The Second Adventure: A Cat Called Britain (A Caper in Time Part 1)
by Evan Forman and Michael Robertson - 22.12.14
Every
time Aerin closed his eyes, he saw his future self dying
face-down in a muddy puddle. Aerin closed his eyes in front of
the bathroom mirror fairly often, so he could get a good look at
his future self and copy his immaculate hair. He'd put on a
disguise in which to better blend in with the new world: dark
jeans, a white shirt, and a black suit jacket.
The smog had cleared at about noon, and the sun had shone freely
all day since. Aerin and Krieda had eaten lunch together and
he'd asked about her paintings to her only-slightly-repressed
delight. In the afternoon, they babysat for a friend of hers.
The girl's name was Saethan, who was four years old and had
arrived with an arsenal of colouring books and crayons. The
six-year-old boy's name was Lucé and had evangelised to Aerin
about the narrative complexities of the entire Darian Danger
franchise; how he rescued Orgon from a tedious existence in a
mining colony on the planet Xeros 5 and how they managed to
defeat Radioactigor (he'd seen that episode twice, they use his
own radioactive energy to power a time trip to when Ubo-Chazil
was still a thriving paradise and before he'd corrupted them in
his Psychic Snare. They're able to destroy him by filling the
hill on which he'd eventually build his dark temple with
explosives and detonating them back in the future - a process
set to trigger by the lifting of a very specific cup from a very
specific altar). That, and what Aerin guessed was every single
thing the child knew about "thpace rockets".
As the boy searched for the page with the landing module
illustration in his book, Aerin looked over the spots of daisies
and the gauntlet of action figures to the blanket in the middle
of the huge garden where Krieda was showing the little girl how
to draw flowers, judging by the intense concentration on her
face. A second later, the girl's arms were in the air as she
threw her pencil to conquered paper and Krieda smiled at her
before glancing over at Aerin.
"You looked so beautiful, over on that island of red and white
cloth," he would scribble into a journal in the dead of night,
years from now. "And I wondered why we didn't have children. I
always felt I couldn't ever do it because I was too broken and
strange and useless; that I'd smother their childhood dead by
trying to compensate for all the little sadnesses and
humiliations of mine, that I'd scare them into trying to be like
everybody else and they'd never escape this shadow of doubt and
anxiety that I'd cast over their lives. But then I saw you
smiling at that girl, who you'd just taught to draw a new thing,
and you looked up at me as I sat with the little boy who wanted
to touch the stars, and I thought for just that one, precious
moment, frozen forever in my mind, that maybe everything was
going to be okay. Maybe that's what 'love' meant, at least at
the time: the opposite of scared. And I wasn't scared at all.
That night we had your friends' bloody stupid party full of
bloody stupid people, but it felt nice to want to look nice for
once. I hadn't done that for years. I thought you looked like
some kind of mythical Collisterran queen with your short-ish,
sharp (that is not the right word, but it's the only word I can
think of) black hair and eyeliner or mascara or whatever it's
called. I told you that and you stopped because you felt like
you looked ridiculous. I didn't know you - I thought I didn't
know you - so I ended up overcompensating and trying too hard to
make you feel better that you got even more pissed off at me.
The fight ended with a taxi cab beeping from outside and we sat
in the back the whole time in silence. I watched your reflection
in my window and the passing lights of the city painting you red
and orange and blue. We got to their apartment and hadn't even
apologised before we were smiling for your friends and their
cameras. I laughed at jokes I didn't understand with old friends
I'd never met. Sometimes you and I would float back together and
find a group of people congregated around a photographer (It
might have been his party) who was showing off his portfolio. He
said it was about 'the ghosts of the Coal District' or something
and everyone stroked their shit beards and mused about the quiet
nobility of a single mother-to-be suckling juice out of bin bags
to survive. I was so paranoid when I wasn't with you, I was in
disguise as a person who looked exactly like me and I was
terrified that through some slip of the tongue I'd be exposed as
an imposter and a fraud for all to see. But not around you, I
still fail to fathom how anyone could even notice anything else
in the room when they were around you.
Inevitably, I found myself a rudderless ship for whom the snack
table was the only harbour. There was a hole in my soul that
only charmingly tiny foodstuffs could ever hope to fill. You
appeared from behind me, and we stood quiet and alone and far
away from the gathering.
"Hey. How are you..." social obligation lurched in my stomach
"...hon?"
You looked at me and I hated myself.
"Yeah, no, sorry. I just said that because that's what...kissy
people say. I think. Right?"
You smiled.
I tapped my fingers on the table out of impatient nervousness.
"Your friends seem nice."
You gulped down a drink while staring out at the congregation.
"I hate these pricks."
The weight of the world lifted off my chest. "Oh, thank god, me
too!"
"They're all so pretentious and smiley and
faux-fucking-intellectual. You comment on the weather to fill
the silence and some cunt starts mouthing off about Relational
Fucking Aesthetics. Like, why? What the fuck are they trying to
accomplish? Did they get called stupid as a child? Is this how
they make up for it? Are they secretly just boring and empty on
the inside? What drives a person to bullshit THAT loudly with
THAT level of sheer dedication?" You sighed and rested your head
against my arm. "Can we go home and be miserable at each other
soon?"
My bottled excitement faded, and the glimmer of your golden
world started to dull. "Why would we be miserable?"
"Everyone is. All the time." You declared. "Why else would they
do half the shit we do? They wouldn't do anything. There'd be no
reason to do anything anymore because everyone would be
perfectly happy on their own and with no other contact with
people necessary. Like, there's the capitalist thing as well:
'if only you had THIS kind of car or THIS size of house or drank
THIS brand of bullshit or fucked THIS type of woman - or man,
but usually woman - then maybe, MAYBE we could finally shut up
that little voice in your head that tells you maybe it's all
just not worth the constant struggle. So drive your nice new
car, dress like you have a clue what the point is and shit out
some kids who'll hopefully fucking bother to remember you once
your whole body sputters out from under you and you just give up
and die.'"
We were silent for a few seconds.
I didn't want to disturb the nuclear-fallout stillness you'd
just caused in our little corner of the room with silly words.
Not yet.
Maybe I was learning to appreciate moments before they were
gone.
"Do you always get this ragingly existential when you're
pissed?"
"I think you're entitled to a refund if I don't."
"I bloody love you."
"Why?"
"...why wouldn't I?"
"Because I have all the pleasantry and charm of a used condom
full of angry spiders."
"Then why should I love you?"
You smiled at me. "Because I'm the only person who'll put up
with your bullshit."
"And why would you that?"
"Because you're the only person I've found who fits."
I didn't know how to feel about that. The weightless buzzing in
my chest and stomach felt exactly the same way about you, and it
made me think that not everything in the world needed to be
catalogued by a name and that maybe I'd rather the nameless
things remain wild and strange. But socks 'fit', and then you
throw them away once the holes get too big to ignore.
I couldn't go without the specifics, I needed you to tell me who
I was. "But...what is it exactly, that makes you think I'm not
completely unbearable to be around?"
"Well, you're..." you fiddled with your empty glass "...nice?"
It was here exactly that the magic died.
"But not like, 'mediocre' nice. You're patient with me, and
sweet and kind and caring. But there's also intellect and
ambition beneath all that, something burning and hungry and
refusing to stop. Maybe it's the creative part. I get why you
ask about it though, i'm not just saying shit to make you feel
better. Most people, when asked about their
genetically-matched-pair-bondee just dribble shit like 'they're
amazing' or 'perfect' or 'the most beautiful girl in the world'.
But that's just chemicals talking and I try to be as honest as I
can. Like, take you for instance: you're also grouchy and
pretentious and inconsiderate and mercilessly self-absorbed
sometimes generally just kind of an asshole. But you're MY
asshole."
Silence.
"That didn't come out right did it?"
My cheeks were starting to ache. "No, sweetie pie, it did not."
I didn't see the person that called you over. "Oh, fuck, she's
found me."
"Who?"
"Bloody Buaraid. I'll try and escape as soon as I can. Oh,
someone said Dhubagèl Shaen was looking for you."
"Who?"
You put you hands on my cheeks and stared into me with your
vibrant yellow eyes, which made my chest feel strange even if
you were joking. "Godspeed, my love." You kissed me and for a
few seconds we'd become some two-headed, four-armed monstrosity,
and then you laughed and walked away into the crowd of people.
It's one in the morning as I write this, I'm tired now. Maybe
I'll get to the last part tomorrow."
Aerin was alone again. He didn't quite know what to do with
himself.
A hand landed on his shoulder like a skeletal spider. "Hi."
"Fuck!" Aerin jumped and spun around, scared out of his
contemplation by a slender creature dressed dressed in a shamble
of ill-fitting tweed and watching him through huge black-framed
glasses, who quickly retracted his arm like some praying mantis.
"Sorry, you just...startled me."
The stranger smiled, his pale thin lips parting just enough for
a yellow and brown gang of misfit teeth to peek out at Aerin. "Dhubagèl
Shaen," he uttered, his arm unfolding for a handshake which
Aerin awkwardly obliged. Shaen's fingers wrapped around his
hand. "...I run..." (The "n" unfolded out into a purr as his
magnified eyes swooned up and around in thought inside their
wrinkled sockets) "...things...around here. Culturally speaking,
that is, but you probably knew that already." His grip released,
and Aerin's hand retreated to his pocket.
"Yes. Of course." He forced a smile.
Dhubagèl scanned the room. "Where is Krieda anyway?"
"Oh, she's off around..." Aerin pointed in the general direction
of the entire room behind him "...there, somewhere."
Dhubagèl's fingers hammered a rhythm on his glass, his eyes
darting from side to side before his spindly figure reclined
against the wall right next to Aerin. "Very outspoken little one
isn't she? She's not quite an armed insurgent, but certain
comments can get people places on certain lists..."
Something churned in Aerin's stomach. His chest felt hollow.
"What are you saying?"
"What I’m saying is, Aerin Seane Kurtach Liette, friends of
friends in high places are useful things to have."
Aerin's breathing stopped for a second. "We've only just met.
How do you know my full name?"
Dhubagèl cast his vaguely sleazy charm aside. His
nicotine-stained fingers curled around the glass and his smiled
shifted down a gear into a threat.
"Like I said: useful."
Aerin glanced around the room for Krieda, his nose whistling as
his breathing quickened. "Look," he swallowed "If it's money you
want, I ha-"
"Money is for children. You give it to them when they exhibit
good behaviour. They use it to buy sweeties, and foster charming
addictions to sugar." His face had become wrinkled stone with
beady eyes that stared forever, silent and unmoving. "I have
something better, infinitely more compelling."
Aerin's hands quivered in his pockets.
"Go on Aerin, ask me what I have." He smiled.
"Wh-what do you have?"
The corners of Shaen's mouth lifted. "Strings, Aerin. Long
strings with necks that jolt into service when I tug at them,
throats connected to influential mouths. Here: do you hate
anyone in this room?"
"No." He stumbled.
"I could have them killed, or imprisoned. I could wring them out
and bend them into strings too, play them like fiddles for the
rest of their lives. Wrap them up in bows? Whittle them down
into toys? For you? Because you are a string too, Aerin Liette,
how about I pull you up a few rungs? Anyone. Go on, pick one,
just...point. Whisper their fate to me." Dhubagèl smiled and
scanned the crowd "eenie...meanie...Krieda..."
"Stop!"
Shaen's head spun around to face Aerin and he hissed: "No. Not
unless you do absolutely everything I tell you."
Aerin's thumbs and fingers curled in his sweat-soaked palms.
"What do you want?"
He smiled. "Follow me."
"But-"
"No ifs, ands, or buts. You are a string made to be pulled. You
will follow me. Now. There's a car waiting for you. Make your
excuses, it's time to go."
He peeled off the wall and scuttled away out of the room. Aerin
swallowed liquid terror; his eyes darted around the room. The
crop of black hair, just visible between two shoulders: Krieda.
Aerin slammed the miscellaneous bottle on the table and strode
over to her, barely apologising as he parted the seas of
patterned shirts and dresses. She was visibly languishing in
numbing conversation when he reached her. "Krieda."
"Oh, hey-"
He took her arm and began to pull her aside, but she saw the
sweat and his wide eyes and without noticing, she was the one
pulling him away from onlookers. They reached the safety of the
edge of the room. He ran his fingers through his hair. "Listen-"
"What is it? Do you need to go?"
"Well, yes actua-"
"Are you okay?"
"Yes, fine, look, Dhubagèl Shaen, you know him right?"
"Yes..."
"What's he like?"
"He's...nice enough? Creepy old man, but basically harmless."
"Right, well I’m going away with him. For a while. Possibly a
long while."
"Why?"
"Um. Party. Yes. At his. Lots of people. Fun. Good times had by
all."
Krieda raised an eyebrow as Aerin barely succeeded to keep calm.
"Okay, then. Have fun, I guess?" She laughed a little and he'd
have kissed her quickly if she hadn't held him for longer. "Love
you."
"Why?"
"Dick." She let him go. "Speaking of, do wear a condom."
He turned back around. "What?"
"Nothing sweetie," she grinned. He smiled awkwardly, not
understanding at all, and walked away.
The music stopped dead when Aerin shut the door. He hurried down
the stairs with quiet terror, replaying the still-warm memories
of Krieda in his head in an attempt to stay collected. The only
other person he saw was hauling a cardboard box into another
apartment. Someone inside shouted "Sornach, where are you?
Fight's about to start!" He got to the ground floor and outside
the glass door of the apartment building he could see the three
orange dots of Dhubagèl's cigarette reflecting in his glasses.
He'd been leaning on the side of a long black car but pushed off
and sauntered over to hold the back door open.
His heart thumped in his chest. Aerin took one last preparatory
breath, and stepped out into the dark.