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.
Scott Jordan yawned, apologised and stood up, in that order.
It wasn’t that he was bored, far from it. The day had been one of the most extraordinary he’d ever known, and, although he didn’t know it, it was far from over. Neither was it that Davies was a difficult interviewee. Far from it, in a rather touching show of naiveté, he’d been open and honest with Jordan. And, Jordan reckoned, if he’d been working for a tabloid, he’d have had enough material for a week’s worth of feature material.
They’d covered the basics in the first couple of hours and Jordan was waiting for various calls back to confirm bits of the story, including a call from The Guardian’s crime correspondent, who was phoning through full details of the explosion near the National Provident bank. An interesting bit had come from a the science correspondent who’d said that he’d heard a whisper that there was a link between the explosion, a medical research company called Dance-Oliver and the bank job, something about a missing container of chemicals. It didn’t take a genius to put two and two together and make four, especially when Davies was more than happy to demonstrate the apparent effects of these chemicals.
Without realising it, his asking for demonstration after demonstration of Davies’ new abilities had provided useful training for Davies, although as Jordan had pointed out after the second hour, there seemed to be a direct link between Davies’ lack of effort in applying those abilities and the effectiveness of them.
At the moment, Davies appeared to be laying on a large sofa, his head leaning against one arm of the couch as he held a hand in front of him, “appeared” being the operative word. The television was on in the background, switched to a news channel, but was silent. It was a perfectly normal scene, Jordan thought, apart from the small fact that if you looked at him from side on, you realised that Davies wasn’t actually laying on the sofa, but laying on a layer of air, about an inch above the sofa. And, about six inches above his palm, were three marbles floating in perfect peace.
Jordan made a scribble in the notepad and then said “OK, next.” He had a theory that he wanted to test out, something that had occurred to him when two things had come together in his brain: primarily what Davies had said about the first time he had tried to get the mouse to come to him, but also, when it became apparent that Davies hadn’t realised that he was floating above the sofa.
Jordan had just asked “comfortable?” and Davies had replied, “yes, this couch is great – I can see why the Ritz has its reputation.”
Davies turned his head at Jordan’s “OK, next.”
“Yes?” he queried. He didn’t feel tired at all; if anything he felt slightly euphoric. The more he used his abilities, the better he felt.
Jordan decided to nail him flat out. “Ian, you do realise that you’re floating on air, don’t you? That you’re not actually touching the surface of the sofa?”
Immediately, two things happened: Davies’ body dropped the inch or so to the sofa and there was the sound of surprise from Davies… as he dropped onto the aforementioned sofa. Interestingly, Jordan realised, the marbles had stayed where they were, hovering above Davies’ palm. “Ian,” said Jordan, “you know those marbles – why not try to get them moving in circles above your palm? Now,” he cautioned, “actually try to picture them individually. Don’t just picture them moving, try to move them with your mind.”
Davies shot him a sceptical look and his face took on a look of concentration. The effect on the marbles was dramatic and instant. They dropped to the ground. Davies’s eyes went wide and then he consciously relaxed and, his fingers still together, beckoned to them. They dutifully calmly and smoothly rose from the ground and commenced orbits around his hand. Davies looked at Jordan but before he could say anything, Jordan jumped in. He’d already persuaded Davies to sign over permission for his medical examination at the hospital to be passed to Jordan for publication.
“You’re thinking too much about it, Ian. It looks like your new abilities are as natural a part of your system. As you said earlier, you don’t think about walking, you just walk. If you think too much about it, it wouldn’t work.”
Davies’ previous sceptical look returned.
Jordan developed his theme. “Look, first you move one foot forward, then you put your weight on it, then you shift your body over the foot and push it past it, and then just before your centre of gravity topples you over, you shift the other foot forward and begin the whole process again. I’d say it’s the same thing here. If you think too much about it, the theory gets in the way of the practical application.”
He’d stood during this and demonstrated. Unfortunately, the effect was neatly and utterly destroyed by a rumble from his stomach. “Oops”, he said, and was grateful to see a grin appearing on Davies’ face.
“Come on,” said Davies. “You’re paying for the room, I’ll treat you to dinner.”
“What, here?” asked Jordan, thinking of fillet mignon.
“Don’t be daft,” said Davies, who had a pizza and a coke more in mind, “let me shower and get changed.” Despite Jordan’s concerns, they’d stopped off at his home to pick up a couple of days’ worth of clothes and twenty minutes later, he was showered, shaved and dressed all in black (what he called, to Jordan’s amusement, “the Gaiman look”) in a t-shirt, slacks and black lightweight jacket.
Jordan looked at him, and dressed like that, there was definitely something different about Davies. He couldn’t place it then, but when it struck him later, it hit hard. To cover his surprise, he joked to Davies that the only black objects he had on him were the black handkerchief in his jacket pocket and his black socks. Wisely, he only showed Davies the former, before tucking it back in.
They moved towards the door, and Jordan noticed with unspoken disquiet how the lights, and then the television, were switched off, both without being touched by Davies. The feeling intensified as they left the room and the door shut behind them as if pushed by an invisible hand. The fading light from the windows in her office had finally reached the level where Doctor Betty Grable had to turn on the main lights. It bothered her to have to have moved away from her desk since the results from the experiments she was reading about had been so fascinating that she’d been sitting there unmoving for some hours.
She found, however, that she’d stiffened up and when she turned the lights on there was a distinct crick in her neck. She was rapidly becoming convinced of the truth of the old Chinese proverb about the dangers of living in ‘interesting times’. There was, she knew, no earthly reason why she’d come to the conclusion she’d slowly come to, but there was no getting away from it: come to it she had.
Despite the firm rules against such things, she’d gotten her secretary to go out earlier and buy a large bottle of vodka and one of tonic. She’d poured herself a generous measure of both and now sat back in her chair, nursing the drink, eyes closed.
“Now there’s a sight for sore eyes,” came a male voice from a few feet in front of her.
Her eyes snapped open to see Jez Docherty standing there. “Any chance of one for me?” he asked.
“Help yourself,” she said, gesturing towards the filing cabinet in the corner. “Bottom drawer. Careful, it catches on the way out. There are some glasses in there as well.”
Docherty opened the cabinet and found the indicated items. He poured a drink, then replaced the bottles in the drawer. He stepped over to her and sat in the chair placed in front of the desk.
“You look like hell,” he said, sympathetically.
“Gee, thanks,” she replied, taking the sympathy in her stride, considering it, and then writing it off.
“Doctor Grable…” he started.
She interrupted him. “Oh, for Pete’s sake, it’s Betty, ok?” She realised that she’d spoken more harshly than she’d intended to, but she didn’t realise it until she looked at his face, which had taken on that same look from the previous evening, where she could actually see his eyes seeming to harden. “Sorry,” she added, “that came out a lot harder than I meant it to.”
There it was, she thought, as she watched his face relax imperceptibly.
“I’ve been trying you at home all day,” he said.
“I haven’t been there,” she said, which intrigued him.
“I’ve been trying your phone line all day and it’s been engaged,” Docherty continued, as if just by saying it, he was expecting Grable to suddenly turn around and say “Oh, that home!”
There was a brief moment as she closed her eyes in pain. “Damn – I was on the internet earlier and forgot to log off; my phone bill will be horrendous!” She opened her eyes when she heard a brief beeping sound and saw that Docherty was making a note on what she assumed was a small digital personal organiser. “What are you doing?” she asked.
“Don’t worry about the phone bill,” Docherty said without looking up, “I’ll take care of it.”
“Thanks,” she said gratefully, touched by the thought. “Anything new you can tell me about this thing? Because if not, I’ve got some news for you.”
“You first,” Docherty said, interested in anything she had to say.
“We’ve got to find him,” said Grable, the tiredness showing in her words.
“We’ve found him,” Docherty replied, and was about to tell her all about Ian Davies.
“Excellent!” Grable cried. “That’s fantastic – ok, now you need to utterly destroy him. I mean it, Docherty – you’ve got to find some way of breaking down the tissues to nothingness. I’ve got some ideas on that, but I’m not kidding. You need to completely and totally eradicate it.”
Docherty thought that was a tad over excessive as a first option. Now, it might be necessary if the idea of Typhoid Davies was a real concern, but surely there were other options to investigate first. And he said as much.
“Davies? Who the hell is Davies?” asked Grable, completely confused.
“Davies is the eye-witness,” said Docherty, equally perplexed. “Who are you talking about?”
“Withers,” she replied, shocking Docherty into silence for a moment, but only for a moment.
“Withers?” he asked. “Withers? What’s so bad about Withers? He’s dead. Ok, he’s missing, but he’s most assuredly dead.”
“I don’t think he is dead is the thing. No, wait, let me rephrase that. He might very well be dead. I just don’t think that he knows that,” Grable suggested, pulling some papers towards her. She scanned some of the pages, discarded a few and then pounced on one sheet. She studied it for a moment and then passed it to Docherty who looked at it carefully.
He read the paper with speed, and then read it again, more slowly. “Ah…” he said at one point, and then carried on reading. “Umm…” he vouchsafed when he was about half way through, and then when he’d finished, he raised his head. A wary and worried look on his face, one hand holding the paper lightly on his leg, and nodding slowly, he offered, “Yes, I see…”
Grable looked at him and said, in complete confidence, “You don’t have a clue what you’ve just read, do you?”
Docherty stared her in the eye, as if daring her to repeat a base lie and then admitted, “Nope.”
Grable sighed and took the paper back, attaching it in the file. “All right, we’ve computer modelled the situation that occurred and in my opinion, leaving aside Davies for the moment…”
“Isn’t that a bit like ignoring the elephant in the room?” Docherty asked
“Shut up a moment, ok?” Grable said and Docherty wisely followed the suggestion. “As I was saying, we computer modelled the event and based upon that and the empirical data…”
Docherty thought that the moment for silence had passed and jumped in again, not caring at the raised eyebrows from Grable. His voice was deep, slow and dangerous as he asked “What empirical data? I thought that the entire sample had been destroyed.”
“It had been,” Grable said, “but how do you think we knew the material was mutagenic? We tested it on rats, remember? Well the last batch died, but hadn’t yet been disposed of. The reason I was back in here today was because I got a call from the lab telling me that three of the rats had commenced moving.” She rubbed the bridge of her nose and told him to come around to her side of the desk. As soon as he was there, she clicked on her computer and began playing a video sequence. “The cage you can see is made from steel, with bars one-half inch thick. The three rats were in there purely by chance. We’re lucky they were.”
“What do you mean?” he asked and then fell quiet as he watched the screen. He only said three more words before sitting back down again in shock. “Oh”, “My”, and “God.” Luck didn’t come into it, Jordan later thought. It was too perfectly timed to be luck. It could only be fate.
Whatever it was, what cannot be denied was that it was an incredibly complex set of circumstances that placed him and Davies at the scene of what could only be described as a tailor made inaugural event for London’s first super-hero.
Suffice it to say that when the two groups of men who were exchanging large wads of cash for equally large wads of drugs met, they hadn’t intended the meeting to end the way it did. A minor disagreement about the quality of the drugs quickly led to a full blown row about one gang trying to con the other. And from there it was just a matter of moments before three of them had been killed and the rest of them were either in the car that was racing along the streets of London trying to escape from another car, or were in the car that was doing the chasing.
The drivers of both cars decided, on balance, that they’d place their own interpretations upon the traffic by-laws and shot through the red lights with increasing abandon.
Davies and Jordan were approaching the pizza restaurant when they heard the squeal of tires getting louder. A couple crossing the street with their children at a pedestrian crossing turned in horror and froze as the cars bore down on them.
For Davies, it seemed as if time slowed down. He looked at the cars and somehow knew the speed they were going. Without looking, it was as if he could see the two adults and three children standing there unmoving in shock. The cars were getting closer and he knew that he had merely seconds in which to act. When he did move, his actions were purely those of instinct. He grabbed the handkerchief from Jordan’s top pocket, without knowing why for a moment. Then he looked at it, had an idea, and two holes appeared in the material. He was already running while placing it around his head, the holes over his eyes, and he felt the material ‘move’ at the back of his head as it fitted itself securely around his head and gripped it. Without conscious effort, he left the ground and flew directly at the family, picking up speed as he did so. He slowed down momentarily as he grabbed them and lifted them off the ground as if they each weighed no more than a bag of sugar. He lifted them just as the lead car ploughed through where they had been a second earlier and he memorised the details of both cars as they shot past him. He spun in the air and shot back towards Jordan, putting his passengers down in front of Jordan.
“Stay here,” he said, “I’ll be back.”
And with that he was gone again, flying about ten feet off the ground, following the cars. People stopped and looked in amazement at him but then he was past them. He caught up to the rear car and looked at the tyres.
All four blew instantly and the car slewed before it seemed to be driving through thick tar and slowed to a halt. Another glance at the metal around the doors and it melted, sealing them in the car. He carried on without slowing and reached the lead car. He frowned as a gun was pointed at him and suddenly the gun flew out of the window and out of the hands of the man holding it. It rocketed upwards out of sight, and at the same instant the tyres blew on the car in exactly the same manner as the other car. It slowed and all four doors opened.
Davies stood there, floating five feet off the ground. The three men exited the car and looked around.
“Up here,” Davies called, and then as each man looked at him they reacted as if they’d been punched directly in the solar plexus. They went down hard, gasping for breath from paralysed muscles.
Davies felt himself sweating under the outfit, and when he realised what he’d done, his heart starting beating like a trip-hammer. He looked around him at the gathering crowd and then a policeman forced his way to the front of the crowd.
“What the…?” the policeman asked, viewing the scene. “Come down here!” he called, and Davies, who thought that of all the things he wanted to do, talking to the policeman and his colleagues all night at the local police station was so far down the list, it was actually on a separate piece of paper.
He flew up into the air fast enough and high enough that it looked like he’d vanished from view, then shot back towards where he’d left Jordan, who had by then interviewed the couple. He grabbed Jordan under the arms and flew back to the Ritz, landing in front of the foyer.
The doorman, who’d thought, after thirty years in the job, that he’d seen everything, merely nodded. “Good evening, gentlemen,” he said, and opened the door. As they walked in, Davies felt the cloth loosen around his head and he pulled it off. “Let’s go to the room,” he said.
“OK,” said Jordan, knowing that whatever Davies had planned, what he had in store was a front page story. And so it turned out to be.
To be fair, even if Jesus had landed in San Francisco, gotten out and danced naked down Lombard Street commenting on how steep it was, it’s unlikely that The Guardian would have led with any other story.
Davies had already told Jordan what he wished to be known as and it was merely unfortunate that the duty typesetter, in the best traditions of The Guardian, gave their corrections and clarifications column the following day the best correction it had ever had. It was quoted on The News Quiz for years afterwards, and was a staple internet bloopers headline for decades.
That didn’t help Ian Davies though when the banner headline on The Guardian’s front page read:
The Pubic Defender: London super-hero debuts
This Week's Artist: Stephen G. Wilson Stephen G. Wilson is a short, often irate illustrator from Glasgow, who divides his time evenly between working at a cinema, complaining about working at a cinema, socialising with people who work at a cinema, and going to the cinema. He recently drew a strip in Commercial Suicide.
