resident on the ground floor were the aforementioned Mr Jelly, bass player, and Sir Tarquin Underspoon, whose keyboarding ancestry I was told, claimed a very distant connection to Bach. Occupants of the floor above were Mr Tadpole-Jones, a shy maestro at most instruments but most likely to be found playing acoustic guitar; Sebastian Tweetle-Blampton

III, whose prowess as sound engineer I was quickly to appreciate; and of course the brooding, charismatic Solomon St Jemain, front man and generally accepted leader of the troupe.

Item two concerned the small matter resulting in the demise of the previous drummer: something to do with a transport café, a supposed lady friend and a pack of sausages.

* * * * *

Several days after these initial encounters, and having decided (given that I had not already been thrown out) to hang around a little longer, I finally met Sir Tarquin. It was undoubtedly his musical prowess that first drew me to his door: from outside, my hand somehow restrained from knocking, I recognised the haunting notes of Molotov’s prelude in D Minor, which then segued into an evocative rendition of a Slovak folk piece. As I listened, it appeared that a cornered cat jumped onto the piano keys: a disembodied voice was crying in a most flustered manner, while the poor mog’s yowling and screeching were accompanied by several, clearly unsuccessful attempts to knock it from whichever perch it had managed to reach.

GET OFF! GET OFF! BANG! MIAAAAAOOOWWW!

The sound broke off and the door flew open almost simultaneously, revealing a highly perturbed and hair-raisingly skinny chap. He was wearing a long coat and looking this way and that, like the frontispiece of a macabre cuckoo clock. As he saw me, his mood shifted dramatically. “Drummer?” he asked, to which I meekly nodded a reply. “Fabulous,” he said, before inviting me into his room to discuss such things as global politics and the price of hake.

In the many hours of conversation that ensued, I did not once see a cat.

* * * * *

The first band practice I was to attend took place at a cellar bar in Soho which, I was told, had been very recently vacated due to complications arising from an unlikely bet and the subsequent ‘unveiling’ of a rather well known tabloid editor. Descending the steps of the now-defunct establishment I was greeted with the sound of multifarious instruments being tuned simultaneously. At least that was my initial impression. Luckily, I failed to comment before realising that I had arrived half way through what was an extended musical piece.

While this caught me somewhat by surprise, such was the nature of music in those times. Nothing was taken for granted, anything was possible, conventional structures were being done away with and the very boundaries of musicality were extending way beyond what had previously been considered possible (or indeed, advisable). Professional musicians across the country were throwing away their rule books and starting again, whether it made sense or not. Who was to say – for myself there appeared plenty to gain from simple participation. I can’t say I spared much of a thought for what might have been pushed aside.

Back in the cellar bar, I stood quietly next to S T-B as he played the mixing desk like a church organ. From within the cacophony I was able to pick out some of the themes espoused by Sir Tarquin a few days before, overlaid this time by Timothy Tadpole-Jones’ sitar. Mr Jelly was playing bass with his toes, and St Jemain seemed content to hold something of a rhythm with tambourine and voice. All in all, I said to myself, it was not an altogether unpleasant sound.

Nobody seemed to have any intention of stopping so I decided to seize the moment, as well as my drumsticks. I pattered out a random combination of beats on the edge of the stage which seemed to fit nicely enough, at first playing quietly and then with more urgency as I found a groove.

Through the smokescreen of noise I saw clear shapes forming, jostling and buffeting against each other like the carriages of a cartoon train. All I had to do was hold on! HOLD ON! I was hitting anything within reach, even as a banshee wail escaped my lungs!

Returning to my senses, I noticed everyone else had gone quiet. “WHAT. WAS. THAT?” said nobody in particular.

“I don’t know,” I said, to nobody in particular.

I glanced at St Jemain, mistaking his snarl for a smile. “I have a van,” I said.

With this apparent, I was in.

1972

We – though I use the term guardedly, given my clear reputation as something of a malingerer – spent the year following my arrival building the profile of the (still-unnamed) band I had been lucky enough to stumble upon. There was scant time to do much else between the incessant rehearsing, development of new ideas and testing them out on the live circuit. Apart, that is, from the equally endless periods of loafing around, embarking down various recreational avenues and sleeping them off afterwards.

From a sonic perspective we drew from the widest possible range of influences, from central African cave songs to Inuit funeral poetry. Not everything worked, nor did anyone believe was it supposed to, as a spirit of experimentation outweighed any desire to impose any boundaries, musical or otherwise. We did, however, draw the line at washboard and spoons.

In the evenings we headed out to watch some stupendously talented performers – like Donovan, Soft Machine, Pink Floyd, acts we were lucky enough to call our peers. All the while we were carving an enviable niche of our own, as we honed our own skills. Initially, given the oft-addled state of the audience, all we had to do was turn up. But they, and we in turn, quickly became more demanding.

Several, now seen as classic tracks were to emerge from this period. Not least ‘Wastecoat’: a solo guitar vignette from St Jemain, employing a variety of guitar tunings, effects and methods of playing. We also incorporated poetry reading to lighten the mood, though the subject matter rarely achieved that. The centre piece of most gigs was undoubtedly ‘Ectoplasm Spasm’, proudly boasting a 14 minute instrumental solo: in part this was a flight of pure fancy, in part it was carefully contrived to ensure that every one of us had time to visit the toilet.

Of course, no band of the time would have been seen dead without a light show. In this regard we engaged the services of Linton Samuel Dawson, whose forté was manipulating an array of coloured oils to achieve a seamless harmony between his visual projections and our own musical soundscapes. Often operating in a near-trance, his works of unparalleled beauty were interrupted only when the whole affair (and sometimes Linton himself) burst into flames. In general most of the audience survived such incidents unscathed; indeed, scorch marks were to become a trophy for many of those who insisted on standing near the back.

* * * * *

These were exciting times, and few could help but be drawn into the tangled web of musical creativity and the substance abuse with which it was inevitably entwined. Alcohol-soaked, lugubriously drawn out days extended to weeks, passing in a slow-flowing blur of transitions between venues, agencies, parties and everything in between. From the public perspective, things unfolded with a swan-like timing that appeared perfectly serene on the surface, but below the water line our chaotic lives continued to kick along unabated.

We only came unstuck on rare occasions, such as when, due to an excess of costumes, we had to resort to multiple taxis to get to a venue on the Charing Cross Road. The traffic that evening was even more terrible than usual. It was customary to be a little late, but equally, it was generally seen as obligatory to actually attend one’s own sound checks. When we arrived there was barely time to plug in: as fortune had it however, an array of musical equipment was already set up so we went with that. Such was our attitude that we thought nothing of it, kicking off with a lengthy piece despite the fact that St Jemain was yet to turn up.

With Timothy Tadpole-Jones filling in on vocal duties until his lordship arrived, we played the performance of our lives! We swooped and we soared through prototypic versions of pieces that had yet to leave the rehearsal rooms, including what was to become ‘And The Swallows Dance Above The Sun’ and ‘Queen Quotes Crowley’. Clearly the music had its desired effect, as the crowd stood transfixed throughout. They didn’t even react as we took the decision to quit while we were ahead, given the continued absence of St Jemain.

As things turned out, we left not a moment too soon. Our departure was hastened by the arrival of another band (themselves even further delayed by the traffic) just as we came off stage, and the non- coincident realisation that we had been in the wrong venue all along. They did seem a little upset, all the more understandable given how we grabbed the last couple of bottles of their red wine rider as we left through the fire exit.

We found St Jemain at the house, himself not long returned having played a solo set at the right venue. His expression bore a strange resemblance to that of the band we had stood in for, which even the offer of free wine could not displace. As he brooded in silence, perhaps we were seeing the first signs of his discontent approaching, but we didn’t realise it at the time. Far too much was happening in the present, for anyone to worry about what the future might hold.

1973

Despite our collective desire to remain nameless, a band name was becoming a necessity, particularly given the request to tour in support of a number of our heroes at the Festival of Expanding Consciousness in Paris. The Edgar Broughton Band and Man were going to be there, and there was not one amongst us who didn’t see this as a big event. So we gave in to the demand and set about coming up with something appropriate.

This was no small endeavour, particularly given that our music had diverged significantly from its original roots since I had joined. Both psychedelia and eastern influences combined to form a mystical melange, which was difficult to articulate in words. As an homage to which and in keeping with the theme of the festival “The Incredible Expanding Mindfuck” seemed to resonate best, appropriately shortened (not least for our mothers) to IEM. This decided, we set about equipping the van for its journey across the channel: a complex task requiring new paintwork, faux-leather cushions and several hundredweight of silk.

* * * * *

Paris in the Spring… it did seem odd that, given the over-arching theme of the festival itself, the organisers refused to let us on stage until we agreed to play some short, ‘commercial’ numbers. Of course we agreed to this, and then proceeded to play a 40 minute long psychedelic improvisation. This opus was captured on cassette tape by Sebastian Tweetle-Blampton, and 11 minutes of it were later released in all their glorious folly. Despite the name of the festival, few in the 60,000-strong audience seemed to want their consciousnesses expanding. Indeed, you can hear them booing if you listen carefully.

Still, we got a kick out of it – and it gave us the beginnings of an international reputation which we would later build on. Our pleasure following the festival was curtailed somewhat suddenly however, through circumstances that nobody could have predicted. The context was innocuous enough: late one afternoon, just as the sun began to cool and beneath the broadening shade of lime trees that were so typical of Paris, we were making final arrangements for a smaller, hastily arranged gig somewhere in the 17th arrondissement.

According to Sir Tarquin, things actually unfolded something like this:

Scene: A Parisian street with glass-walled bistros, an art nouveau metro station, large women with small dogs, noise, bustle and the occasional turd. Parked alongside the metro station is The Van, a trusty vehicle which has carried our perpetrators many thousands of miles around the London area and, for some inexplicable reason, to Loughborough.

Across the road is venue for the evening, a more bohemian looking café with small round tables spilling onto the narrow pavement.

The Van is positioned centre stage with The Metro behind; The Band are sitting at tables stage right; a number of Parisian bit players are milling about, laughing with gusto, kissing, waving arms animatedly etc.

Enter stage left: Gendarme, who approaches The Van and circles it appraisingly. He purses his lips as he considers the registration, paces the length of the vehicle as if measuring it out, and peers through the window, the beatnik sight of instruments, cushions etc. triggering a somewhat disdainful expression. Having considered his position momentarily, he pulls a notebook from his top pocket and extracts a pencil from his pantalons in a well-rehearsed, fluid motion.

Equally fluid is Solomon St Jemain, who rises from where he was sitting and approaches the gendarme. They exchange a few words. Hardly (so it appears to onlookers) waiting for an answer, St Jemain proceeds to the roof of The Van and sits cross-legged for a short while. M. le Gendarme continues, by turns, to berate and then ignore his quarry, who responds in kind, though the exact content of the exchanges is lost on the onlookers. This latter group is starting to grow, out of both curiosity and the certain feeling that something untoward is about to happen.

Never one to pass on the opportunity to reach an audience, St Jemain rises to his feet. Through coincidence, serendipity or sheer bad luck, another police car traverses the scene. And stops.

The crowd grows. St Jemain builds on his theme. Les policiers deviennent de plus en plus agités.

“I WILL NOT BE MOVED!” cries our hero, even as the gendarmes surround the van and produce their weaponry. He moves. From van, and into police car. Without any further aggravation.

The 21 days St Jemain spent at the pleasure of our Gallic cousins turned out to be a blessing in disguise, given that during his incarceration he developed a considerable proportion of the ideas for our first album. Most poignant given recent events was perhaps ‘Nations at Peace’, together with fully fleshed out versions of ‘Gondola’, ‘Queen Quotes Crowley’ and ‘Ectoplasm Spasm’.

He was also to acquire a taste for tripe.

* * * * *

As soon as St Jemain was back in the UK, we converged on one of the country houses owned by the Underspoon dynasty to further flesh out and finalise the album. On arrival, I was somewhat taken aback to discover T T-J had arrived with his entire entourage of pet ferrets, which proceeded to terrorise anything they could find – not least the house cat, a rather oversized thing which had shown little intention to move until a few moments prior to their arrival.

This did not prove to be the most traumatic experience for the poor beast during our stay. In a moment of euphoric clarity brought on by a uniquely flavoured omelette, Sebastian T-B tied a dulcimer hammer to the cat’s tail, having carefully positioned microphones at strategic places around the house and up the stairs. The poor cat’s mood quickly shifted from one of disdain to genuine terror, as it realized it was not going to be rid of the bloody thing however much it twisted.

All the same the resulting sound was surprisingly rhythmic, and it was fortunate that Sebastian managed to get what he wanted in a single take. Not least for the cat.

1974-1975

1974 was a year in which. Not. Much. Happened. That is, before the incident with the shop.

The creation of recorded output at a prolific rate was a continuing theme; now I was settled in, the position St Jemain required of me included the ability to conjure up all manner of rhythmic accompaniments at will, to second guess his every thought, and not to rock the boat. All of which I was content to accept, if it meant I could stay. While not the most ambitious of people, I nonetheless believed that IEM offered the best chance of success I was likely to have.

Nor was I alone in such a belief. As I was learning, for all their talents and idiosyncrasies, the rest of St Jemain’s motley crew were similarly inclined to go with the flow. Not that it was an easy ride: when we weren’t composing or recording we spent time on the road, sleeping in either the van or one of the many esoteric bed and breakfast haunts that artists such as we tended to frequent.

To reduce the potential for claustrophobia we conjured a number of entertainments. Popular pastimes included enticing small furry animals into our grasp before testing their prowess in a maze carefully constructed by Linton Dawson; creating small explosive devices out of carefully blown eggs and warm paraffin; and an all-consuming obsession whilst on the road with pieces of paper with the word ‘towel’ written on them.

Not all of our adventures were an unmitigated success, however. And so I must set the record straight about what actually happened at the shop, given the quantity of adverse press coverage it caused, some of which was (to be fair) justified.

I am forced to acknowledge that, even as we released the latch, we should have realised something was amiss. We were aware that our good friend the owner would have been more than happy to accept an IOU pending payment for the bottle of Bells. We also knew that while the door might have been firmly bolted from the front, a key to the back door could be found behind the guttering of the downpipe in the backyard. Indeed, our only error of judgement was assuming that said owner was away on holiday, based upon which we quite unanimously agreed to enter the carefully boarded establishment.

Had we only left, there and then. But Mr Jelly’s idea that we should drink a toast to absent friends was met with unanimous approval. The second toast was to absent enemies, and the third to the general metaphysical concept of absence… The plan was not to stay, but what can one say when sometimes, there are little voices inside your head saying something should not happen, and other little voices saying the same thing should carry on, it is already probably too late. Particularly when the little voices in my head started arguing with Sir Tarquin’s little voices, which were being contradicted in equal measure by the little voices from St Jemain.

Suffice to say that after a number of bottles had been consumed, all with an appropriate IOU, we agreed we should not try to move too far until the morning.

What happened next we can only speculate upon: a reconstruction of events would likely see the rightful owner arriving a few hours later to discover five rather dubious looking types, thankfully fast asleep and surrounded by empty whisky receptacles. From our own, blissfully ignorant perspective, we opened our bleary eyes to the sight of several boys in blue who, like the actual shop owner, were in no mood to compromise.

What our good friend had failed to communicate (we were later to learn) was his rapid departure some weeks previously, due to involvement in a situation he felt wise to review from an overseas perspective.

For St Jemain, it was something of a surprise to see the inside of a prison again.

* * * * *

Despite the inevitable delay caused by court cases, time served etc, by January 1975 we had struck a deal with the Jefferson-Bryce label. The album release followed shortly after: ‘Ectoplasm Spasm’ emerged blinking into the sunlight, complete with 26-minute title track. Sales barely topped 1000, but the IEM became overnight sensations with the Paris underground.

Wanting to capitalise on the success, we immediately started developing themes for what would come next. Not least ‘Towel’, in homage to the 14 pieces of paper we had collected at that point. Indeed Solomon used one of them to write the words he spoke on the track.

1976

Coupled with the success of ‘Ectoplasm Spasm’, negotiations that had started with various labels, managers and other agencies finally came together in a one-hundred-and-ninety-date tour of Europe. No city was left untouched, though most agree the best gig by far took place in a remote barn 50 miles due south of Lodz.

It was on this tour I earned the nickname ‘Expanding Flan’, a story that merits repetition. A commonly held belief at the time was that certain kinds of mud, correctly applied, could be highly therapeutic to mind and body. A rest day in the south of France led us to a spa hotel offering such treatments; en route, it seemed like a good idea to enhance the experience with a number of alternative therapies we had procured from a swarthy looking type in back street Marseilles.

By the time I reached the treatment room, I confess to having difficulties focusing, though I judged myself in full control of my faculties – an error I was not to acknowledge until later. Entering a large bath of what looked like cattle slurry (and which didn’t smell that much better, to my addled sensory glands) I felt a certain unease. From where I was sitting it was plain that creatures in the muck were reaching out to envelop me and, I knew with absolute certainty, their solitary purpose was to attach themselves to my most sensitive parts and have their way!

As a result I was left with no choice but to take them on directly. I led the attack with appropriate zeal, cutting swathes through the tiny monsters and returning them to the hell-hole from whence they came.

At least, that’s how things appeared from my perspective. To colleagues, staff and bystanders in the street outside things unfolded somewhat differently – more like a half-naked man crashing through a window coated in green-brown gunk and landing in a small stone fountain. The icy water had a number of effects, bringing me to my senses and washing off the gelatinous goo, which was then whipped up by the fountain to form a creamy beige meringue with me at the centre. Exactly who coined the term ‘Expanding Flan’ I do not recall, but expanding flan I most certainly was.

* * * * *

Nobody in the band would deny that the extended tour took several years off their lives. Least of all St Jemain, whose habit of early rising became earlier and earlier, until he was getting up before we had even finished the performance of the night before. It was slightly alarming to see him heading off to do his ablutions in the middle of the set but fortunately we were able to accommodate this musically, and indeed his changing into a silk kimono became an expected part of the performance.

A number of dates of the tour were recorded, notably at the Élysées Montmartre and the barn in Poland that was, we believe by coincidence, demolished the day after (though some have said that certain tell-tale groans were evident on the master tapes).

The recordings were combined to form a double live LP called ‘My Head Has Not Become A Cricket Pitch (But Is Flying To Venus As We Speak)’, which was released at the end of the year. To our delight it sold better than ‘Ectoplasm Spasm’. The track ‘Mutate Baby’ quickly became our most requested live piece, not unsurprisingly given the amount of play it was garnering from a number of pirate radio stations.

By the end of the tour, despite the toll it had taken, we wasted no time before heading straight back to the studio and committing to tape some of the pieces we had been formulating both on- and off- stage. While the routine had become relentless to the point of gruelling, what St Jemain said still went – and nobody else was thinking too hard about the alternatives.

1977

Write, record, perform. Write, record, perform. Nothing more to add.

1978

Before a fall often comes the assumption that everything will maintain a steady course and all one has to do is keep the hand on the tiller. After a fall, the discovery that any change is, perhaps, for the best. But it is pointless getting too philosophical about this moment in our history, as that’s exactly what led to the fall in the first place.

Everything was going so well. We had a recording contract for three more albums, we were picking up regular radio play and our live performances were going from strength to strength, so we thought. We shared our time between our still-insalubrious house, various favoured drinking establishments, and recording studios that seemed only too ready to accommodate us (we were paying their bills, after all).

All the same, the road was most definitely becoming bumpier particularly for St Jemain. Most of us were content to keep on doing what we did well, not questioning too much in case we upset the golden goose. But while St Jemain certainly went through the motions, his increasingly withdrawn tendency, not to mention his habit of saying ‘um’ for no reason and his growing penchant for chewing small pieces of aluminium foil were all tell-tale signs that he was not completely happy.

Perhaps we should have taken more notice on the occasions when Solomon suddenly screamed, “I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!” and left the house, only to return several days later as though nothing had happened. For all we knew he was enacting episodes of performance art, for later use in his poetry. As for the rest of us, we had fame, we had money and we had each other – why rock the boat? As little was prompting us to look for change, so change came to us in a rather abrupt manner – as I will now recount.

On arrival at the 100 Club that particular evening we were accosted by a posse of spiky-haired, thuggish looking youths, who seemed intent on speaking to us, though we had little desire to talk to them. Without the slightest hesitation they followed us into the dressing room and started eating the sandwiches, talking and laughing as they went.

As St Jemain fumed, the rest of us shuffled and mumbled hoping the whole lot would somehow vanish. Frankly we did not know where to put ourselves, indeed for the longest time we weren’t even sure they were more than a figment of our imaginations. Finally, as one of the youths reached for yet another sausage and pineapple on stick, St Jemain snapped. “LOOK! WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU WANT?” he screamed, his traditional glower replaced by what was approaching blind panic. Calmly, one of the types turned his head and said, “We’re the main band. We’re on after you.”

Most of us quickly realised at that point that turfing out the safety-pinned fellows was not an option, but St Jemain wasn’t having any of it. Indeed, he dispensed completely with the socially accepted nicety of announcing “Well, it’s you or me” and waiting an appropriate length of time. Instead, he turned his back (yes, his long, black coat tails did flick) and left, leaving the rest of us somewhat flummoxed.

We had little choice (we needed the money) but to go on regardless. I wouldn’t say we played the best performance of our lives that night. Looking back, it is evident that our whole raison d’être was on borrowed time, a fact that had already been taking its toll on Solomon. When we caught up with him later that evening, we found him tearing editions of Melody Maker into small strips which he was then rolling into pellets and lining up carefully in a row, before flicking them out of an open window. We sat and watched this ritual in silence, in part not knowing what to say, but also because it was strangely cathartic for all of us.

Finally, with no more pellets to flick, St Jemain stood up and with great effort, mustered his self control and started pronouncing something about going to France to find himself. He stood before us, tall and proud, and for a fleeting moment we recognised the St Jemain who had led us through so many years and countless experiences. “I declare,” he said with great effort… before deciding better of it. “Sod it,” he exhaled, grabbing his tobacco pouch and walking through the door, leaving behind the house, his band-mates, and everything he owned.

That was the last we saw of Solomon St Jemain for a long time.

1979

While we tried to keep things going, without a front man and lacking anybody else that could be called charismatic, it wasn’t long before we all went our separate ways. Timothy Tadpole-Jones and Sir Tarquin Underspoon retained a modicum of fame as a two-piece beat combo, while Mr Jelly found a job in a chip shop. Due to an unexpected bequeathment of a reasonable fortune I found I had no urgency to do anything, so I took up residence in a houseboat and drifted for a while.

Really.

Busking was never going to be my thing, but I did head into the suburbs on a number of occasions to participate in what was left of the club scene following the punk invasion. The few of us who remained true to our roots would gather at a number of establishments, scattered within walking distance of various tube stops across the North of London. One of the more frequented locations was the Green Dragon in central Ippenham, known by all as a den of iniquity and good music. It quickly became one of my more favoured establishments, not least because the owner was himself a drummer, which obviated the need to lug any kit.

Before long I established myself as a regular accompanist to the stream of irregular performers that would pass through its doors. On one such occasion I chanced on a young player, who was quietly cradling his guitar at the side of the stage. “What’s your name,” I asked. “Tree,” he said. “Tree what?” I said. “Porcupine Tree,” he responded, curtly.

I didn’t ask any more questions. But when he stepped up to perform shortly after, I found I didn’t need to. As he tuned his instrument there was no outer sign of zeal, nor arrogance. Just a sense that what he would play would be worth hearing.

And it certainly was.

* * * * *

What happened after that was very simple. We met, we talked, we got on, we started playing a few things together. I’m not sure how exactly things unfolded, but I do remember feeling a decided sense of rightness about introducing Tree to TT-J, Sir Tarquin and Mr Jelly, as demonstrated when we started to exchange ideas. The amount of genuine interest, and the care with which he picked up our music was gratifying, and while his own music was unmistakeably Tree, there was plenty for the rest of us to get our teeth into.

While we had been off-circuit for some time we still had a number of outstanding invitations to perform, and Porcupine Tree kindly took it upon himself to make a few calls. It seemed barely a blink of an eye before we were hauling our equipment through the doors of a number of familiar haunts.

One thing we certainly were not was IEM, so once again we found ourselves without a name. When he had been asked what we were called (so Tree told us), he had assumed they meant his name.

Nobody had the energy, nor indeed the desire to say any different, so it stuck.

## 1981

It was four years before St Jemain finally returned. While his arrival was unexpected, I had been sending the occasional correspondence so I was not overly surprised when he turned up at the houseboat. He had no place to stay given that the house had long since been dispensed with, so I offered him a sofa in the studio, which he accepted without question.

St Jemain had changed, of that there was no doubt. His former aloofness had gone for good, but at the cost of a certain fiery spark. Indeed, his initial compliancy felt somewhat alarming – I spent the first few days waiting for him to snap out of it. Indeed, it was only much later that I finally came to terms with the new, malleable Solomon.

The other band members were of course delighted to re-acquaint themselves with our former front man. This did not mean we were immediately drawn towards a reunion: understandably perhaps, the ensemble felt in no rush to revisit what was now in the past. Seemingly, nor did St Jemain, who appeared content enough to go with the flow and join in with whatever made sense, if indeed it did make sense.

Most positively, St Jemain had lost none of his musical desire, nor as it would turn out, his creativity. He was quick to pick up a guitar, to speak over a melody, to offer constructive comment on some of the demo material we had been writing. Having satisfied myself that nothing untoward was going to happen, I introduced him to Tree.

The mix was explosive but not in a way anyone expected. The pair hit it off immediately, both in conversation and musically, with ideas sparking off each other like flint striking tinder. Over the weeks that followed we produced several hours of experimental tapes on the houseboat, not least a piece which gained the title ‘Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape’. It began with the realisation of a dream that Solomon had on his travels, “In which the whole world joins hands and becomes an enclosure into which no evil can penetrate.” Or something like that.

St Jemain’s new-born ethereal nature played off against Tree’s edgier, angsty youth, the latter so clearly illustrated with ‘Radioactive Toy’, described by Tree as a reaction to political boredom. “This piece could be about peace, love and harmony. Or it could be about nuclear genocide. You decide,” he said, with typically noncommittal defiance.

While Tree claimed to be helped in the ideas department by a fellow named Alan Duffy, we were never to meet him. We were, however, occasionally startled by Tree’s habit of engaging in quiet conversations when he thought there was nobody else present. At such times, the name ‘Alan’ was heard mentioned more than once.

* * * * *

Over the months that followed St Jemain’s gently heroic return, things settled into a not- uncomfortable groove. Before long the subject of IEM was finally broached: after discussion, we reached the simultaneous conclusion that running both projects in parallel would be a good wheeze. While “The Porcupine Tree Project” would take most of everyone’s time, IEM would run whenever there was a call on its services and it would pick up some of our more esoteric outputs.

To say this was one of the most creative periods of the band’s history would be entirely accurate. The houseboat became a residence for everyone, more because nobody thought to leave than any suggestion they should stay. Its makeshift studio was playing host to what were, in hindsight, some of the best recordings we have ever made. Nothing seemed impossible. The hours turned to days, nights, weeks and months, people seemingly sleeping where they sat, waking to pick up their instruments and continue where they had left off. And that was just to record one track.

Barely was there the time, nor indeed did anyone consider the necessity for such niceties as cooked food, illustrated by the cascade of packets and foil tins overflowing from the kitchen area. Hygiene had never been our strong point (indeed, I always felt it gave us a bit of an edge against whatever bugs were flying around). But to say things were getting out of hand would have shown true mastery of understatement.

We were oblivious of the mess. Unfortunately, the mess was not so oblivious of us, as it grew and evolved as if trying to catch our attention. Things reached a point when every surface was covered in some kind of foodstuff, interspersed with a dubious mixture of other detritus. At least we drew the line when it came to toilet habits, though the holding tank must have been reaching alarming levels towards the end.

As time passed and layer added to unsavoury layer, we were paying scant attention. What came next was hardly surprising, when one thinks of the overflowing ashtray that had been balanced on the plates, itself precariously perched on the stack of magazines loosely scattered on a pile of cushions. All it took was a single, nicotine-soaked stub, carelessly tossed, which caused the whole lot to topple backwards, delivering its load of hot ash into the gap between floor and wall.

Initially there seemed little cause for alarm. Indeed it was several minutes before we noticed smoke coming up through the floorboards. By that time there was already little we could do, given that the resulting fire was quickly spreading beneath our feet, along the oil-soaked hull of the houseboat.

Our attempts to put out the flames with anything we could lay our hands on had, to be fair, what could only be called mixed results.

Fortunately we were mostly in a state of relative coherence. Recognising the futility of our actions, we turned our attention to what could be rescued. Young Tree was first to seize the initiative, gathering several stacks of tapes and loading them into a bag before hot-footing it off the boat. Soon we were all grabbing anything that would move – instruments, furniture, books and so on, and hurling them physically out of the windows onto the bank, before beating a retreat and watching as the houseboat made its way to a watery Valhalla.

And that was that. For the houseboat, in any case.

## 1982-1983

Thanks to Tree’s efforts we had kept the majority of what had been recorded. At his own suggestion we retired to The Periscope Station, a studio in Devon inhabited by an assortment of musical cast- aways. Tree did once explain how he came to own said establishment, but I can remember little apart from some mention of a distant uncle and a tea shop in Rabat.

We took with us engineer and producer extra-ordinaire JC Camillioni, a long-standing collaborator with Tree, whose own post-psychedelic creations had left us all open-mouthed on first hearing.

Recording continued apace, employing the time and talents of whoever happened to be around, not least Alix whose laughter was captured for all eternity by JC following an incident with a fire hose.

By the spring of 1982 we had created far too much material to release all at once, so we did anyway. A 3-LP set of long songs, couplets and other pieces of whimsy was released on the Crumb label, entitled ‘Music To Blow Your Mind By’. The album was a huge success, helped no doubt by the increased visibility following media interest in the demise of the houseboat. Success which, I have to say, Tree was very quick to capitalise on, ensuring that the more forward-thinking radio stations had our entire back-catalogue available to them.

The resulting radio play only increased demand on the live circuit, both for Porcupine Tree the band, and for IEM. Sheer logistics drove the decision to bring in additional musicians, and all of us quickly became accustomed to playing for one project or the other.

There were few places we would not go in the live set, as typified by a two chord thrash we built around Prince’s ‘The Cross’. Tree having reached the conclusion that Prince was in fact God incarnate, our own version reached a frenzied climax during which some members of the audience claimed to see celestial beings accompanying us on stage. We can only speculate on this.

The centrepiece of Porcupine Tree’s live set was undoubtedly ‘Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape’, which ended with St Jemain introducing the band and presenting his musical vision of the future – which would change from night to night. We also maintained the traditional IEM routine of including at least one Pink Floyd classic from the ‘Ummagumma’ period in the live show.

The demise of Linton Stanley Dawson came suddenly, in snow-bound Norway at the end of 1982. In truth, none of us expected him to last as long as he did. But the manner of his ending did take us by surprise, given that it didn’t involve setting himself alight; rather, he was found dead in his bunk having consumed some raw mackerel and an unseemly amount of vodka the night before. While the exact cause of death was never determined, the cook did at least have the decency to look a bit sheepish.

While the time on the road would have continued as long as venues knew we were available to play, we chose this moment to make our subdued way back to Periscope Station to assess where we stood and capture some of the ideas we had been developing. As a sign of the times we were tending towards shorter musical pieces, such as Tree’s ‘Radioactive Toy’, which we were planning to record early on for release as a single.

On the eve of the recording however, an unexpected piece of history came back to haunt Porcupine Tree the man, who woke (indeed, as we all did) to the sound of the studio door being kicked off its hinges accompanied by a cacophony of shouts and screams. Studio residents were treated to having rather bright electric torches thrust in their bleary faces. “ARE YOU PORCUPINE TREE?” came the inevitable question, to which just about everybody answered, “Yes.” The melee that ensued resulted in several rather confused members of her majesty’s constabulary, before Tree himself eventually resolved matters.

As Tree was being manhandled into a van, we finally determined he was being deported to Poland on a drug related charge. While undoubtedly a setback, once he was settled in his cell we agreed by post (which at the time was very efficient to Poland) that we would continue developing material for both IEM and PT independently, sending back and forth cassette tapes to enable Tree to add his own parts (studio facilities in Polish holding cells were also second to none).

Tree was released shortly afterwards.

1984

Despite (or perhaps because of) such incidents, when we regrouped in autumn 1984, the Periscope Station quickly regained its status as a sanctuary. It gave us some distance from the maelstrom of popularity and press coverage both Porcupine Tree and IEM were experiencing. But it wasn’t a panacea – particularly as we started falling into old habits as we tried to meet the growing demand (in both the UK and France) for new recordings.

While generating new material had never been a weak point for us, the general desire to do so was somewhat impinged by the fact we had no choice. The resulting creative block was overcome only when we decided not to do anything at all: within half an hour of sitting around Tree had become agitated to the point of distraction.

It wasn’t just the whimpering sounds he let out, but the way that he started pummelling himself with whatever came to hand (from candlesticks to pampas grasses, though even he drew the line at JC’s reel to reel tape recorder) that spurred the rest of us into action. As we restrained him, his cries gave way to gibberish, from which a number of streams of consciousness emerged almost simultaneously.

With Sebastian T-B taking copious notes, he was egged on by just about everybody as this state was undoubtedly preferable to dodging ashtrays and pieces of furniture.

The themes for ‘Tales from Jupiter Island’ were built out of these trails of musical thought. The initial plan was for a number of episodes, to be serialised across releases. Each described, according to Tree, “The life and times of the people of Jupiter Island as seen through the eyes of an earthling called Nigel”:

The curious creatures have but one aim in life; to tick off every page in the gigantic volume ‘5,000,001 THING TO DO WITH A HESSIAN SACK’ by Marjorie Peeps. They journey the universe with a copy of the book and a large supply of Hessian Sacks, hoping to chance upon situations the probability of which is somewhere in the region of a trillion-billion to one.

For example:

No 1,892,674: Using a Hessian Sack to quell 258 billion rioting Swahili quantity surveyors intent upon moulding a statue of an ant’s foot from a thirty-seven tonne lump of guano.

While I say ‘we’, it was very clear at this point where the locus of creativity was situated.

1985-1986

My last memory of those sessions at the Periscope Station incorporated the decision to release a live recording of ‘The Cross’. Following which, Tree said that he wanted to explore some new directions and we were welcome to hang around. As he didn’t seem that bothered one way or another, the rest of us ploughed our own furrows for a while.

My colleagues were quick to capitalise on this good fortune. Timothy Tadpole-Jones had been planning (in some detail) a visit to West Africa, though I think he was as surprised as anybody that it was actually to come about. Sir Tarquin took the opportunity to visit relatives, taking into account that one such sojourn could easily stretch into weeks, particularly if there was decorating to do. And Mr Jelly returned to running a chip van on the A38 north of Birmingham, to continue (so he claimed) his study into the profundity of human behaviour.

For myself, apart from welcoming the pause, I could invent no such grandiose plans. St Jemain had been invited to Paris for a series of poetry readings, that much I do recall, but why exactly I should find myself six months later accompanying him I do not know. Nor did I particularly care at the time, for it was a very welcome period spent in each other’s company working on a number of projects, as goes the cliché, ‘just like old times’.

Little did we know that Solomon’s presence was like a red rag to a bull for the French authorities. These usually uncoordinated institutions were on the point of drawing together a number of threads, including that of a certain so-called tax dodger and a certain inciter of riots, last seen sitting on the top of a van in 1973.

Any such concerns were far from our minds when, following a successful sojourn, we headed back to Devon. Porcupine Tree’s new band had been assembled from some of the musicians and freaks living and working at the studio. On arrival we mucked in, throwing together a series of experimental jams and preliminary sketches called ‘Cream Cakes For Everyone!’ – which would form the backbone of a new album.

These highly productive sessions were quickly followed by a UK tour, which culminated in a performance on the second stage at Glastonbury and a session for French radio. Unfortunately it was this latter which finally tipped off the French tax authorities, though we could not fault their taste in music.

At the end of the tour we returned once more to the Periscope Station, having procured the services of Sebastian Tweetle-Blampton to co-produce the album with Tree. We had just started to record the LP proper when finally St Jemain was tracked down and his presence was requested (quite strongly, though at least this time they left the door on) back in France.

Thanks to our habit of recording everything that emerged in the studio, we had plenty of demo material to be working with, though the loss of St Jemain at such a crucial moment could not help but affect morale. We were able to complete the three-part ‘Mute’ and ‘Music for the Head (Here)’ before most of us collapsed in a heap and left Sir Tarquin to catalogue everything that had been worked on up to that point, while Tree recorded a number of solo pieces including ‘Hole’ and ‘Message From A Self Destructing Turnip’.

What happened in the 18 months that followed, I have no recollection whatsoever.

## 1989-1990

On St Jemain’s release from incarceration we were able to complete ‘Tarquin’s Seaweed Farm’. The album was a mixture of old and new: as well as ‘Jupiter’s Island’ and the three-part ‘Mute’ trilogy, it included the classics ‘Nun’s Cleavage’ and ‘No Reason to Live, No Reason to Die’ from the old days. To be sure, the over-riding goal was to get the thing done – though we did indulge in shorter pieces such as ‘Clarinet Vignette’. For the latter we roped in an oboe-playing busker who we spotted in a nearby town. Oboe didn’t rhyme with vignette – that’s poetic licence for you.

Having completed the studio album, we managed to squeeze in a few live dates, including a set at the Greenpeace Fayre where we performed ‘The Cross’, ‘Hole’ and ‘Yellow Hedgerow Dreamscape’. The twenty-minute set was captured by the No Man’s Land mobile studio: given the highly positive audience reaction, it seemed trite not to release it at the same time as the album. We also included ‘Daughters In Excess’, captured live on stage at Dingwalls, London – a piece fully intended to evoke the same sense of random wonder and energy we had instilled playing obligatory Pink Floyd covers over a decade before. To round things off, we also included the Élysée Montmartre version of ‘No Reason To Live, No Reason To Die’.

‘Tarquin’s Seaweed Farm’ was released as a double studio/live LP early in 1989. As well as excellent reviews from New Musical Express, many fanzines proclaimed it to be the finest example of modern psychedelia they had (yet) heard.

* * * * *

As always, our radio-fuelled following was hankering after new material, so we were urged back into the studio almost immediately. The result was the cassette EP ‘Love, Death And Mussolini’, containing some of the songs that didn’t quite make it onto the album. These included stage staple ‘Queen Quotes Crowly’ as well as ‘Hymn’, ‘Footprints’ and ‘Linton Samuel Dawson’, the latter written in tribute to the lightshow maestro.

Tree brought a level of professionalism that we would appreciate only once… we certainly didn’t appreciate it at the time. What we did understand was that here was someone who made things easier, whether it was negotiating tour dates or paying for the milk. Frankly, we couldn’t believe our luck.

Following a handful of live dates, by the spring we decamped to Tree’s place, aka No Man’s Land Studios, to develop and record the new album, aided once again by JC Camillioni as producer and Sebastian Tweetle-Blampton on engineering duties. Only Sir Tarquin was temporarily absent due to an unfortunate incident (apparently involving rabbits), forcing Tree to draft in local performer Michel France on Piano.

Writing was divided between Tree and his imaginary friend Alan, and while the rest of us contributed whenever appropriate, our position as guest musicians was left in little doubt particularly when faced with Tree’s not-infrequent habit of playing us entire songs recorded entirely (including all instruments) by himself.

What we didn’t fully appreciate was how, by degrees, Tree was dragging us into a more modern world. In hindsight the signs were reasonably transparent: one of the first songs Tree played to us was called ‘The Nostalgia Factory’. He was quick to explain that it was tongue in cheek: “Too many so-called modern psychedelic bands reject technology in favour of recreating yesterday’s sound. To reject the sampler or even the drum machine is to deny the spirit that experimental music should always be made in,” he told us. “These musicians become nothing more than a nostalgia factory.“

Not all songs were quite so ripe with meaning: Tree and St Jemain recorded the piece of whimsy ‘Begonia Seduction Scene’ in a single take on Tree’s front lawn. But the deeper subtleties of tracks such as ‘It Will Rain for a Million Years’ were lost on us. This we took as a statement on the disastrous weather while we were recording, rather than what it actually was: a prediction of the future.

As the studio sessions neared completion, much to the chagrin of JC Camillioni we headed out on tour again. At the same time Tree compiled a double LP in cassette form, incorporating material already released on ‘Love, Death And Mussolini’ but with the additional compositions recorded at No Man’s Land studios during the summer. Rather cleverly – and again, isn’t hindsight a wonderful tool – this incorporated the majority of the rambling solos (inspired though they were), leaving a corpus of shorter, more modern, (dare I say) edgy numbers.

On our return from tour we did have a respite at the residence of Lord and Lady Blampton, which was still knee deep in redecoration. The west wing was complete and Lady B was working on the veranda, but dustsheets and ladders lined every corridor and stairway. The award for achieving the inevitable was bestowed on Mr Jelly, for getting his foot stuck in an ill-placed paint pot.

As our work was largely done, we spent much of the time playing croquet and singularly failing to make meaningful progress with the maids. Meanwhile Tree set to mixing what would become ‘The Nostalgia Factory’. As winter set in, we headed back to our various residences while Tree went off to Periscope Station to add the final touches.

Then it – and we – were done.

1991

‘The Nostalgia Factory’ was released to almost immediate acclaim. “A powerful development in Porcupine Tree’s sound,” proclaimed one reviewer; “Both the most peculiar and most accessible set of music the Tree has yet recorded,” said another. We had little time to bask however, as we had been invited to participate in that charity circus that was Live Aid. While of course the cause was important, we were not going to pass up on such an opportunity.

Though it so nearly passed us. Our transport, the faithful, cushion-lined van with which we had shared so many adventures, had seen better days to be sure – but never before had it failed to reach a venue. We were only two miles from Wembley when we heard what can only be described as a mechanical groan, followed by a rattle from somewhere underneath the vehicle… this, it transpired, was the drive shaft reaching a final impasse with the gear box, which seized up in turn, bringing the already-labouring engine to a halt.

We could have seen this as an omen, had we been concentrating on anything other than getting to the venue. Which we did, hauling every possible item of equipment behind us. Suffice to say that we made it, with only the final hiccup of getting past security without any form of identification. Luckily one of the orange-clad marshals recognised us, though given how we must have looked, pouring with sweat as we lugged guitars, amps, keyboards etc in the hot sun, one would hope that even the harshest of officials might have taken pity.

We finally arrived on stage to the roar of the crowd and a solitary hand wave from St Jemain, before launching into forty minutes of some of the best music we have ever played. The nefarious parts of our collective brain gave up their secrets, a pauper’s hive mind giving up its deepest memories. We soared, we plummeted into crevasses of darkness only to emerge even stronger into the light.

For those few minutes we were gods robed in earthly cloth, delivering up the goodness of what we created. And we were loved. We looked out at the masses in glory, and we drank from the vessel of their adulation. From the raised hands of the closest few, the wave of conversion rippled out across the crowd, until it reached the very furthest corners of the stadium.

Moving forward for a moment, Tree put one finger to his lips and the sea of people hushed as one. And then, he spoke.

“I HAVE NOTHING TO SAY. EXCEPT. I wanted this to be a whirling light from the other end of the stars,” he said. “I wanted it to sound like planets exploding and then on the other hand like a desert wind. Sometimes this is difficult.”

A vast cheer arose from the stadium. I have no doubt that from the outside the noise would have been deafening… but we heard only each other as we launched into a series of intertwining solos, playing our instruments like fleeting lovers. As each of us took our turn, nobody thought anything untoward as Tree left the stage for what we believed would be a brief moment. But when he failed to return I left my kit and went backstage to look for him. I am not sure why I felt so immediately certain, but quick was my realisation that I would not find him however hard I looked, not then nor ever.

I returned to the stage and shook my head at the others, whose resigned shrugs suggested they had already reached a similar conclusion. Then we finished the set, leaving the stage with a mixture of sadness and delight, a strange feeling of relief, and an ovation greater than ever.

As for Porcupine Tree, he was never seen again.

The Day Of Gloaming

The Day Of Gloaming

Emily felt anxious from the moment she woke. The dreams hadn’t helped: she’d been warned these would come, part of a necessary process of separation, but did they have to be quite so… you know? It wasn’t so much the themes, they were dreams after all, but more the palette, the depth, like she was dreaming in colour for the first time. Something else lingered as well, a sense of conflict, of intrusion. Which made sense, given the circumstances, but which was no less discomfiting.

As she felt the sense of unease gradually subside, Emily was left with a strange combination of both excitement and sadness. She would miss her parents, of course, but she recognised the need to move on. Her kind had learned to embrace the Gloaming as more of a rebirth than a rejection, an acceptance that they, too, were subordinate to the interplanetary alignments that first brought them to this place. Somehow it served its purpose and theirs, letting the natural order of things take over.

For the final time, she allowed herself to shower in her bathroom, to wrap herself in familiar, if a little threadbare towels, to dry and brush her hair. Her host would continue to do so, of course, living a life that would have otherwise been impossible. It was a clever trick, to allow the host to grow, to think, even to act, without giving them power or control: she’d heard how that had turned out previously, knew the stories told of their arrival, of the abject desperation they had found, of reconstruction, of ultimate acceptance. Symbiosis had been inevitable, the joining of two, near-broken and desperate races. Emily couldn’t help feeling a little sorry for the hosts: her kind definitely seemed to have the upper hand, but what was the alternative? A physical species that had all but destroyed itself; and a ethereal genus of souls, facing certain oblivion as its once-powerful energy sources dwindled to nothing. One had had to control the other, or neither would have survived.

It took careful balance, allowing the host to live a life. Emily could exert whatever control she wanted, but it would be cruel and unnecessary to be too demanding: the relationship was one of owner to pet, rather than any sense of enslavement. The task took concentration and a little training, that was all, enabling the host to arrive at a state of contented subservience. Of course, she could impose whatever she liked, but that could lead to depression and even physical depreciation.

Emily smiled inwardly as she thought how lucky they were, to have chosen a species so different, yet so aligned with her own. In the early days, some had chosen birds, sea creatures… dolphins were a favourite for a while, but eventually Homo Sapiens became the default. Nobody but a handful wanted to be locked into a less sentient creature for the twelve years or so before the next Gloaming, or indeed, risk a forced separation should things not work out.

As she walked downstairs, Emily realised that the host had no idea about the day’s importance. There, in the kitchen, were her father and mother, going about their own morning routines. Her father turned to her, as he did so dropping the host’s semblance of control, head lolling and features relaxing. Emily did the same, putting her body on pause as she communicated directly, the air glinting as filaments of thought crossed the ether between them.

“How are you feeling?”

“Okay, I think.”

“Just remember everything you have been told. Don’t wait around, and don’t get distracted!”

“Of course. I’ll be fine.”

“Yes, of course you will. Well, good luck.”

Emily didn’t know whether to say thank you or not — she had shared a life with her adoptive parents for as long as she could remember, ever since her own emergence had been aligned with her host’s carefully planned birth.

“They don’t know, do they?”

“It’s for the best, they’d only start getting agitated.” Her father released control at that point, his host jolting back into awareness. She thought she might have detected a moment of emotion, but it quickly vanished as he continued his chores. Carefully, Emily withdrew her own control, allowing her host to resume activities: she went immediately to the cupboard and took out a packet of cereal. Ah, food, she thought. That will keep her occupied for a while.

As she ate, Emily thought about what she might want to do that day. Not a great deal: she’d rather empty her mind and prepare for the dusk, when the conjunction of astral gravity and reduction of solar energy conspired to release their souls into the ether. Time would be of the essence at that point, but for now, there was little she could do. Perhaps she would let go of the reins a bit, give her host more freedom and see what she made of it. It would be a nice memory to end on, she decided.

Later that evening, once the re-hosting had taken place, there would be a Gloaming party: hosts must have wondered why they had been decorating the local halls and squares. The weather looked fine: there would be dancing, for certain. Emily couldn’t wait: such festivities offered one environment where controls could be relaxed, and hosts and souls could really enjoy themselves, together.

As things turned out, her host wanted to do very little during the day. She’d gone back to her room, reading for a while before taking herself out for a walk. She was still too young to work: any education she needed would be decided once she took her first apprenticeship, but that wasn’t for another couple of years. In the meantime, Emily’s job was to ensure that her host remained healthy and able-bodied, encouraging her to get exercise and eat the right things, which she largely did.

Just as time was feeling like it might drag — Emily knew she shouldn’t wish for anyone too energetic next time, she had been lucky with her host, but they could have been a little less dull — the day started to come to a close. Her parents had planned a final afternoon tea in the garden, a last nod to the peaceful nature of their hosts and to the time they had spent together. Nobody said much: it was enough to be there, to appreciate the final warmth of this planetary summer.

How lucky they had been to even find this particular planet. As things stood, it looked like it would take another hundred summers before humans might be able to replicate the tools her own race had lost. They had no choice but to be patient, and indeed, no soul wanted to replicate the error that had caused the sorry predicament in the first place. Purgatory it may have been, but a comfortable purgatory at that. No choice but to sit it out, allow time to pass, and indeed, drink tea.

When the allotted time came, Emily and her parents left the house for ever and headed to the town square. She’d started to feel a bit of a chill as she’d sat in the garden, so for once she had chosen a specific coat: that red one, with a fleece lining. She hoped her host didn’t feel imposed upon, but she loved, would miss that coat. Carefully as ever, Emily guided the human with her thoughts: a nudge here, a relaxation of control there. What might she expect next she did not know, but she knew she had been fortunate with this one.

The square was already full of people when they arrived. Some were animated, talking about whatever humans talk about, and others were slumped as their souls communicated. A setting sun cast a bluish light, drawing the last colours from the carefully tended borders, causing the occasional filament to glint as it danced from one host to another. Emily allowed her own to move towards a group of familiar faces, turning and waving a last goodbye to her parents as she did.

She couldn’t be absolutely sure when the Gloaming started to happen. Filaments gradually increased in number, weaving and forming into tendrils. At one moment they passed between hosts and at the next they took a new direction, upwards, like they had been caught in the breeze. One after another, as their souls left them, hosts stumbled before regaining their footing, looking at their hands, taken by a renewed sense of control.

As she watched her kind detach from their physical bodies, Emily felt herself being let go, leaving her host behind forever. They’re not alone to feel freedom, Emily thought, as she rose and floated above the masses. For a moment she wondered why they had to incarcerate themselves, whether it was really necessary? She knew the answer, saw the logic, recognised the lack of choice: neither soul nor host could survive alone. Still, it seemed such a desperate shame.

Such a desperate… what? Emily wasn’t quite sure what she was thinking. Wasn’t quite sure… what was thought, anyway? What was she? What was a… she? What was… what? Gently, she felt her thoughts dissipate. She felt, rather than thought, she realised, she acknowledged that she wasn’t Emily, wasn’t a ‘she’, for her kind lacked such notions, wasn’t a thing at all…

The entity she had become rose higher, danced with her kind, dissolving into a sparkling maelstrom of elation. She, it, was the wind, was fire, was pure energy, part of a loose, flowing knit of multicoloured tendrils, weaving and dancing, flashing and glittering above and around her. Some rose still higher, while others were breaking away, returning to the harsh physicality of the earth far beneath. This mattered, the entity knew, but could not fathom why.

Somehow the entity gained focus, perception. Below lay the town square, the collective of hosts; above, a multicoloured aurora of souls. Further away and further still, another glow, then another, stretching into the distance like isolated storms of colour. Gradually, though within the blinking of a human eye, the entity turned its attention to matters beneath, assessing as her kind embodied themselves once more.

The Gloaming: that necessary symbiosis of ethereal and biochemical form. Some rushed into hosts almost immediately; some danced above and around them, before swooping down; others meandered through, almost scrutinising each individual before finally they took their decision. Each time, the result was the same: once-animated hosts would appear to shut down, shoulders sagging before they once again rose tall, acknowledging their fate.

In the moment of taking control the entity saw a repeated pattern, as human faces moved from sudden, delirious freedom to abject desperation: they flinched, as though about to run, even though they knew it would do them no good. We’re here to help you, you can’t live without us, nor us without you, thought the entity, even as it realised the futility of such an argument.

A moment later, paused above the scene, the entity realised its mistake: it had forgotten to choose a host of her own, was missing its chance. Quickly it scanned the remaining hosts, their numbers diminishing. At first, little showed in the way of alignment but wait, there: a presence. Quickly, reflexively, the entity sent out a signal of intent: not a moment too late, it realised. Another signal came shortly after, only to fall away.

The host’s name was Charles. Not the entity’s first choice, perhaps it could be changed… later, it thought, as it took him, as it embraced his mind, his being. He protested for a short while, then accepted the inevitable as ethereal filaments spread across his nervous system, through lymph nodes and along arteries and capillaries, until they had reached the edges of his physical self, become a part of every organ, every appendage. He was healthy: perhaps more so than Emily, but time would tell.

Standing in the square, Charles looked around himself, taking stock of the collected mass of people. For a moment he remembered the joy, the elation, the feeling of utter, complete freedom… one day, he thought, one day, we will know it again. But for now, he could only be patient. Gently, he nudged his host, moved him forward: unlikely that there would be an issue, but he wanted to start on the right foot. Having confirmed all was well, he sighed and went to join the dance.

Always The Fall

Always The Fall

It was my turn next. As soon as the door had closed on the previous candidate, we had all shifted one seat forward, taking care not to make any noise. I hadn’t felt too concerned before: the silent camaraderie of my cohort, sharing this experience as so many before, had been enough to keep any fears at bay. But as the moment approached, I recognised a dull trepidation, felt disconcerted by its presence. You could do without that, I thought.

To distract myself, I worked through the Seven Stages in my mind. To begin, the First Stair: seven steps, upon each of which I should pause and say the Second Heavenly Missive, thus protecting against my past. We all knew the words by heart, of course, having recited them in unison before every meal, for as long as I could remember. “But do not stumble,” the Mentors had said. “Do not fudge, nor allow yourself to become tongue tied. Any mistake could cost you dearly.” We, the latest cohort of acolytes to be called, could only accept what they said, not knowing any different. Besides, I had no intention of fudging anything, whether or not it would make a difference.

On the uppermost step, I knew, would be the first of the Signposts. I did not know what would be written on them, and nor did anyone else: “Each, according to their destiny,” as the Book said. I did know I would have to choose, without pause. We had been warned by the Mentors about how hard this would be: “You will feel you are standing over the void, on a precipice with no bannister to support you. You must decide immediately, or the precipice will crumble, and you will fall.” Again, what choice did I have but accept this, the One True Way, at face value?

“But what if I choose nothing?” another of my cohort had asked. “Then you will fall,” a Mentor had replied. I glanced up: directly opposite sat the person who had asked the question, eyes cast down, hands on knees. I wondered if they were turning that very question over in their minds, even now. I stared at them, but they did not look up.

My thoughts returned to the journey beyond the door. The Second Stair involved another seven steps, another seven repetitions: this time the Twelfth Heavenly Missive, to affirm my present. At the top, a second Signpost. “You will need to keep your strength, and your wits about you. Do not stumble, or you will fall.” Always the fall. We had been taught to breathe according to the Golden Pattern, such that each breath could fit within the rhythm of the mantra, each step upwards allowing for an intake of air so it could repeat. “Stay silent as you reach the Signpost, or you will fall.” Always, always the fall.

I did not know, I realised, how much time had passed since the door had last closed. Across the room, another of my cohort suppressed a cough. I knew them, better than many of the others: I wondered whether I would ever see them again. We… suddenly I jolted myself back to the present. “Beware your own thoughts, for they will overwhelm you,” the Mentors had said, but I had not believed I would show such a loss of control. I fought the rising panic, repeating to myself the last line of the Fourth Heavenly Missive: “I will not waver, though I am weak. I will not waver….”

I looked around. Nothing had changed; all was as it should be; the door remained firmly shut. I reminded myself of the final advice the mentors had given us: “Do not be daunted by the Third Stair.” For, while it would be like all the others – seven steps, carved into the stone – we would sense the full weight of our apprenticeships on our shoulders. On each step we would recite the First Heavenly Missive: that which we could only learn, which was not to be spoken outside of this, holiest of places. “Only thus,” said the Mentors, “can we break from what was and what is, and can we truly understand what will be.”

All such things we had learned across seven times seven Passings, each Passing bringing us closer to this moment. Beyond the final marker, at the top of the Third Stair, would be a future that only now would we be prepared to enter, and only now would be decided. “At the third Signpost, you need to decide who you truly are,” we had been told. “Do not hesitate: if you do, you will fall.” I knew this, truly, in my soul I now embraced and accepted it, all doubts set aside. “For, while the choices are yours, the path is not.”

I will not waver, though I am weak, I told myself, channelling my breath into the Golden Pattern. The chime of a distant bell was followed by the smallest of clicks. The door swung open before me. I stood, feeling the coolness of the air as I stepped into the darkness beyond.