The Hawler (part eighteen)

Greg inside the Drill, just before its ‘launch’ and its now famous daylight firework-display, had dreamed of Amy in various inexplicable roles – which was a bit surprising as he didn’t know Amy at all well. Amy was more Mike’s acquaintance than Greg’s. Yet, Greg had also dreamed that he, Greg, was not Beth’s husband and equally Beth’s husband was not Greg. A further dream, or rather, nightmare, made him live through an existence where he and Mike were the same person – which belied their quite distinct characters as men of the world. Perhaps, Greg’s dream reflected that they – he and Mike – may indeed be distinct characters, but also that nobody (other than Greg and Mike themselves) could distinguish one from the other. In another dream, Greg felt as if trapped within an outlandishly huge trunk of a Canterbury Oak – unable to budge up or down. He heard voices, familiar voices, but from within the nightmare he sensed that they were quite unfamiliar voices and that he failed to grasp that it was a Canterbury Oak at all – because in the dream he was simply trapped in a vertical body-hugging coffin.

He woke in a sweat – only to feel the Drill around him starting to throb, as its pilot made a few playful testing twirls of the bit-tip before making the final teasing approach towards earth encounter.

Beth, already up, having creamed her face with beauty unguents, was standing at their cabin window, eager for the start of their trip. Indeed, it was ironic that the best view of the trip would be the one currently from this window, because soon the window would be immersed or covered with earth’s own crumbly curtains for the duration. Inner Earth itself was – like the city zoo – a discrete dream-territory and any dreams they dreamed once they’d entered the earth would be clear-cut dreams, unconfused with waking life – so they would need to acclimatise in due course with the new conditions. Meanwhile, they could enjoy (if that was the correct word) the blurring of reality and dreams as a thought-provoking accompaniment to the start of their journey – against which backdrop they would soon be able to enjoy dreams for dreams’ sake rather than the enforced dream-curdling of the rest of their waking life which prevailed above ground, in most places, other than designated areas such as the city zoo. Speaking of which, the city zoo had a lot to answer for, because it was too high-profile, too often trumpeted as the only discrete dream zone, a fact which created a situation where most people forgot that being underground was a better way of sorting dreams from non-dreams. There was far more underground available to explore and where to spend one’s time than upon the finite surface of the overground.

Greg got up from the bed and joined Beth at the window. It was yet a few minutes before the final ‘lift-off’ and he knew there was to be a firework display as accompaniment – a display which had apparently now started. But it was a pretty pathetic affair – a few spluttering Roman Candles, a Catherine Wheel that refused to spin on its nail, a number of bangers that farted in a spinsterly fashion. One of the fireworks, however, wasn’t too bad inasmuch as it quite successfully depicted a peacock with a fan of rainbow fire, pluming smoke in grey sculptures that reminded Greg of maps in the making. The traditional bonfire was ignited but spluttered to a dead heap since it was not doused enough in petrol … but the Drill’s bit-tip at last struck the beachy terrain with a teeth-on-edge grinding … as the Drill began to delve towards its journey’s path. The firework display thus soon became an irrelevancy.

Greg now sensed one of the helicopter vanes from the Drill’s back flashing by their cabin window like a camera shutter strobing or a dose of rarified migraine or a foreign flicker at the screen’s edge as an old film was projected upon it.

****
Earlier, upon their first arrival in the Drill, Greg and Beth had met two unexpected additional paying-passengers on board. These were dowager ladies by the names of Edith and Clare – and nobody knew from the way they acted, whether they were just good friends, blood sisters or more than just good friends. If they were sisters, the family likeness was quite remarkable. The Drill’s Captain seemed to know these two ladies already – but he retained a professional approach to any passengers and had promised them all to show and comment upon the various sights through the window of ‘The Hawler’ during the coming trip.

The two ladies were avid readers in the Drill’s library, being particular fans of Marcel Proust’s Du Côté De Chez Swann - and there was also much promise of them sharing their reading passions with Greg and Beth, should there be periods during the trip when there would be time for all of them to kill…

****
Ogdon held his head in his hands after he had looked round his empty pub. The headlines of the newspaper in his hands spoke of the mysteries of Angevin which had taken away most of his customers – and even those who remained in the city stayed in their houses these days dreaming of drinking Angel Wine … or even drinking it for real.

Nevertheless, there was still activity in the city and, in the distance, he could hear the sound of serious clanking – so hugely riveting – so vastly ear-splitting and ground-grinding – he guessed it was another huge broken ship or liner being forcibly dragged for mending to the Dry Dock nearby. A gigantic contingent of shift-workers and trained apes were involved in its transport to this its temporary berth … and no doubt many of this contingent would be visiting Ogdon’s pub later … but with no bar staff left, he may as well lock the doors now.

However, before Ogdon could do so, he spotted a face in the bar mirror opposite, a face that wasn’t his own. There were tears running liberally down its cheeks. The face spoke:

“Help me, I’m Greg. Please don’t let me be Mike. I know it’s easy to confuse us but I’m the one who’s on board the Drill. I once worked in waste management as a lorry-driver. Mike was the office worker. I’m desperate to be real, but only if I can be me, me, Greg. Because I am Greg.”

Ogdon’s own eyes were also filling up, feeling helpless to help. There were too many people who needed to become their real selves. It was difficult enough for Ogdon to hold his own mind together.

“I’m Greg,” continued the face opposite. “Help me, I’m Greg. Help me to be Greg. And not Mike.”

It was a ghostly chant or intonation. And Ogdon threw his glass across the bar smashing itself before it smashed the mirror and all the mirror’s contents.

But he still heard the plaintive, haunting voice:

“I’m Greg. Please don’t let me be Mike.”

And now the face was scratched and freshly scarred as if it had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

****
Crazy Lope was settled in front of his drink of Angel Wine, surrounded by the customary sticks of furniture that populated the top flat of an inner city block. He had just switched off his wireless because, he guessed, the news was full of lies. His cape hung on the door-hook like a giant bird-of-prey at rest. He stared at the Angel Wine before daring to take a sip. It was sold like milk in the city these days, without fear or favour, to rich and poor, young and old, sane and insane alike. In fact, it looked like milk, but even whiter, creamier. The supplies had been freed up to prevent a black market emerging for it – yet a lot of money was still being made by those who were supplying it. From whatever source, nobody knew. Its original tradename was Angevin, but most customers in the city could only get their mouths round the English tongue – and soon Angel Wine (a very evocative name as it turned out to be from the mouth of whoever coined it) took over and now it was on all tongues.

Lope slowly raised the glass to his lips and allowed them to sip slowly, then sup noisily, lapping with a relish … not at all like milk to the tongue’s feel or taste, but more a slimy consistency with a fabricated flavour of aniseed which could not really conceal its insipid chemical quality: sensing a deeper undertaste or aftertaste even more insipid. He was savouring not so much the taste or drinkability for a deadened thirst but more the mental effects that sped to his brain in a direct socket-to-socket fashion from the tongue, or so it seemed. The relishing experience prevented him from spotting that he had accidentally spilled some of the Angel Wine – in a slow motion of the liquid’s sluggish specific gravity – to his flat’s carpet.

****
Somewhere, in a clouded mirror appeared a wide face – wider even than the mirror itself so that one could not see the face’s edges, howsoever they stretched beyond the mirror’s frame. Slowly, but as quickly as the time passed, the wide face grew cloudier and yellowier – and a beak emerged as part of a narrow face from within the original wide one that faded from around the second face, with a pecking and sharp-nodding combined.

“I’m me. Please don’t let me be other than me…”

And tears runnelled down the face like Angel Wine.

The words spoken, however, weren’t from an English tongue.

(THE HAWLER continued here: part nineteen)

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