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“She never does,” said the doctor.
“She does too, but don’t tell anyone.”
“I certainly won’t.”
“So what’s the top secret then?”
Dr Steven Malone waved Jack into a fireside chair and seated himself upon another. “For the last two years,” said he, “I have been engaged upon a groundbreaking project. From all over the world I have gathered dried blood samples. From the Shroud of Turin, the Spear of Longinus, the purported crown of thorns in Troyes, nails from the true cross scattered in cathedrals across Europe, even an item claimed to be the holy prepuce. I have cross-matched two and I am certain that they come from the same being.”
“Jesus Christ!” said Jack.
“The very same. It is now my intention, using a reagent of my own formulation, to liquefy this blood and extract the DNA. With this I intend to clone…”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Exactly. And not just the one. I am going to clone at least six.”
“Like in that film,” said Jack. “The Boys from Brazil. Where they cloned Hitler.”
“Exactly. Mine will be The Boys from Bethlehem.”
“But surely,” said Jack, “you are tampering with forces that no man should dare to tamper with.”
“Oh, absolutely, yes. But then – do you mind if I stand up while I do this bit?”
“Not at all.”
Dr Steven Malone stood up, flung his pale arms in the air and began to stalk about the room. “They thought me mad, you see!” he cried out in a ranting sort of a tone. “Mad? I who have discovered the very secrets of Life itself?” He sat down again. “What do you think?”
“Very impressive. But you could also add, ‘One day the whole world will know my name.’”
“Thanks very much. I’ll remember that in future. Now, about your blood.”
“How much do you want?”
“About eight pints.”
Close Your Eyes and Cover Your Ears
“Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”
“Another time, then. I’ll show you out.”
“Thanks very much. Goodbye.”
Eh?
“Well, I’d like to,” said Jack. “But I really should be getting back to work.”
Dr Steven Malone produced a small automatic pistol from a trouser pocket and pointed it at Jack. “Regrettably no,” said he. “I ca
Jack began to worry. “Aw, come on,” he whined. “You don’t want my blood. My blood’s just ordinary stuff. I could telephone my wife, she’s got terrific blood.”
“Is your surname Bryant, by any chance?”
“That’s right. Perhaps you know my wife. Wears a very short dress. Has this lurcher that’s also a Dane, and…”
“Likes to make love with her head in the fridge?”
“She hasn’t mentioned that to me,” said Jack.
“Move,” said Dr Steven. “Along the corridor and down the steps.”
“Oh no-diddly-oh-no-no.”
This had undoubtedly been the most eventful day in Jack’s long and uneventful life. Sadly it would also be the last.
Dr Steven stood in profile, pointing with his pistol to the basement off the page.
6
The dreaming mind of Pooley went on its walkabout, wading through a stream of semi-consciousness.
A cracked mug of darkened foliage by swollen ashtrays on limp carpets of faded heraldry where smells of stale cinemas and locked cars and fridges and magnets and bottom drawers in old boarding houses giving up their dying breaths and period paper ads for te
“Jim Pooley, headmaster’s room at the double.”
“But it wasn’t me. Omally did it, not me, sir.”
But John did not own up.
And Pooley got the cane.
Jim stirred in his altered state. “Move forward, you sod,” he told his brain. “We keep going back to school, and I’m fed up with getting the cane again and again and again.”
There was a bit of a mental lap dissolve and what’s this?
Fast music. Pete Townshend windmills. Marshall speakers. Mod dancing. Blue Triangle Club. Scooters. Parkas. Here’s Jim here. Nice whistle. Burton’s special. Fifteen pounds ten shillings over ten weeks. Slim Jim tie. Nice touch that. He’s waiting for someone. Foolish haircut, Jim. Great loafers though. Ivy Shop, Richmond? Cost a packet, those, lads. Who are you waiting for, Jim, all alone outside with the music coming through the bog window and the bouncer on the door smoking a reefer?
“Sandra,” whispered Jim in his cosmic sleep. “Oh, Sandra.”
Stand and wait and shuffle and look at your watch. Nice watch. Where d’you get that? Bought it off a bloke in a pub. You don’t go into pubs, do you, not at your age? Bloke outside a pub. Outside a club. Just now! The bouncer sold it to me. Where is Sandra? Where is Sandra?
But Sandra is not coming. Sandra has gone off with John Omally, on the back of his Vespa.
Jim mumbled and grumbled. “Bloody John. Forward, brain, forward. Into the future.”
Whir and click and fast forward.
And freeze frame.
And play.
What year is this? Get up, have breakfast. The bookies, then the pub. The pub and then the bench, then home for tea and then the pub again. Then ouch, get up and groan have breakfast, then the bookies, then the pub, the bench, then tea and then the pub. What’s this? The years becoming years, yet all the same? A small job here, a little fiddle there, a laugh, a sadness and another beer. Then sleep it off, then up, then breakfast, then the bookies and the pub, then…
“Forward,” moaned Pooley. “Fast forward, please.”
Fast forward. Freeze frame. And play.
… the bench, then home for tea, then to the pub, then…
“Forward! Forward!”
Bubbling, turning, little spheres of red and white.
“Stop here and play!”
Bouncing, tumbling over, little numbers too.
“This is it,” sighed Jim, “this is it. What week? What week?”
“It’s the National Lottery draw for tonight, the mmmph mmmph mmmph 1997.”