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.
The story had been filed to great acclaim from his editor and the by-line had been his alone. He knew that most people had no idea at all what went into making a story appear in a newspaper. He knew that the public, even the British public, were intelligent enough to realise that he wrote the story, not the headline, but that didn’t matter.
In the two hours since the story had broken, he knew three things unquestionably. The first was that the newspaper, Scott Jordan and the editor were the laughing stock of what was still called Fleet Street even though no newspapers had actually been based there for years. He also knew that Ian Davies, despite not being identified in the story by name, would never, as in ‘not ever’ live it down. That whatever credibility he had had up until then had been completely, utterly, totally, entirely, absolutely, comprehensively and more than somewhat destroyed.
The third thing he was sure about was that he was about four hundred feet above London, being held by his jacket by a very, very angry super-hero. And that he was increasing in altitude with every second. Although he couldn’t see Davies’ eyes, he wouldn’t have been surprised if there had been little lightening flashes coming out of them. What scared him was that Davies hadn’t said a word.
Davies had heard the story on the radio as it had awakened him. At first, he couldn’t quite believe the story and had flicked through the television channels in his room as the truth slowly sunk in. In disbelief, he’d taken a shower and had stood there, letting the ice-cold water wash over him, hoping that the feelings, a mixture of incredulity, upset, irritation and sheer blinding anger, would somehow diminish.
They hadn’t.
Once dressed, again in the black outfit, although without the mask, he had opened the door from his bedroom, wondering if Jordan would still be there. He was. He looked, Davies thought, as if he’d been kicked in the gut. Repeatedly.
He hadn’t been, but Davies thought that the day was still young. There was still time.
He’d walked across to the window, opened it, looked out across London, and then very casually walked across to Jordan. The other man had seemed to shrink slightly as Davies approached him. Jordan’s mouth opened and closed a few times, doing an impression of a goldfish that would undoubtedly have gained him a starring role in the sequel to Finding Nemo, before shutting at the look on Davies’ face.
Davies had smiled a single half-smile, feeling his mouth curl up at the same time as his eyes turned to flint. He took hold of the lapels of Jordan’s jacket and to Jordan it seemed as if Davies was falling backwards. Then Davies, just before he fell to the ground, aimed himself and Jordan at the open window and took off.
They exited the room, from a standing start, doing 70 miles an hour and then Davies changed the angle of his flight and shot up, still carrying Jordan.
When they reached seven hundred feet up in the air, Davies stopped, the wind buffeting him and Jordan. He hauled Jordan up to his level and pulled him close, staring at him in the face. He said, slowly, “you bastard.”
And then he let go. It was later calculated that of all those who heard or read about the story either because they saw the newspaper, because they heard about it in offices and shops, or because they saw the news, 99.384% of them laughed.
One of those who didn’t would probably have laughed if he’d have been remotely capable of human thought. A sense of humour would have helped as well, but the shambling wreck that used to be Samuel Withers had lost that as well. He’d lost a lot since he’d died, but that was only really to be expected.
What wasn’t to be expected was that two days after he’d been roasted in a petrol explosion and had a carcinogenic mass of material blasted through him, he’d be walking around. Well, maybe walking is putting it too strongly. To walk, you need legs, and the appendages currently under the body of what was formerly Samuel Withers could only be described as legs if you were prepared to place far more weight upon the English language than it was ever truly expected to bear.
No one who saw the creature would have recognised him as Samuel Withers. To be fair though, it’s a fair bet that anyone who saw it would have been hard pressed to recognise it as human.
The lump of matter on top of the body didn’t look too bad, as long as it was looked at side-on. And from the right side at that. From the left, what could be seen was an almost entirely flat surface, with the occasional mass of what may have been scar tissue, but it was, as has been said, only occasional. The rest of it looked like what a four year old child may have sculpted from Play-Do, if told to imagine a head that had been scraped along a cheese grater.
It was from the front, thought, that it looked truly disturbing. It appeared as if someone had taken a meat cleaver, sliced a head in two and thrown one half away.
And that was the best part to look at.
It’s unlikely that it would have understood The Guardian piece, although it would probably have still been a reader of The Sun, had it been able to get hold of a copy.
There was only one thing that could have passed for a thought in what some anthropologist possibly would have called a brain: hunger.
Unfortunately, even if it knew what it hungered for, it didn’t have much left of a mouth with which to communicate that need. And so it contented itself with walking around the basement of the hospital.
And, of course, with killing the three people who’d so far wondered downstairs to the basement that morning. Someone else who didn’t laugh, or at least didn’t admit to it, when they learned about the story was Jez Docherty. Docherty thought himself an intelligent man, but even he was surprised how easy he’d put it together.
Unlike many people, he’d actually read the story, and completely missed the mistyped headline. He had the newspaper spread over his desk and he gulped down steaming hot coffee as he read it. He’d often wondered how anyone could drink coffee unless it was hot enough to hurt. As for tea, he never drunk it – it got cold too quickly for him.
It was only after he’d read a hundred words into the story that it hit him. He stopped, looked up at the headline and winced on behalf of the poor bastard who’d have to live that down for the rest of his life. Then he returned to the story and as he read it became convinced that he was one of the few people that knew the identity of the Pub(l)ic Defender.
Everything fit. Even the meagre physical description given was close enough to that of Davies to convince Docherty that he had the right man. He wondered how long it would be before he got the phone call, and as if the thought were mother to the deed, his telephone rang. The digital display showing Caller ID was exactly as helpful as usual, giving the number as “Number withheld”. He hit a six digit code and the number was revealed. As he’d expected, it was Grable on the other end of the phone. He considered for a moment whether to take the call or not and then, with a grimace, he took the call.
He picked up the receiver and said “Yes, Betty?”
There was a pause as Grable wondered how the hell Docherty knew she was calling him. Her telephone was always set to “Number Withheld” and she knew that it would bug her unless she asked. So she did. Her only answer was a “don’t ask silly questions, Betty,” and then Docherty asked, “what can I do for you?”
To Grable’s intense embarrassment, that simple question, or rather her potential answer to it, led to her feeling flustered and she could feel her face colouring. To cover her discomfort, she asked whether Docherty had any leads about Withers.
“No, none,” he replied, troubled. “It’s beginning to irritate the hell out of me, you know.”
Grable didn’t know, and was surprised for a moment that anyone as self-assured as Docherty seemed to be could be irritated by anything. Upset, sure. Even angry, but irritated? It just didn’t fit in with her image of the man. But then, she considered, she’d only known him for a couple of days and she was still learning new things about him in almost every conversation we had.
“What about Davies?” she asked, wondering for the twelfth time since she’d read that morning’s Guardian if she was going completely nuts. It had taken her some time to get to the story proper, just because she’d been laughing so hard at the headline. She was pretty sure that Docherty would have creased up at it as well, but didn’t think it was the right time to ask him. “Is he…” she asked, “is he… the … Pubic…” She couldn’t complete the question, falling onto her chair in helpless laughter.
Docherty waited for the laughter to subside. When it became apparent that it wasn’t about to any time soon, he hung up the phone.
He turned back to the newspaper, starting the story again, and this time making notes on a scratch pad while he read. He was about half way through the story when his phone rang again. He hit the answer button without looking and said “Docherty.”
“It’s me again,” came the voice of Grable through the loudspeaker. Then a slight pause, followed by “Oh hell, you haven’t got me on speakerphone, have you?”
“Yes, I have,” he said, for some reason enjoying the annoyance in her voice, “and for what it’s worth, yes, I think it’s him. I think the…” he stopped, wondering what he could say that wouldn’t sound stupid and wouldn’t set her off again. He started again, “…Defender is Ian Davies.”
“But,” Grable said, grateful at Docherty’s turn of phrase. “If it is him, and he can do all these things that the newspaper says, why that’s… that’s…” She stopped again, trying to marshal her words.
“Super?” asked Docherty, a smile playing across his features.
“You can joke all you want,” Grable started, before being interrupted by Docherty’s “I’ve never needed permission before, but thanks.”
“This is serious,” she said.
“Doctor,” Docherty said, “Trust me – things are far, far more serious than you know. If we have got a real Superman out there, then…” said Docherty, wondering whether or not to tell her the rest of it, and deciding against it for the moment. “If we have got a real Superman out there, then just think of the benefits to mankind.”
“Exactly,” Grable said, missing the hesitation in Grable’s voice. “I’ve looked at the reports and have some tentative ideas as to how he can…”
Docherty was suddenly very attentive. “I beg your pardon, Betty. Are you saying that you know how he’s doing what he does?”
“Not quite yet, no,” she replied, “but I’ve got some theories. Why?” She’d only mentioned it to try to justify to herself why she’d wasted an hour scribbling formulae down.
“This is really important,” Docherty said. “Seriously, Betty, how long would it take you to prepare a briefing paper?”
“For you?” she asked.
“Yes,” he lied, fluently.
“The rest of the day,” she said, “if I’m left alone to think. Do you want to come to the lab or to my home to pick it up?”
“Could you deliver it here, in person?” he carefully enquired. “Say around five this afternoon?”
“Sure, I’ll put something together for you, Jez,” she said.
“Great, see you later,” he quickly said and hung up. Docherty leaned back in the chair, deep in thought, the fingers of his hands steepled before him. She would be delivering it in person, he thought, but not just to him.
He dialled a number and spoke to his Head Of Section. “Yes, sir – Docherty. I believe that we have identified the man in today’s newspapers. Ian Terrence Davies. Yes, that Ian Davies. Doctor Grable is going to present to Blue Committee this evening.” There was a question asked in response to this and Docherty grimaced. “How did she react to being told that she’d presenting to Blue? I don’t know; ask me again at seven o’clock.”
The Blue Committee was the liaison group responsible for extra-normal activities. Unusually, it included representatives from other country’s security services officialdom. And its ostensible purpose was to protect the safety and security of the planet. Indeed, that’s what it’s remit gave it the authority and power to do. That, and no more, other than make recommendations.
However, Docherty knew the other purpose of Blue Committee. If an event occurred that was not controllable, the committee, formed in 1969, was authorised to use ultimate sanction. If this man was Superman, it could be said that this was the only committee on Earth who had a direct mandate from the Presidents and Prime Ministers of five countries to come up with Kryptonite.
Because that was the unspoken part of the job. That was the bit of the job that he didn’t like doing. That he was superbly efficient at it was just unlucky… for those who were uncontrollable. In the past six years, the department had “unfiled”, as the jargon had it, eighteen people.
Docherty had unfiled seven of them.
That gag he’d made about being Lex Luthor wasn’t as funny any more. In the first second, a body in freefall drops about sixteen feet. Two seconds after that, it’s fallen a total of 138 feet. Two seconds after that, Jordan had plummeted another 228 feet.
And during each and every foot, he’d screamed.
Bravery, Jordan thought, during those heart-stopping seconds, was wildly over-rated. Convinced that his life was about to end, and equally convinced that when he hit the ground, he’d leave a mess that would take days to clean up, he only partly paid attention after four and seven-eighths seconds to a black blur by his side. He felt something take hold of him, and in his panic, tried to turn and grab whatever it was.
He barely heard Davies telling him to shut up.
In the next two seconds, several thoughts ran through his head. First was that he was still falling. For some reason, this troubled him, and for a wild moment, he thought that Davies’ plan was to ram him into the ground, not trusting good old gravity to do the job. Then he realised he was decelerating, and he realised that Davies was slowing them both down. It sunk into his fear filled brain exactly what was happening.
Had Davies grabbed hold of him and just stopped him falling, the deceleration to zero velocity from a freefall speed of over eighty miles an hour in a tenth of a second would have outright killed Jordan. There had to be, as there was, a gentle (or less than gentle in this case) slowing down, just to keep him alive.
Finally, the idea that he was going to live beyond the next second or two sunk in.
The two men slowed to a halt less than ten feet from the ground.
Davies let go of him again and for a moment, Jordan expected to fall the final few yards to the ground. Instead, to his surprise, he stayed where he was, and he realised that Davies was still holding him up, only this time without physical support. It shocked him. Davies was holding him eight feet above the ground just with the power of his mind.
One might have thought that if someone had just saved one from a seven hundred drop onto concrete, that there would have been a smidgen of gratitude from one towards that someone, maybe even more than a smidgen. But then, of course, one would have to be an extraordinarily virtuous person not to want to kill that very someone if he’d been the someone who’d dropped you from that height in the first place.
And Jordan wasn’t that virtuous. Far from it.
“Are you bloody insane?” he asked, wishing he could pull back the words from the air the moment he’d spoken them.
There was a pause before Davies, his eyes literally blazing, but the rest of his face supernaturally calm, replied “Very probably.” He gestured and Davies fell the last eight feet to the ground.
He looked up at Davies, who stared down at him for a moment… and then left, flying at an angle, heading for the City.
This Week's Artist: Cath Tomlinson Cath has been drawing and reading comic books for longer then is probably healthy. Currently based in Milton Keynes, land of roundabouts and concrete animals. To see more of her stuff or get in touch go visit CathUK.DeviantArt.Com.
