Lee
"Budgie" Barnett is a writer of comedy and of comic books. He first
broke into the business with three stories in Imperium Comics' TRAILER PARK
OF TERROR, before getting his first big break with Marvel in X-MEN UNLIMITED
#4, which hit the shelves in August 2004. Well known in the UK Comics industry
for the annual Hypotheticals panel
he devised and presents with Dave Gibbons at the UK Comics Festival, he's been
described as being to accountancy what Indiana Jones is to archaeology. He currently
writes GOING CHEEP at the Pulse.
Later on, it struck Ian Davies how quickly he’d gotten used to his new… well, he guessed, ‘powers’ was as good a word as any. It first struck him when he was watching the television in the hospital room, prior to discharge. Doctor Jordan had told him that the hospital had waived any charges, about which he was more than happy, since he shuddered to think how much the room would have cost.
Apparently, the hospital administrator, though he hadn’t been told the whole story, was more than happy to authorise the write-off, given Davies’ ‘heroism’. The only fly in the ointment was that Davies had felt honour bound to agree to Jordan’s husband, the reporter, driving him home. He reconsidered it again for a moment, and remembered the old saw of “if it were done, best it were done quickly”. He made up his mind – he’d let himself be interviewed that day.
Davies suddenly realised that he hadn’t thought about work at all, and – a glance at his watch confirmed it – they would certainly be wondering why he wasn’t at work today. After all, it was a shade after noon. He thought of what he could tell them. “Yeah, sorry I’m late, but yesterday I got super-powers, I can move objects with my mind and I can fly; so, I may be a bit late in.”
Hardly.
On the other hand, he didn’t want to lie outright to them. Hmm, maybe it was time to use the training he’d received while working for them and tell the truth, well part of it anyway. “Misleading by omission” it was called in the game. He sometimes thought that the motto of the PR world was “The truth, and anything but the truth.” That wasn’t entirely fair as, of course, the whole point of his job was to tell the truth and nothing but the truth… but for Pete’s sake, not the whole truth. He got out his mobile, and then, stopped. Hey, it was for free, so why not use the room phone? He dropped the mobile phone on the bed and walked to the phone by the other side of the bed. He picked up the receiver and dialled his work number, judging what he was going to tell them.
And that was when it happened. As the final digits were punched in, Davies realised that the television was too loud and with a glance at the television, the volume decreased. That didn’t surprise him, but what did was that he wasn’t sure whether or not he’d ‘instructed’ the television to reduce the volume, or whether he’d subconsciously instructed the remote control to tell the television to reduce the noise. He was sure that the difference was an important one, but he couldn’t for the life of him think why.
He heard the phone ring twice at the other end and then the receptionist’s voice answer: “Good Morning, Monkton and Doncaster, Staci speaking. How may I help you?” To be more precise, he heard her say, “GoodMorningMonktonandDoncasterStacispeakingHowmayIhelpyou?” but he’d heard it so many times at the office, that his brain made the necessary interpretation.
“Hi Staci,” he said, “it’s Ian. Are Mr Patt, Mr Williams or Mr Monkton around?”
This was obviously a tough question for Staci, who, Davies was convinced, had been hired more for her stunning good looks than for any telephonic or reception-like qualities. Though, if the rumours around the office were true, she gave a very good reception to certain senior members of the agency.
A few seconds passed while Staci considered the question before she replied, “Yes.”
Davies sighed and asked if he could speak to one of them.
“Which one, Ian?” asked Staci, and on hearing Davies ask to speak to Monkton, put him through to Patt. This didn’t overly surprise Davies, who, although he knew he was supposed to report to Monkton, had always gotten on better with Patt and, surprisingly, Williams.
There was a brief interlude, and Davies listened to the 234th rendition of Memories by Elaine Paige which was this year’s ‘music to kill yourself by’ on the phone system, before a sharp click heralded the arrival of Patt on the line. “Ian!” came the hearty voice of Patt, “where are you?”
He didn’t sound overly concerned, more curious, which was par for the course. There was no reason, as far as Davies knew, for Patt to be worried, other than that Davies had been told to report in that morning, and hadn’t.
Here goes, thought Davies, and launched into his prepared tale. “Erm, I’m in hospital.” He sat down on the bed, and realised he’d sat on a pillow. He half stood up and casually threw the pillow to the other side of the bed, then sat down again.
“Hospital?!” came the astonished reply.
“Yes,” said Davies, “Sorry I’m not in, but I got caught up in a mugging yesterday night and… ended up in hospital. Nothing serious,” he added. Nothing serious anymore, he concluded silently. “But they wanted to keep me overnight just to be safe. I’m heading out later and if I feel up to it, I’ll be in tomorrow. That’s ok, isn’t it?”
“Of course, chap, of course.” Davies couldn’t know that Patt was sitting there in his office, pale white, feeling as if his gut had turned to water. All he heard was the reassuring tone of Patt asking him whether he’d be sure to check in when he got home and then wishing him well, and in a slightly fake tone that puzzled Davies, telling Davies that he’d have to tell the whole story when he got back to the office.
Davies agreed, and stood up, handing up the phone just as the door opened. Scott Jordan walked into the room. His mind still on the telephone conversation, Davies didn’t hear him. Jordan walked over to Davies and said, in a bluff tone, “Afternoon, Ian, how are…”
He didn’t get any further as Davies spun round – My God, he’s fast! thought Jordan – and grabbed the hand that Jordan had outstretched to offer and handshake. It was only a split second, but Jordan was convinced that if Davies hadn’t recognised him, he’d have thrown Jordan clear through the wall. The look on Davies’ face was one of supreme concentration that, after a moment, relaxed into the face that Jordan had come to like.
“Yeah, I’m fine, Scott, fine. Just not sure what the rest of my life’s going to be like.” He didn’t realise it, but as he said this, and showed a touch of frustration, his grip increased. Only marginally, but it was enough to make Jordan wince.
“Well, that’s up to you, surely,” replied Jordan, slowly extricating his hand, and wiggling his fingers to ensure the circulation was still ok.
“Well, not entirely,” Davies said, with a hard stare at Jordan. Then he relaxed again. “Look, Scott, I’ve come to a decision.”
Jordan thought that sounded more ominous than he liked and like any journalist, believing that a good attack was the best form of defence, jumped in with “Look, Davies, if you’re thinking of not doing that inter…” before he realised that it probably wasn’t necessary as Davies laughed.
“No, you’ve got it all wrong. I’ll do the interview, with two provisos: the first is that my real name isn’t mentioned at all, and the second is that I get to read the piece before it goes out.”
“You want copy approval?” asked Jordan in disbelief.
“Not copy approval, but just to ensure that the first condition isn’t breached. You want to write that I’m an arrogant son of a bitch with no business being a ‘have-a-go-hero’, feel free. You want to use me to condemn vigilante justice, have a party. As long as you don’t use my real name! That’s the deal breaker.”
“No, no, I can live with that.”
“All right then,” Davies said, “let’s go and you can interview me on the way home.”
Jordan stopped him with one question. “Ever stayed at the Ritz?”
Davies looked at him, unsure about the reason for the question, but sure about the answer. “No, why?”
“Because you’re not going home, Ian. You’ve promised me an exclusive, and I don’t want to take a chance that someone else is on the story. As soon as you get home, there’s a chance that someone else, I dunno, someone else who saw what you can do, would find you. So I’m authorised to put you up at the Ritz for a couple of days.” That wasn’t true, but Jordan was sure that once he filed the story, his editor would stump up the cash. A real live super-hero? And he lived in London? And The Guardian had the world exclusive? Jordan would have bet his pension that he wouldn’t have a problem getting the expenses through.
The implication that he was untrustworthy (for he knew that was the real reason) stung Davies and for a moment, he was tempted to tell Jordan to get stuffed. Then he realised that it was true, he never had stayed at The Ritz, and he quite fancied it. He picked up his wallet and watch, and headed for the door, Jordan following, already phrasing the questions he was going to ask.
On the bed, covered by a pillow where he’d left it, his mobile phone lay, where it would shortly ring. And ring… and ring… There were, Doctor Betty Grable, decided, only so many times you could swear at the television without repeating yourself.
After the phone call from Docherty, she’d settled down for the morning, in the confident view that for once, since she had a morning off from work, she’d relax, read the newspaper, and watch some daytime television.
It was when the two simpering presenters on Hi Britain! introduced the next item on the show that she came to the aforementioned conclusion. She didn’t think that she was completely out of line in wondering how terrifying it was that someone was actually paid to put together the running order of the show. How desperate must they have been, she wondered, to book the small girl with the incredibly obvious overbite? “And she whistles,” said one presenter, in equally obvious amazement. A terribly unkind thought about throwing the girl out of an airplane and listening to her teeth catching the wind occurred to Grable and it was then that she gave up and turned the television off.
She switched on the radio and flicked between the only two stations she ever listened to. Hmm. A choice between a round table discussion with Brian Blessed, Germaine Greer and John Major on Radio 4 or a reading of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe on Five Live. There really didn’t seem to be a difference.
She looked at the telephone again, as if looking at it would somehow cause it to ring.
It didn’t.
With a grimace, she made herself a coffee and spread the papers Docherty had left with her over the large dining room table. Included were clippings from the previous night’s Evening Standard reports of the explosion by the National Provident bank, together with print outs from the main newsfeed sites, including BBC and ITV. There didn’t appear to be anything on the US led sites, but that didn’t surprise her. If Docherty was right, then there wouldn’t be.
But then, she thought, there was no reason for anyone to suspect that the event was anything other than what the news media had said it was: a tragic accident.
The disappearing body worried her and she wished that she knew someone that she could call to ask about it. With a start, she realised that she did know someone. The last she’d heard of him, he was head of Paediatrics at the hospital the bodies had been taken to. But she couldn’t call him. Under no circumstances could she call this person. No way.
She shook her head and continued reading.
She stopped again and thought. No, she couldn’t. He wouldn’t be amused to hear from her, to put it extremely mildly, and it was that, as much as anything else, that made her mind up.
She had left the number of the hospital at work and she didn’t have a telephone directory at home, so there was no alternative. Hoping that Docherty wouldn’t choose the next five minutes to call, she turned on her computer and accessed the dial-up application. There was no way she was paying what she considered the extortionate amount that a call to directory enquiries would cost, and while she entered a search engine, she also opened her email.
Fifteen seconds later, she was reading an email from work that completely wiped all thoughts of calling her ex-husband from her mind.
And two minutes after that, she was running for the door, completely forgetting to close down her session on the computer. The engaged tone on the other end of the phone line was consistent, as it had been the last time he’d tried and the time before that. With a mild curse that Grable might consider getting off the bloody phone occasionally, and a muttered apology to Ross, Docherty hung up the phone and turned to him.
“Not a problem,” Ross grinned at Docherty. The latter was surprised at how well they’d got on together once they’d returned to his office. The last time they’d seen each other was when their two departments had held a training day together and both of them had been their respective departments’ unarmed combat representatives. It was with a shock that they’d both realised that the other was their equal if not better. The natural competitiveness that accompanied such inter-departmental days had grown during the day to almost unhealthy levels by the time they’d met on the floor of the gym for the final bout. Both men had known that, strictly against the rules, but not unexpectedly, a book was running on the eventual outcome and this, combined with the revelation that they supported rival football teams, had made the fight more dangerous than either liked to remember.
At the end, Docherty had won, but he had suffered a broken nose and two snapped ribs in doing so. And a week later, Ross had still looked like a panda bear from his two black eyes, and he’d limped for two weeks after that.
And yet, here they were, in Docherty’s office, working together.
“So how did you get involved in Winter Snow, Brendan?” he asked Ross.
Ross leaned forward. “Completely by accident,” he said. He saw the look of disbelief on Docherty’s face. “Seriously,” he said, “I was doing a favour for an old mate, ex-job.” At that, the look faded from Docherty’s face. He was more than aware of the ties from old colleagues.
“I got a call from him, asking if someone from Science Section could drop by to take a look at something very weird that had happened at his office. I made a couple of phone calls and was basically told that everyone was busy, so I thought I’d take a look and get some shots. I took Powers along. You know him?”
Docherty didn’t, but didn’t really want the full resume of Powers from Ross, so just said “No, and…?”
Ross took the hint and related what had happened when he got to Doncaster and Monkton. He gave the address but it didn’t mean anything to Docherty. Ross continued. “When I got back, I got Powers to download the pictures to my work terminal and then did a brief report on it and filed it with Central Filing, copies to my Control and Science Section, with a request to the Watch section to stick the bloke on surveillance. Then I got on with my work.”
He leaned back again, stretching out. “After all, Jez, I do have half a dozen real cases I’m working on, including a couple of Russian agents I’m trying to, erm, ‘persuade’ to defect.”
“Blackmail, you mean?” asked Docherty, and he received a pained look in response, as if to ask there’s a difference? “So you filed your report, went back to your work and…?” Docherty asked, knowing there was more to come.
Ross stretched out again, his hands joining above his head. Then he sat up. “And that’s when the brown smelly stuff hit the round whirly thing. Boy, did it ever! Twenty minutes after filing, I got a call from Control asking me, no, instructing me, to drop whatever I’m working on and report to his office. PDQ was how it was phrased.”
“Yeah,” said Docherty, “Control always did like that phrase.”
“Anyway, I go over to see him, he asks me a few questions about my meeting, then gives me a brief – and brief’s the word, trust me! – on Winter Snow and then he tells me to get over to see you, smartish.” Ross stopped, as if for breath and then slowly said, “And one more thing: before I leave his presence, he makes me sign a PX473.”
“OK,” said Docherty, putting the pieces together in his mind, “did he tell you why he wanted you to come and see me?”
“Yeah – he thinks I know who your eye witness was.”
That got Docherty’s attention in a hurry. He wasn’t even polite as he sat forward, grabbed his keyboard and snapped out “name?”
Ross opened his notebook and read out “Ian Terrence Davies,” and gave his address.
As he was still speaking, Docherty was punching in Davies’ details. He couldn’t make the connection, but did as Ross added “and in case you were wondering, the route that he takes from home to work every day takes him straight past the National Provident bank…”
Among the information that was thrown up on the computer screen were Davies’ mobile, work and home numbers. Reasoning that the mobile number was favourite, Davies moved the mouse icon over the mobile phone icon showing Davies’ number and clicked on it. Immediately his desk phone switched to hand free mode and rang the number. Ross and Docherty could hear the phone ring… and ring… and ring.
This week's artist: Arthur Goodman Arthur Goodman lives in Liverpool/denial, and draws comic strips every now and again. He can be found at FavouriteCrayon.Co.Uk, as well as SquareEyedStories.Co.Uk.
