For instance, there's The Sand Man - an
award-winning story about a crazily-in-love couple who build a huge sand man on
the beach. What happens then is something to experience. Then there's
The Snag - a story about a man who can do anything, except relate
to women. And Serpent for Celia. Do sea serpents
exist? Of course not. But still... And The Man Who Made Whistles
- where a hen-pecked husband learns to control mosquitoes. In
Spinster, an 'old maid' suddenly discovers a different way to
live. In Brass Teeth, a Prime Minister's wardrobe
malfunction changes the course of history. In Time Waits for Nolan,
a complacent retiree abruptly slides into a decomposing world. Then, just to
tone you up, there's the arid, eerie SF world of Tub Travellers.
And, finally, The Stand-in - a searing re-take on the
Crucifixion based on esoteric research. (21,500 words)
BRASS TEETH
This time, Canberra had been firebombed. It was definitely civil war. The
few Army tanks had been sabotaged first. The intense heat made them ovens.
The crews cooked in their jackets. Something had to be done.
Bisk paused again before his mirror, enchanted by his
eyebrows. Age had lent them character. They'd lengthened, acquired a twist.
He encouraged it with his fingers then peered closer at his tie, the
photographic tie.
Gunfire rattled the windows.
'Hearne.' He struggled with the tie. There was a spot. Quite definite.
'Hearne!'
The obdurate knot resisted, shielded by his
second chin. The scourge of the Gordian Windsor.
'Hearne!' Where was the man? Blast the fool with his military mentality.
What detained him? Insolence? Ataxia? A click-clack in the sacroiliac? For
my next medical illusion I will thrust a ten-inch biopsy needle through this
dormant colonel's spleen.
'Excuse me, sir.'
Bisk did not turn. Best to address the beggar in profile. He continued
surveying his image. Fondly. Face side-tilted. A violinist, no less.
Vice-like chin in velvet jowl. The expression was the thing that made a
maestro more than second-string. One had to look constipated. Spastic in the
jolly colon. After all, true art was a process of elimination.
'Excuse me, Prime Minister. Washington on the line.'
Washington on the line? Well, it was a good drying day. Once more he was
enthralled by the myriad synapses of his mind.
'The
President's waiting, sir.'
The fellow was quite
flustered rendered insensate by a squawk of history. Agog at Magog. Rather
good, that. Wrested from his robot calm.
'Do you feel
wrested, Hearne?'
'Sir?'
'Did he
who fashioned William Schwenck make thee?'
Hearne
thought, God! We're going to be massacred, and they expect this twit to save
the country?
'Did you speak to him, Hearne?'
'I did, sir.'
'Celebrity shock. It will pass. You give
too much importance to titles and events. It's the curse of the meat pie
mind, the metronome intelligence. Right. Left. Black. White. Them. Us. Read
Meister Eckhart's On Dispassion. It's in the library under "Sense".
'The library's on fire, sir.'
'I suggest you hurry,
then.'
'A bomb came over the barricade. We're doing
what we can.'
'There's a spot on my bloody tie.'
'I'll switch the President through, sir.'
More
explosions shook the building. Bisk opened the window and leaned out. It
struck him as appropriate. A gesture of constructive fatalism. Style the
last refuge of the cynic.
Much of the city seemed
alight. They were pumping water from the lake. A bullet shattered the
ceiling above him. The fellow needed his sights adjusted. He hoped his
personal bullet would be in the head and of reasonable calibre.
The bedroom extension clicked and rang.
'Bisk
speaking.'
'Hello, George.' The line was perfect. 'All
set up?'
'I'll be on time, if that's what you mean.'
'You'd better be or they'll pull the plug. There's a world hook-up on this.
If you don't appear on the stroke of nine, you can kiss goodbye to your
country.'
'Did you know they've bombed my library?'
'We're all relying on you, George. Remember the old charisma. Only you can
pull it off.'
'I'm touched.'
'Is
that gunfire I hear?'
'You'll have to speak up.
They're shooting.'
'Remember, you're the television
genius. You can turn the whole thing around. I know you. Sheer arse. They'll
be eating out of your hand. We're in there pitching for you, George.' The
line went dead. Hearne reappeared. 'Your chopper's on the way, sir.'
Bisk checked his appearance again. The Great Man who would save the Lucky
Country by a diabolically brilliant, last-minute concession while the world
watched in awe. Further confirmation that history was a record of crime.
He turned and went down the stairs, shepherded by the colonel. Hearne the
Concern. The Duntroon Poltroon. Actually, the poor bastard wasn't too bad.
Probably weaned by a damned good sergeant. 'Have you read Pepys, Hearne?'
'No, sir. I can hear the chopper now, sir.'
'He went
up in a turret one day. October 21st, 1660. There were two traitors' heads
on pikes. And you know what he wrote? "Here, I could see them plainly and
also a very fair prospect about London."'
'Yes, sir.'
'Perceptive, don't you think? The man had considerable perspective took in
opposing aspects simultaneously. I fear that eludes you, Hearne.'
'Please hurry, sir.'
Sentries unlocked the courtyard
gate. The blast from the helicopter blew it open. Bisk leaned against the
airstream and followed the colonel toward the plane. Two heads on a pike and
a pleasant panorama. Remarkable.
The machine took off
immediately, slapping the air and shuddering in the graceless, nose-down
posture that, to Bisk, distinguished helicopters from aircraft. The
vibration massaged his flesh as he withdrew his pocket mirror. There it was
again, the handsome, still youthful face familiar to millions but never more
sincerely loved than here by its audience of one.
He
adjusted the hair but the tie still had a spot. He dribbled on his finger
and rubbed saliva on the stain. Nature's own enzyme. How simple life could
be.
Hearne watched him with distaste. Only one man
could stop the carnage. Bisk. This madman slagging on his tie.
'Do I distress you, Hearne?'
'Sorry, sir?'
'Do I peeve you?'
The chopper banked, losing altitude.
'I wish you all good luck, sir.'
The TV station was
now below them with its square landing pad and crimson windsock. Good luck,
he thought. The lure of the lottery. Hope against all odds. At least there
was no fate worse than life. They landed and Hearne slid the door back,
climbed out to help Bisk down, then saluted. Bisk shook his hand with
warmth. God bless the Army trained to be pure in heart, to obey whichever
crook prevailed. Officials trotted toward them. His press secretary,
Johnston, took charge.
'Just in time, Prime Minister.
Half an hour and you're on. We'll get you straight to make-up. We have the
revolutionary delegates in the studio. It'll be bald confrontation, I'm
afraid. But I have a game plan worked out.'
Bisk
strode without listening. "Among men, remain aloof." Who said that? Was it
Plotinus? Probably cribbed it from Albinus. Or Severus. Gaius Atticus.
Perhaps Adam got it from his dad, the insouciant inchoate...
Along the bare studio corridor. Left into make-up. Lights. Mirrors. Fuss.
His performance today would be live. The flat light of video would show each
flaw and hesitation. The enemy would be there in the room, an arm's-length
from him. The world would judge every word, every look, every blink. While
his aides tried to brief him, Bisk retreated to mental trivia. In Lettow had
he reysed and in Ruce. Three census and six demptis. Sinister dexter baker's
man. Si'l vous plait coupe Chevrolet? He approved his make-up and rose the
actor in the wings.
He said, 'Might just pump the
bilge.'
The group parted and he headed for the toilet.
The security men waited outside. In the washroom, he re-combed his hair.
Peace again.
He began to hum, savouring the echo, the
finale of The Yeomen. Why didn't Sullivan round it off? Instead, he cut it
short as if late for the casino. Self-indulgent little invalid.
He turned his attention to the urinal. He knew a great deal about plumbing.
The cistern was a Doulton with silencer and plastic fittings. George Bisk,
he thought Renaissance man.
Johnstone poked his head
in. 'You're on in two minutes, Prime Minister.'
Bisk
sipped his fly, walked to the door. The zip moved an inch, then jammed. He
muttered and tried more force. Finally, he looked down. Two teeth had been
ripped from the material and his fly, beneath his portly belly, gaped each
time he moved.
He forgot about the concessions.
He forgot about the nation.
All he knew was that
historic appearances demanded consummate style. In fifty years, they
wouldn't care who won the civil war. But they'd remember his open fly. It
was too much. Too much.
One minute to air.
Burning his library, the pigs!
When Johnstone burst in, the Prime Minister was locked in the toilet.
In the sound-proof studio a murmur began, then the chanting. Then the roar.
Bisk, perched on the toilet, nurtured the thought that history had become,
for once, a record of mechanical failure. The notion quite appealed to him.
While his aides frantically battered on the door, he smiled.
Perspective was all.