The Fold.

(Part two).

It is dusk as Alec helps Steve pull the shutter down in front of the cafe. Most of the remaining shops in the run-down high street have already closed for the day and one by one the street lights are flickering into life.

Steve snaps the padlock and turns to Alec, “Cheers, mate. See you tomorrow.”

“OK. See you then.” They head off in opposite directions and Alec is deep in thought as he makes his way around today’s obstacles: an upturned bin and hailstones of glass from a shattered bus shelter. He passes the shops: the off-licence with its window grilles and serving hatch like a bank, the tattoo parlour and nail salon, Ray’s Gym. By the time he reaches the corner and becomes aware of the black Range Rover that has been crawling along just behind him, it is far too late to run.

The passenger door is held open and there is a flash of gold teeth as Johnny smiles widely, “In.”

Alec registers the two men in the back of the car as he gets in and hears the doors lock. No-one speaks during the ten minute drive and the car stops outside a corrugated iron wall beneath a railway arch. All four get out of the car and Alec is led through a heavy door and a large, dimly lit room full of crates and boxes, then up a flight of metal steps to a mezzanine office overlooking the store-room. A large, grey haired man sits in a leather chair, wreathed in smoke from the cigar he holds. He looks from Alec to Johnny and back again, unsmiling, unblinking.

“This is him,” ventures Johnny in a tone Alec has not heard him use before.

The old man nods at Alec, “You do tricks?” his voice is a depth-charge.

“No,” replies Alec, without apology or explanation.

The single word is so shocking the old man finally blinks, “What?”

Johnny panics and steps in, “He does! I saw it! I swear. He made a leaflet disappear.”

“I don’t mean I can’t do it. I mean it isn’t a trick,” Alec says, still unnervingly calm.

“Explain,” says the old man.

“Geometry,” Alec’s one word answer hangs insolently in the air until he sees the old man tilt his head to one side the way a Doberman does before it attacks, “like origami, where you take a two dimensional shape and fold it into a three dimensional shape.”

“I know what origami is. It don’t make stuff disappear,” the old man’s head is still tilted.

“But our senses have only evolved to work in three dimensional space,” continues Alec, “So if you can fold something into higher dimensions, it collapses up and out of our sensory range.” Someone grabs Alec’s arm and twists it up behind his back.

The old man leans forward, “If you don’t make something disappear, I will.”

Alec holds his stare, “Let me show you,” he looks around for something the right size. “That,” with his free arm he points at a huge map of London that covers one wall of the office. The old man narrows his eyes sceptically for a second then nods. a couple of the men take down the map and spread it out on the floor. They all gather round to watch as Alec begins.

The high wind blows patches of cloud quickly across the cold night sky, hiding and revealing the moon and bathing the dark streets with washes of black and silver. The corrugated metal door scrapes open and a dog starts barking nearby. Alec closes the door behind him and walks through the rushing shadows, past the abandoned Range Rover, back towards the lights of town. No-one follows.

The Fold.

Part one.

Five o’clock and the sign on the door is finally flipped over. The cafe is closed for the day. Steve, the owner, is listening and nodding as he walks back to the counter where Johnny, a big man with a livid scar across his face, is talking loudly. A tall, thin young man with longish hair is sweeping between the tables near the window. Dust motes swirl in the shafts of sunlight.

“Business Studies he said he wants to do: thinks he’s going to sit on his arse at Uni for a couple of years then waltz in and start taking over. I didn’t need any business studies. Just got stuck in: worked on the doors, got to know all the faces. Made me way up the hard way. So I told him, soon as he leaves school he’s getting a job, anything, long as it pays. If he can stick to it, I might take him on, but he does it my way,” Johnny looks over at the man sweeping up and calls out, “What do you reckon, mate? Need an apprentice? Teach my boy to sweep up?”

The young man looks up, smiles, shakes his head and carries on.

“See? Even he can’t use him,” says Johnny.

“Alec there went to Uni,” Steve nods at the young man.

Johnny looks from Steve to Alec and back again, “Who? Him? Well, there you go then: look where it got him. Aye, Alec. What you do at Uni then?”

Alec looks up again, “Maths and philosophy.”

“Maths and what? What’s that, for Christ’s sake?” Johnny scowls.

“Told you,” says Steve, “He’s a clever lad.”

“Clever my arse! He’s pushing a broom round. How clever’s that? Maths and philosophy,” Johnny sneers.

“Seriously. He’s forgotten more than we’ll ever know,” Steve calls over to the young man, “Don’t mind him, Alec. Come and show us that thing you do with the paper.”

Alec looks reluctant,”Oh, I don’t know. Some people don’t like it.”

Johnny frowns but is obviously interested, “What thing with the paper? What’s he do?”

Steve is now full of enthusiasm, “Just you wait. Here, tell you what. I’ve got a tenner here says you can’t work out how he does it.”

“What, like a magic trick? Nah, seen it all, mate. Easy money. Come on, then.” Johnny beckons to Alec as he and Steve put their money on the counter.

“There you go, Alec. Come and show us it,” Steve grins.

Alec shrugs, leans his broom against a table and walks over, “Alright. Have you got any paper?”

“Here,” Johnny hands Alec a photocopied leaflet from his pocket, “And if I can’t work out how it’s done, you get this,” he puts a twenty on the counter with the other notes.

Alec hesitates, but when Johnny starts to curl his lip into a sneer he takes the leaflet and flattens it on the counter.

Both the other men watch closely as he starts to fold. His movements are relaxed and unhurried yet they seem to struggle to follow what he does. Johnny winces like he’s straining his eyes. Within a few movements the leaflet has been folded into an unusual shape: full of planes and angles that seem like they shouldn’t fit together. Johnny frowns and blinks, trying to clear his head, then Alec makes a final fold and the note disappears.

“What?” Johnny jumps back and nearly falls off his stool. Steve laughs but Alec just stands waiting and watching. From the moment he started folding he seemed different, more confident and serious, and his manner is almost as unnerving as the disappearance of the leaflet.

Johnny stands up and kicks his stool back, pointing at Alec, “Don’t move! Don’t move a muscle!” He seems angry and confused, slighted in some way he doesn’t understand, “Show me your hands,” he grabs Alec’s hands and turns them over, then back again, spreading the fingers to check between them, then checks further up the arms. Alec is wearing a short sleeved t-shirt: there is obviously nothing there. Johnny checks the the counter and the floor on both sides of it. Nothing.

He pushes the notes across to Alec and Steve, who stopped smiling when Johnny’s agitation became apparent.

“No, it’s all right, mate. I was only joking about the bet.”

“Take it,” Johnny turns back to Alec, “So, how’d you do it then?”

“I folded it.”

“Yeah, but what did you do with it? Come on, you can tell us now, I’ve give you the money.”

“I don’t have it.”

“Well where is it?”

“It’s gone.”

“Gone where?”

“I don’t know. It’s just gone.”

They stand staring at each other for a moment, the big man breathing heavily, deciding, before he glances at Steve then turns and walks out of the cafe, slamming the door behind him.

Steve looks shaken, “I didn’t think… I shouldn’t have made you show him. You don’t want to get on the wrong side of him.”

Alec shrugs. His reply is flat, without reproach, “I said some people don’t like it,” He walks back over to the tables, picks up his broom and starts sweeping. Dust motes swirl in the shafts of sunlight.

(copyright K.VALIS, 2015)

Hard Time.

“Is this it?” The Senator’s voice was quietly controlled as she looked down at the new ‘project’. The little row of whitewashed bungalows had a communal vegetable garden in which several prisoners were diligently working. She turned from the window to face the Govenor, who was grinning broadly at her, despite seeing her aide wincing and shaking his head.

“That’s it,” he nodded, still grinning.

Senator Riley glared at him and took a second to compose herself before continuing, still quietly,

“I don’t know what the hell you find so amusing, Thompson, but you know very well I was elected on a strong law and order ticket and this State, strong law and order means harsh punishment, which does not mean turning a maximum security prison into happy valley.”

Thompson was still smiling as he handed her a sheet of paper.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a summary of the report on the project.”

“I don’t care about the damn…”

“Look at it!” Thompson’s interruption was such a shock to her that Riley actually did stop and look at the paper.

“The recidivism rate. At the bottom.”

He watched as the Senators jaw muscles slowly relaxed and her mouth actually fell open. He enjoyed seeing her lost for words for once.

“Well…How…I mean, that’s incredible but surely it depends on who…How long has this been running?”

“Three years,” said Thompson, smiling again, “We started with a few of the less serious offenders, just to see how it went but, well, see for yourself,” he leaned forward, “We have some of the most dangerous men in the country, let alone the state in here but, just like it says, this project has a hundred per cent success rate.”

“So far,”

“So far,” he conceded, “Come and take a look,”

They took the stairs down to the ground floor and went through a couple of sets of security doors to reach the wide open area where the prisoners were tending their garden in the sunshine. As they approached, the noise of the prison faded, to be replaced by birdsong and the buzz of insects. Thompson led the way over to where an elderly man was conscientiously hoeing the soil between rows of carrots.

“Hey Jim! How’s it going?” he reached out to shake hands with the man who nodded and smiled nervously.

“Oh, very well, thanks Govenor.”

“Jim, this is Senator Riley. Senator, Jim.”

“Hello, Jim,” she shook the frail hand that was meekly offered.

“Nice to meet you, Ma’am.”

“What a lovely garden you have. Must take a lot of work.”

“Oh, we’re all just happy to have the opportunity, Ma’am. Every day’s just a b, b, blessing,” the old man stammered.

“Well, we can see your busy so we’ll let you get on,” said Thompson, “have a good day, now,”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, Ma’am,” the old man returned to his hoeing as they walked back towards the main prison complex.

“What did you make of him?” asked Thompson.

Riley shrugged, “Pretty nervous but harmless enough.”

“He is completely harmless, and I would personally recommend him for parole right now if it was up to me,” Thompson stopped and turned to face Riley, “You know who that was? That was Jim Marsden,” he watched as the colour drained from Riley’s face.

“That..?” she was shaking.

“Yeah, that Jim Marsden.”

“How many did he..?”

“They only identified eleven but it could easily be twenty. He doesn’t really remember. The point is that now he’s weak as a kitten and twice as nervous. And the same goes for everyone that’s been through this programme. It really works.”

The Senator shook her head, “I don’t know, Thompson, I really don’t. I mean, sure it looks like it works but the public reaction to high profile cases like his… I just don’t think they’ll buy it, no matter how good the numbers are.”

Thompson thought for a moment, “OK.Come and meet the doctor.”

“So, is it a drug treatment, like chemical castration or something?” asked Riley as they walked along another corridor.

“No, nothing like that. No drugs or chemicals at all. I suppose it’s more like a kind of aversion therapy. If the inmate gives their permission to become part of the programme I try to put them up for parole and speak to the board about the effects of the treatment. But as you say, it gets more difficult with the high profile cases. That’s why I need you on-board.”

Thompson knocked on the door at the end of the corrider then opened it and they stepped into a small office,

“Senator Riley, this is Doctor Tasker.”

As Riley stepped forward to shake hands, the man behind the desk stood up and up until she thought his head would hit the lampshade. She guessed his height at six feet eight or nine and he was thin and pale with white hair in a severe crew-cut and bright blue eyes behind thick glasses and a sharp nose. It occurred to her that he was far more frightening than any of the prisoners she’d seen.

“Doctor.”

“Senator.”

As he loomed over the desk to shake hands she felt like a fish about to be speared by a heron.

“You’ve achieved some amazing results with this programme, Doctor. Have you worked on any projects like this before?”

“No. Not quite like this,” He looked from Riley to Thompson, who realised an explanation was required.

“The Senator’s concerned that the public will think we’re being too soft on serious offenders. I thought a more detailed explanation from you might help, and maybe even a look at a subject…in treatment?”

The Doctor narrowed his eyes slightly at this last suggestion then look back down at Riley, who was quick to back up Thompson’s request,

“Well, of course, tax-payers are always worried their money’s being spent on things they don’t approve of and, as far as they’re concerned, the buck stops with me.”

“This programme isn’t costing tax-payers an extra cent,” said Tasker, coldly, “Private donors have funded the whole project, including equipment and medical orderlies.”

“Really?” Riley looked at the Governor who nodded confirmation, “Well, I suppose that does put things in a slightly different light but… why are you doing it?”

The Doctor smiled thinly, “Research, of course. We are doing work of great importance here. I believe this is the future for all prisons.”

Riley considered for a second, “I’m sure you believe in what you’re doing, Doctor but ultimately I’m responsible for the prisons in this state. I need to see the treatment.”

She couldn’t see his eyes for the light reflected in his glasses, but he seemed completely emotionless.

“Very well,” he stepped across his office, opened a side door and led them down a flight of stairs to a sub-level where a stocky medical orderly sat watching a bank of screens. In the dimly lit corrider beyond they could make out ten cell doors, five on either side.

“We currently have the equipment for up to three inmates at a time on the programme,” said Tasker, indicating the screens, “and we monitor their vital signs and physical well-being at all times.”

Riley looked at the three live screens. Each showed a figure strapped to a bed-like structure in the center of the room. Their eyes were covered by some kind of visor while the various tubes and wires attached to them appeared to be for sensors and life support systems as the top right of each screen showed the subjects vital signs. The bed-like structures were tilted up to near vertical and all the occupants appeared to be shaking or convulsing in some way.

“Is it some kind of prolonged electro-shock therapy?” asked Riley.

“No.”

The Senator ignored the terseness of the reply and looked closer at the heart rate and blood pressure readings: they were abnormally high for men strapped onto beds. She looked down the dim, silent corridor,

“Why’s it so quiet?”

“The cells are all soundproofed… For the sake of the staff,” the Doctor said.

“Can I go in one?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

The Doctor looked coldly down at her, “Most people would find it too…upsetting.”

“Look, if I’m going to convince the public that this isn’t just an easy way out for dangerous offenders, I need to know more. I won’t interfere with anything. I just need to be able to say I’ve actually seen it for myself.”

“We really need the Senators help if we’re going to expand the progamme,” added Thompson.

Tasker, still expressionless, considered briefly, “Alright. Just for a moment.”

They walked along to the first door on the left. The Doctor unlocked and opened it, and Riley stepped inside. She walked over to the figure shaking on the bed. He was whimpering and sobbing pitifully, with the occasional wail coming out so raw that he must have screamed himself hoarse long before. He was, without doubt, the most terrified person she had ever seen.

“What’s wrong with him? Is he in pain?” she asked, still staring.

“We’re not in the Dark Ages, Senator,” said Tasker with a strangely mocking tone in his voice, “We do not inflict any physical pain on the subjects: that would violate both State and Federal law. And the subjects have all given prior written agreement to undergo the treatment.”

“What exactly is the treatment, Doctor?”

“It’s just a kind of virtual reality programme.”

“What? What are they experiencing?”

The Doctor was smiling far too widely now: too many big, white teeth in that long, bony face,

“Lift the earpiece. Have a listen.”

Riley could hear her own heatbeat thumping too fast now, and suddenly felt like this had all got very strange, very quickly. She saw her own perspiring hand reach out towards the sweating, shaking figure on the bed and lift the earpiece.

The shock of sound hit her: a raging, snarling inferno of screaming agony and terror. She dropped the earpiece and jumped back like she’d been burned.

The Doctor picked it up and replaced it, then steered Senator and Governor from the cell and locked the door.

Riley was sweating and shaking as she tried to recover.

“What is that? What is it they see?”

Part of her already knew the answer and was dreading the response even as she asked the question. She shuddered as the Doctor grinned widely and she watched his lips form the single syllable that would echo around her mind as she saw stars and staggered back to the Governors office to sit and gulp the brandy she was given.

She still heard the word above the searing screams from the earpiece as she lay down and closed her eyes that night and silently prayed like she had never prayed before: prayed for those lost, tormented souls. And she remembered, God help her, she remembered what she’d said to the Governor as she sat, shocked and shaking in his office,

“Alright,” she’d said, “I can sell that.”

Long Haul

I must have fallen asleep again because I came to with one of the omnipresent cabin crew beaming at me,

“Can I get you anything? Drink? Snacks and nibbles?”

“Uhh? Oh… no, no thanks,” I mumbled, still groggy from the last round of refreshments.

“Okay, then,” came the cheery reply as he went on to give the same spiel to the next passenger.

The screen in the back of the seat in front was blinking at me, indicating that I had another ‘urgent’ message waiting. I sighed, put on my headphones and tapped the touchscreen, which proceeded to tell me that Skyflix had a new range of movies and boxsets available, specially chosen for me based on my previous purchases.

I took the headphones off and closed my eyes. I had a headache and some kind of strange ringing in my ears.

I fumbled in my pocket for the foil strip of painkillers and took one with a swig of bottled water. After a few minutes the headache started to fade but the noise didn’t. I frowned and opened my eyes again, turning my head to try and pinpoint the sound. It definitely seemed to be external, like, really external, as in outside the cabin.

I pushed up the blind and squinted out of the little window into the sunshine. Below us the tops of the clouds were a dreamscape of melting ice-cream while the sky above was a very dark blue.

I caught the crew members attention as he passed by again, still smiling, “Excuse me, but what’s that noise?”

“Noise?” he looked up, smile temporarily replaced with open-mouthed concentration, before giving a slow shake of the head, “No, sorry. I can’t hear anything.”

“It’s really quite loud,” I grimaced.

“Well, we are still accelerating. Maybe that’s it. Nothing to worry about,” his smile returned and he carried on along the aisle.

The screen was blinking at me again, but this time I ignored it completely and tore a couple of corners from a tissue which I rolled up and stuffed in my ears, then went back to sleep.

I started to dream I was flying over huge green plains and grasslands, before I found myself being shaken awake by the attendant, whose mouth moved silently until I remembered to take out the earplugs,

“Sorry, Sir but you’ve gone over the allowed number of unread messages,” he pointed at the screen which was now flashing and beeping furiously. I put my thumb on the touchscreen wearily to stop the alarm but didn’t put the headphones on as the messages started playing. The attendant looked from me to the screen and back again, expectantly.

“I don’t want to hear it anymore,” I said.

He frowned, “Sorry?”

“The ads. I don’t want them.”

He looked confused for a moment, then regained his smile, turned and walked back down the aisle.

I put the makeshift earplugs back in and closed my eyes, hoping to recapture the dream of flying. After what seemed like just a few seconds I was jolted awake so violently the earplugs fell out and I was thrown into the noise of passengers screaming above the whine of the engines. I felt a pain behind my eyes and ears and couldn’t work out how much of the high-pitched ringing I heard was in my head.

One of the cabin crew was now holding on to the seat in front of me for dear life, professional smile contorted into a rictus grin.

“What the hell was that?” I shouted over the noise.

“Oh, nothing,” she shouted back with her now bloodshot eyes swivelling like those of a terrified horse, “just a little turbulence.” I noticed her nose had started bleeding.

“That’s a terrible noise the engines are making,” I said, “Surely we shouldn’t still be climbing? Isn’t the air getting too thin?”

“Yes, that’s right!” she nodded and grinned manically,dabbing at the blood pouring from her nose with a tissue before turning and trying to pull herself forwards along the aisle, which now pointed up steeply.

I looked out of the window and saw sparks and flames flying out of the engine, accompanied by horrific scraping noises.

The intercom buzzed and crackled into life with a badly distorted, overamplified voice,

“EZ ZAPTAIN… ZURBULENCZ… ZELERATING… ZUPWARDSZ…”

With that the cabin suddenly pointed up at an impossibly steep angle and almost immediately one of the cabin crew flew back and crashed into the back wall of the cabin, closely followed by the refreshments trolley that landed with a sickening thud on top of him.

Some of the overhead lockers burst open and a couple of passengers were knocked out in the ensuing rain of overfilled hand luggage.

An alarm went off and I was smacked in the eye by a falling oxygen mask.

Over the maelstrom of screaming, vomiting passengers I caught a couple of words from another crew member as they fell past, still smiling,

“…keep going..”

The whole plane shook with a series of massive concussions as the engines, pushed beyond all possible limits, finally exploded, one after another.

As I blacked out, my screen was flashing at me, telling me I had urgent messages.