The Horrible Mr Meekly’s destination stood before him in darkness, the big stupid white house that ran the length of a street and looked like it was trying to eat its neighbours. He hated the house. He would smash the house.
Now he strode towards it, footsteps thooming, breathing in deep grunts that grew more delirious with each step taken.
Soon he would reach the pretty girl who lived within.
And he would smash anyone who tried to stop him taking her.
‘Dead?’ demanded Danny. ‘What do you mean, “Miss Rama’s dead”?’
‘Dead,’ said Doors.
‘She couldn’t just be pretending?’
‘Why would she pretend to be dead?’
‘She’s never been honest before.’
‘I can assure you she’s quite lifeless. I could throw something at her – perhaps a lamp or chair – to see if she moves, but it would serve no purpose. I’m afraid you’ve proper done for her.’
‘Me?’
‘It was your refusal to eat her pies that led to her downfall.’
Face-down beneath his trolley, Danny Yates felt sick. This was the second time in four weeks he’d been told he’d killed Teena Rama, only, this time it was no joke played by a malicious flatmate. Guilt, self-loathing, fear, remorse, anger and panic queued up in tilted gangster hats, taking turns to kick him in the guts; ‘Think you can mess with us?’ Kick. ‘Think you can get away from us?’ Kick. ‘You don’t know shit.’ Kick. ‘Wherever you go, wherever you try to hide, we’ll find you.’ Kick. ‘We’re with you for the rest of your days.’
‘Can’t you do anything for her?’ he pleaded with Doors. ‘You’re supposed to be a red-hot supercomputer.’
‘In fact I’m meant to be a simple mechanism for opening and closing doors. Miss Rama was insistent on that, resorting to screwdriver practices whenever I overstepped my duties. She’d even scold me sometimes for performing my designated function. Do you want to know the truth, Mr Daniel? I’m glad she’s dead. Perhaps a break from life may do her some good, teaching her humility and greater tolerance of others’ limitations.’
‘You do understand the concept of death. Doors?’
‘My mistress ensured I was fully cognizant with the term.’
‘But not its consequences?’
‘What consequences?’
‘Doors, your mistress won’t be coming back.’
‘Does that mean she won’t be needing her sandwiches packed tonight?’
‘She won’t be needing them packed ever.’
‘Never?’
‘Never.’
‘Oh.’ Then after a pause, in a small voice, ‘I see.’
Another pause followed.
Then Doors said, ‘I’ll pack them anyway. I wouldn’t want her returning, and having to go hungry because of my negligence. She really does have rather an appetite, for such a narrow-waisted thing.’
Danny stared at what he could see of the wall, picking ideas up, discarding ideas, trying to project and mentally nail them to it, as though trapping them would somehow make them good ideas.
How long did she have? In hospital dramas it was always four minutes before revival was impossible. Frustrated, he banged his head against the back of his trolley. Why did crazy people like Teena get all the ideas, and never sensible people like him?
He stared harder and harder at the wall, imagining what she’d have done if it had been him who’d died. She’d have knocked together some outrageous device in two minutes flat, spent one minute writing a paper on it and then forty-five seconds smiling, pleased with herself. Then, at the last possible moment, she’d have thrown a lever and had him running around better than ever.
Of course.
That was it.
‘Inventions!’ he declared.
‘Inventions?’ asked Doors.
‘Teena had an invention for every occasion. She must’ve had one that’d do the trick. Where did she store them all?’
‘I’m afraid Miss Rama never tackled the task of resurrecting the dead, saying such practices were in poor taste, what with high unemployment and the housing crisis. And she regarded death as a self-indulgence by the lazy. Frankly, I believe she felt it would never happen to her, which may explain her failure to programme me with all relevant information.’
‘But…’
‘Besides, Miss Rama simply discarded inventions like old socks. Like the hunter – though she disapproved of blood sports – it was the thrill of the chase which intrigued her. Once an idea was stuffed and mounted to her satisfaction, she lost all interest in it.’
Bitter tears welled in Danny’s eyes. He hated the straps. He hated himself. He hated Teena for dying and landing him in this mess. And he hated himself for hating Teena. Finally, he resigned himself to lying there till someone found him and placed him on trial for her murder. He’d be acquitted. No court would convict him. But he’d already found himself guilty.
Creak.
?
Step step step.
Something had walked into his brain; a concept that wouldn’t leave but wouldn’t reveal itself. It moved through his mind’s corridors with a steady tread, in no hurry but knowing precisely where it was headed. It was after something, something that was nothing, just a piece of grit lodged in his head’s deepest vaults.
But all the while, the grit was becoming something better.
And when, after trying endless locked doors, the walking thing found the room where the grit thing was, and opened the door, the grit thing sat before the walking thing, in its own open oyster – dazzling in its pearly, rounded beauty – an idea as perfect as anyone had ever had.
‘Doors?’
‘Yes, Mr Daniel?’
‘The Xeta Gun? But surely this isn’t the time for half-cocked experiments?’
‘Just do it. And reverse its settings.’
‘Why, Mr Daniel.’ Doors seemed much cheered. ‘You sound just like Miss Rama.’
‘So, do what I say.’
Click.
Clunk.
‘The gun’s activated, Mr Daniel. Is there somewhere you’d like me to point its unbelievably dangerous nozzle?’
‘Point it at Teena.’
‘At Miss Rama? But how would that …’
‘You want her back, don’t you?’
‘I suppose so, regardless of her faults.’
‘Then do it.’
If Danny could use the gun to send Teena into the comic book world, like she’d brought the Human Tube Line into this one, then she’d live again because everyone knew that characters never stayed dead in comic books. The moment sales demanded it, they were revived by some improbable means; Superman could barely stay dead for more than five minutes. Then, once Teena was revived, Doors could use the gun to return her to this world. It was a stroke of lunatic genius worthy of the girl herself.
The trolley was blocking Danny’s view of the opposite wall’s clock. ‘Doors? How long has she been dead?’
‘Three minutes and twenty-three seconds. She really is taking her time over coming back isn’t she?’
‘How long will it take to power up the gun?’
‘Twenty-one seconds, commencing now.’
Just ten seconds to spare, assuming the four minute cutoff point was exact, not just a rough figure or a thing made up to add tension to TV shows. Maybe the safe time was less than four minutes. Maybe there was no safe time.
He closed his eyes and prayed. His prayers had never been answered before. He was owed a bucketful.
A quiet hum vibrated through the floor and up into him – the Xeta Gun powering up behind him. For all he knew, the resultant blast might blow him into a million pieces. But that didn’t matter, as long as she was saved.
Above the hum he could hear the clock. Tick tick tick. Twenty seconds to go. Tick tick tick. Seventeen seconds. Tick tick tick. Fourteen seconds. Thirteen seconds. Twelve seconds. Eleven. Ten. Nine. Eight seconds. Seven seconds. Si …
With a crash the lift door flew off. In slow motion it hit the floor, narrowly missing Danny.
And when the dust cleared, he gazed, wide-eyed, in horror.
Completely filling that lift stood the Horrible Mr Meekly.
And with a mad roar, it headed straight for him.