Man Not Dan VIII

He thought about not turning up, but the hassle of having to justify his decision to his doctor, or even worse, having to make up a lie, did not appeal to him. He was there on time. Some of the others, however, were late. He recognised one girl as she entered the room. She smiled at him. She was the woman who thought she was his wife in his dreams. He didn’t smile back. She looked disappointed.

“Let’s get things started, shall we?” said the doctor, once he was satisfied everyone was present. “I’ll introduce you all.”

The doctor introduced him to the group as “Dan” again.

“What’s your problem, man? Dan is not my name, OK? Why do you keep calling me Dan?”

“Calm down. I don’t ‘keep’ calling you Dan. I have called you Dan once before, and for the same reason that I called you Dan today – I got the files confused. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Oh don’t start on me like this. You know why. I know who you are, and I know who she is.”

He was pointing at the woman who smiled at him.

“Now we spoke about this. You know that you are likely to see people you know in your delusions, don’t you?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“Because it’s true. All of us here have had that problem.”

“Even you?”

“Eh .. no. Not me. I’m here trying to help you all.”

“Hmm.”

“So what part did Barbara play in your delusion?”

“Well, she was … I think I was married to her. I’m not sure.”

There was slight laughter from the rest of the group.

“Oh yeah, laugh at the new guy, well Dr. Smith here told me that you’re all just as crazy as I am, so shut up.”

There was silence now. They all looked to the doctor. The woman spoke.

“I’m not crazy. I just see strange things sometimes.”

“When you sleep?”

“Not really … sometimes in the middle of the day, I’ll see something that I know isn’t real, like a dragon or a unicorn.”

“And you reckon you’re not crazy?”

“I’m not. I know what’s causing it.”

“So what’s causing it?”

There was another silence. This time the doctor spoke.

“Some of us don’t feel comfortable talking about very personal things, Dan.”

“Jesus tapdancing Christ! How many times, I’m not Dan! That. Is. Not. My. Name.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry. I fear that I may make that error again. Please don’t attack me if I do. It is motivated only by absent-mindedness on my part, not by a desire to hurt you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry I shouted. I’m just new to all this, and I really want to get some sleep before I die.”

Republicans Brought Down To Earth

Washington D.C. – In an unusual move, majority Republicans today managed to push through a bill that means the law of gravity will now be dealt with on a state-by-state basis. Americans pride themselves on having legal protections in place for the behaviour of matter, when most other countries don’t even bother acknowledging that it exists. However, a strong opposition movement to the federal regulations has been building, centred around traditional Southern States and Iowa.

“Apparently some of us are still engaging in civil war politics,” complains a Democratic representative who asked not to be named. “I don’t know if I want to live in an America where the law of gravity is different depending one which state you’re in.”

“I was elected to represent the interests of Tennessee,” says Dan Warlock, the Republican senator who is leading the loosely-arranged Apple Party movement, “and what people are telling me on the ground is that everything is far too heavy. I don’t see why we should be subject to the diktats of the Washington elites when we can fix this at almost no cost to the taxpayer, without any effect on the lighter Northern states.”

“We’ve already invested too much time and energy into the law of gravity as it stands,” explained White House spokesman, Ariel Cohen. “This is not the time to dismantle the whole thing just so we can reassemble it to the liking of Senator Warlock.”

The Perfect High Five

There is no opportunity on formspring.me to edit previously-answering questions. Therefore, we are forced to invent explanations for the wonderful “social bonging ritual”. The obvious interpretation involves drugs, but I hate the obvious. Surprise me.

Old Man

An old man was dying. There was not much time left, he knew. All the pain had gone, and he had not even the energy to speak. His two sisters were at his bedside though, and as his ability to sense his surroundings deflated, he started thinking about his life. He had lived a happy life as a manufacturer and vendor of cloth goods: hemp garments; leather shoes and sandals; linen shrouds; and so on. His services were very much in demand, and his workmanship was the talk of the province.

He remembered one occasion when he had travelled as far as he had ever travelled to sell his wares at a market on the edge of the desert. He was approached by another seller, who recognised him as being from the other end of the country. This other merchant then proceeded to speak in shining terms of the old man’s merchandise without ever realising with whom he was speaking. It gave the man a warm glow to know that he was so well thought of.

He remembered when he was a small child; the other children used to tease him because he could not hear as well as they could. They used to call him names in hushed tones to his face, knowing that he would have to strain to understand the insult. His efforts to hear would inevitably lead to more laughter. He never felt bitter about it, though. He knew that children are sometimes cruel, and that if it was not his hearing problem, they would have chosen something else about which to mock him.

He remembered when his younger sister met a man, and had decided to leave the family home. He thought it was a mistake, and told her so. He thought that the man was treating her unkindly, and that he would not change on entering a marriage with her. She disagreed, and married him anyway. He felt guilty when, three months after they were married, her new husband drowned while fishing in a nearby lake. He felt guilty not because of his exhortations to his sister, but because he was glad of her husband’s death.

He remembered a war that happened many years ago, between a neighbouring country and a country even further away. It did not affect his province directly, but less than a year into the war, there was an influx of refugees who would surely have been slaughtered if they had not left. He now regretted treating them with contempt, as though they had chosen his country to stay, as though they selected his country out of thousands as the most likely to give them a warm welcome. But they were dirty and rough, impolite and they were carrying disease. Even now, he thought, as he was dying, he was making excuses for his bad choices.

He remembered trying to form a guild with other cloth merchants, to improve their bargaining power with dealers in the north, and to spread the risk of business. It didn’t last long, because they could not agree on who should be the first to head the new organisation. The old man assured his colleagues that the leadership would be rotating, but some members were too impatient, and the league fell apart. There were still merchants today who were not speaking to each other as a result of what was said at those meetings.

He remembered when his sisters brought home a young man for dinner. He was a teacher who had come to town within the last month. Even though they had only met him that day, they thought he would have something interesting to teach their brother. He remembered failing to understand much of what the young man said. Whatever it was, it was the typical talk one could expect of a young idealist who had no long-term exposure to human nature. It was all about how we should love each other and give ourselves to god. The old man felt that he had come this far without god, and he was doing quite well so far.

He remembered a week when it didn’t stop raining. It rained heavily, all day and all night, for a week. Those unfortunate enough to live in the west end of the town had their homes destroyed by the rising tide of the lake. Before the lake has risen, a friend of the old man’s had come down from the mountain and offered to take all the old man’s cloth supplies back up the mountain, to his house. Although the water never made it as far as the old man’s shop, he was grateful for the offer.

He remembered the invasion of his country about which it was fashionable to complain. He was doing quite well out of it, though, until recently. Military men needed good quality, hard wearing clothes, and they were never short of money.

He remembered losing faith in the local religious leaders. They seemed far more concerned with the petty details of long-irrelevant rules and regulations than they were with the spiritual welfare of the people. They seemed far more interested in maintaining their comfortable lifestyle than they were in doing anything to improve the lot of others. His father had told him that there was a time when this was not so, but even in his father’s time, no one could remember it.

He remembered hearing a voice. No; this wasn’t a memory. Someone was actually calling him. He found it difficult to move. Someone called him again. This time he managed to sit up. The old man noticed that he was covered in bandages, the kind of bandage used for embalming. He suspected strongly that he was not dead. He heard the voice again, getting closer.

“You’re not dead.”

“Why am I covered in these bandages?”

“Because you were dead. But you’re not now.”

“I feel fine.”

“That’s good. You should come out when you are ready, and have something to eat with your sisters.”

He had a meal with his sisters and the strange man, who apparently had done some sort of treatment to make him better. He was sure he had seen the man somewhere before, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. His sisters were so happy that they could hardly speak. At the end of the meal, the young man had to move on, because someone needed his help somewhere else. The old man knew he should thank the young man for something.

“Thanks. And I hope we meet again.”

“I can promise you that we will. Very soon.”

“Has something been planned without my knowledge?”

“Yes.”

Without further explanation, he said his goodbyes, and left. The old man quizzed his sisters to make some sense of what happened, but they told him nothing useful, or at least nothing that he could understand.

The next morning, there was a knock at the door. The old man was not feeling too well, to which he attributed his excessive consumption of wine the night before. His youngest sister approached him, and said, “There is someone here to see you.” There was no joy in her voice. “He says he has a message from Caiaphas. He wants to see you alone.”

The messenger came in. He looked much like the young man who had treated him the previous night, but he had no life in his eyes at all. He came into the old man’s room, got rid of the women, and locked the door. He pulled out a long blade from his belt, and thrust it into the old man’s chest. The messenger gave the message from Caiaphas to the old man as he held him dying in his arms.

“There are many living who should be dead; many have died when they should have lived. It is God who decides these things, not man.”

Detective II

That night he went through his seven-and-a-half notebooks, searching for a pattern, or a sign, or a missing girl. Her last class was drama, if you can call that barely-organised time-wasting a class, and then no one saw anything. She was just gone. But someone saw something. Probably everyone saw something, if they could just focus. In his experience, you can’t push people too hard or they start inventing memories. Nevertheless, that place was crawling with all sorts of people who had access to her. Her captors could have impersonated any of them: students; security guards; restaurant staff; lecturers; cleaners; gardeners. Long and very boring review and analysis of work records and security footage for that day revealed nothing.

Earlier that day, after his battles of wits with Sally, he spoke with someone who honestly believed he was her boyfriend, although “stalker” would be a more accurate term. He was annoying, but weak and harmless – that terrible intersection of character types that you just can’t punch in the teeth.

“She’s been gone a long time.”

“Yeah, she’d be eighteen next week.”

“I know. Her parents want her back for the party.”

“Party?”

“Oh yeah. There’s going to be a huge cake and balloons.”

“What?”

“I’m joking. Calm down. You should, however, recognise the very real possibility that she might be dead.”

“I recognise the possbility that you’re an asshole.”

“What are you studying here anyway?”

“I told you like three times already! I’m doing neuroscience – brain chemistry!”

“Right. Sorry. It’s just my mind does this thing where I just can’t seem to hang onto any information I don’t give a damn about.”

“So why do you keep asking me?”

“I keep forgetting how little I care.”

“Right. Well. If she’s still alive, she’s probably suffering from Stockholm Syndrome.”

“I never heard about that … was she seeing a doctor?”

“Hah! No. It’s not a disease. It’s a weird thing where if you get kidnapped for a long time, you start to identify with your captors and you start to sympathise with them.”

“With the people who kidnapped you?”

“Yeah. Sometimes the hostages don’t want to be rescued.”

“What the hell kind of malfunction is that?”

“Quite a common one, apparently. And if it’s happened to her, she’s not going to want to be found.”

“That’s not going to make my job any easier.”

“No.”

“Where did you hear about this? Is this something to do with neuroscience?”

“No, I saw it in the colour supplement of the Los Angeles Times last Saturday.”

He flipped through his notebook with the added filter that she might not want to be found. His job went from hopeless to guaranteed impossible in the course of one conversation. The next day he drove all the way to the Hollywood sign. He liked to go up there sometimes and watch the whole world fall apart. His phone rang.

“Yeah, what? An email? When? OK. I’m coming for you right now. Don’t move.”

Forty minutes later he was sitting in a UCLA parking lot with Athene’s not-ex-boyfriend sitting beside him.

“Sandwich?”

“No thanks.”

“Suit yourself. So tell me about this email that you think is from her.”

“No, it is.”

“How do you know?”

“Because she used our special code word.”

“Special how?”

“She always had a special word she used to let me know everything was OK.”

“What word?”

“I’m not going to tell you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s a special word.”

“Tell me the word.”

“That’s not important. It just means that she’s OK.”

“I’m going to assume that you didn’t do anything clever.”

“What do you mean?”

“Did you print it off?”

“No.”

“Did you tell anyone else at all?”

“No.”

“That’s what I mean. Luckily, being stupid could actually work in your favour this time.”

“Oh good. I mean… yeah.”

“Here’s what’s going to happen. I’m taking you to meet this techie guy, you’re going to show him the email, and he’s going to tell me where she is.”

“Can’t do it. I have Spanish in fifteen minutes.”

“Wrong. You have Applied Computers in fifteen minutes.”

“I don’t do computers at all.”

Don’t punch him.

In fifteen minutes they were parked outside a pretty house with a watered lawn. As they knocked on the door, the sprinklers came on. A pretty, forty-something woman answered the door.

“You again.”

“Yeah, me again. I need to see the kid. Nice sprinklers.”

“When are you going to leave him alone?”

“When he stops being so damn useful.”

She shouted inside the house.

“Hey Lenny! That creepy guy is here again.”

“You have such a way with words.”

“Just you be careful with my son.”

“What the hell do you think I’m going to do? I’m going to take this moron-”

“Hello!”

“-who hasn’t stopped staring at your chest, get him to open an email, and Lenny’s going to tell me where it came from. That’s it. OK?”

“Yeah. And leave your friend alone. There’s nothing wrong with showing an interest in attractive women.”

“Yeah well I think he’s composed of 85% hormones.”

“Really?”

He pushed the smiling student into the house and down the stairs.

“She seems like a nice lady.”

“Yeah she’s a real keeper. Hey, Lenny!”

Lenny turned around in a swivel chair. He was sitting in front of a large computer system, playing a first person shooter. Hah! He’d shit himself if he had to handle a real gun.

“Hey.”

“Hey Lenny, this is …”

“Simon.”

“Yeah. Simon’s a friend of mine. I need an email traced. How about it?”

“What do you mean traced?”

“I want you to tell me where it came from.”

“Doesn’t it tell you in the email header?”

“Well, I don’t know. I’m looking for a location, like a disused warehouse or something.”

“I can’t do that!”

“What? What do you mean? You’re my tech guy!”

“I’m not anyone’s tech guy. I keep explaining this to you but you never listen.”

“You spend ten hours a day in front of that thing. How can you not be a tech guy?”

“If you drove around for ten hours a day, would that make you a mechanic?”

“What the hell are you doing there all day?”

He turned around and started clicking something.

“Well, at the moment, I’m levelling up on World of Warcraft; downloading a Nine Inch Nails track that hasn’t been released yet; complimenting Sheryl in Ohio on her new dye job – ‘intense copper red’, it suits her; and updating my blog.”

“Oh.”

“Heh. You just got owned by a kid.”

Don’t punch him.

“Will you just try?”

“OK, fine. Simon sit down here and bring up the email.”

“He has to leave.”

“What?”

“I’m not doing it if you’re here.”

“Jesus. Fine. Lenny, I’ll be right outside.”

As he closed the door, he heard Simon talking to Lenny:

“Dude, your mom is hot.”

There was a real possibility that Lenny would punch him. After a few minutes, Lenny called him back in.

“What’s the deal?”

“For a start, the special word is Twinkles.”

“Dude! You promised!”

“Sorry, Simon, but for some reason I can’t bring myself to actually punch you, so this is all I can do. In other news, and you’re going to love this, the email came from UCLA.”

“Hm. Can you pin it down more than that.”

“Sure. What time is it?”

“Simon?”

“Oh – it’s 4:10.”

“Cool. The sysop will be awake. Go call him with… this number, and he’ll-”

“Wait. Why don’t you call him?”

“God! OK. Fine.”

Lenny called someone, had an incomprehensible conversation and wrote something down. He showed the piece of paper to Simon.

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“Whoops.”

“What? Whoops what?”

“I know who sent the email.”

An hour later he was sitting in a campus cafe, talking to Sally.

“So you did it for fun?”

“Yeah I thought it would be fun to screw with him a bit.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah, he’s kind of annoying you know?”

“Yeah I got that.”

“Hey! I’m right here!”

“Shut up, Simon. So how did you know his special word?”

“HAH. Point out someone in this room.”

He picked someone standing at the cash register. Sally shouted over to him.

“Hey! You! Boy!”

“Yeah?”

“Simon and the princess – special word?”

“Twinkles.”

“Oh god.”

“Shut up, Simon. You know what this means? You’ve just taken from me the only lead I’ve had in eight. Months.”

He was getting sick of this. Being wrong about everything. Being the kind of person who only visited his fifteen-year-old son when he proved useful. Having to spend time talking himself out of bed in the morning because he honestly didn’t see the point. Drinking too much beer and having bad sex with tired, lonely women. Jesus. Maybe that’s the perfect relationship – where neither party has anything at all to offer the other.

He drove home to the Valley. Every time a car approached him from the opposite direction, he thought about steering into it. OK, I’m going about fifty, so if he’s going the same speed, that’s an impact of a hundred – that’s enough for an instant kill. Sure, I’d be taking someone with me, but what do I care? I’m dead. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just turn the steering… like this. Then he thought that the person he killed might be a hot chick. For the sole reason that he didn’t want to take a hot chick out of the world, he abandoned the plan and drove home. He looked up to the roof of his apartment building as he approached the front door. A fall like that could kill a man. Or just really really hurt. He’d have to be careful to land on his head. He knew he was too lazy and too tired to do anything that night. This whole thing is stupid.

He woke up the next morning, on his couch, on his birthday, with a glass of whiskey in his hand. Sweet, he thought, breakfast.

He wrote a letter to Mr. Devereaux that afternoon. That evening, he was just about drunk enough to cut open his veins and fall into the bath. There was something about it in on page 16 of the the San Fernando Valley Herald, between an ad for used cars and an article addressing the issue of erectile dysfunction in middle-aged men entitled: “Great Expectations”

Man Not Dan VI-VII

VI

The specialist was someone he recognised, but he couldn’t remember how. As he spoke with him, he remembered – this was the man who claimed to be his doctor in his dream.

“I know you!”

“What?”

“I know you! You’re the guy in my dreams.”

“Er… what?”

“When I have the crazy dream, you’re the doctor. It’s you.”

“You only met me today, Dan.”

“Dan? Why did you call me Dan?”

“Because that’s the name I have on your file.”

He was getting scared.

“But that’s not my name. Are you sure that’s my file?”

“Oh, sorry. That was someone else’s file. Must have got them mixed up. Heh. Here’s your file.”

The specialist, Mr. Smith, moved Dan’s file from the top to the bottom, and was now looking at the correct file.

“So you think you’ve seen me in your dreams.”

“No, I don’t. I know I’ve seen you. It’s you.”

“Well, let me tell you something. I have a lot of patients with paranoid delusions. And around half of them think they meet me in one form or another. All of them see people they know, but in unfamiliar ways – it can be very disorienting, confusing. BUT! Help is available!”

He sounded very upbeat.

“Well that’s great. What can you do?”

“I think there is some underlying psychosis that you may not even be aware of – we need to find that problem. Then we can work on a solution.”

This was not really good news. He couldn’t think of anything that would cause this level of psychosis. He had a happy childhood, he was getting on all right at work… he couldn’t think of anything.

“I can’t think of anything.”

“Good lord! I don’t expect you to come up with the answer right now. This could take months of therapy.”

“Months?”

“Yes – possibly more. But that is standard operating procedure. It’s nothing to worry about. The good news is that while we’re working on this, I can give you some pills that will guarantee your sleep is dream-free. You’re going to feel a bit strange when you wake up, at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

“Can’t be worse that the way I feel now.”

“Good man.”

“So, apart from these pills, what do we do?”

Mr. Smith hesitated.

“I want to throw you in the deep end.”

“What?”

“I want to start you on group therapy right away. I’m having a session with a small group of six people who are suffering from paranoid delusions tonight at my office. Can you make it tonight?”

“Tonight? Er… to be honest I…”

“What?”

“I don’t really want to hang around with a bunch of crazy people.”

“They’re not crazy crazy, they’re just suffering from delusions, like you.”

“Yeah, but I’m all right. You know, basically, I’m OK, apart from the weird dreams. I’m not really a head case.”

“Neither are they. They are all perfectly normal apart from whatever mental problem they are having.”

“Really?”

“Really. I personally guarantee your safety.”

“OK then.”

“Good man.”

VII

He thought about not turning up, but the hassle of having to justify his decision to his doctor, or even worse, having to make up a lie, did not appeal to him. He was there on time. Some of the others, however, were late. He recognised one girl as she entered the room. She smiled at him. She played the part of his wife in the dream. He didn’t smile back. She looked disappointed.

“Let’s get things started, shall we?” said the doctor, once he was satisfied everyone was present. “I’ll introduce you all.”

The doctor introduced him to the group as “Dan” again.

“What’s your problem, man? Dan is not my name, OK? Why do you keep calling me Dan?”

“Calm down. I don’t ‘keep’ calling you Dan. I have called you Dan once before, and for the same reason that I called you Dan today – I got the files confused. Why does it bother you so much?”

“Oh don’t start on me like this. You know why. I know who you are, and I know who she is.”

He was pointing at the woman who smiled at him.

“Now we spoke about this. You know that you are likely to see people you know in your delusions, don’t you?”

“That’s what you told me.”

“Because it’s true. All of us here have had that problem.”

“Even you?”

“Eh… no. Not me. I’m here trying to help you all.”

“Hmm.”

“So what part did Barbara play in your delusion?”

“Well, she was… I think I was married to her. I’m not sure.”

There was slight laughter from the rest of the group.

“Oh yeah, laugh at the new guy! Dr. Smith here told me that you’re all just as crazy as I am, so shut up.”

There was silence now. They all looked to the doctor. The woman spoke.

“I’m not crazy. I just see strange things sometimes.”

“When you sleep?”

“No… sometimes in the middle of the day, I’ll see something that I know isn’t real, like a dragon or a unicorn.”

“And you reckon you’re not crazy?”

“I’m not. I know what’s causing it.”

“So what’s causing it?”

There was another silence. This time the doctor spoke.

“Some of us don’t feel comfortable talking about very personal things, Dan.”

“Jesus tapdancing Christ! How many times, I’m not Dan! That. Is. Not. My. Name.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry. I fear that I may make that error again. Please don’t attack me if I do. It is motivated only by absent-mindedness on my part, not by a desire to hurt you.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m sorry I shouted. I’m just new to all this, and I really want to get some sleep before I die.”

Detective I

It was 110 degrees in the shade in Riverside County. The shade was his natural habitat, and he was in Riverside County on a job – official business. He was on the trail of a missing heiress, who was probably dead. They usually are in these cases. However, as long as he was being paid, he was looking for her.

A car pulled up to the house opposite the tree under which he was standing. He wrote the plate into his notebook: 787 UZI. An aeroplane and a machine gun. He needed a drink, but he couldn’t drink on the job, and he was stuck all the way out here in the middle of the desert following a dead-end lead.

Last week, he tried to explain to the old man, but of course he never spoke with Devereaux himself. Even when he was commissioned for the job, someone else set it up. They had people to talk to nobodies like him.

>4 pm. UZI car leaves, two people as before, girl screaming in trunk, ha ha only joking.

This was his eighth notebook. He had seven notebooks full of information and dates and statistics but nothing which could honestly be referred to as a clue. He remembers the day he was hired. A man made an appointment, turned up on time, and handed him Devereaux’s card.

“I’ve heard you’re one of the best.”

“I bet you say that to all the dicks.”

“No, we were very impressed with your work.”

“Whoop-de-doo. My talents have been recognised by a Devereaux flunkie. Now I can die happy.”

He took the case because he needed the money. He needed the money because he had run up some unpleasant debts with some unpleasant people, including his ex-wife. He thought about the government “Don’t Drink and Drive” campaign.

“Screw that. Don’t drink and gamble.”

The expression on the faces of the two little girls who were passing by his tree left no room for doubt – he had said that last thought aloud. It must be time for beer. Inside a half hour he was sitting on his own at a bar with a beer in front of him. And now it has half a beer. This is how every conversation for the last eight months went:

“So you’re on the Devereaux case?”

“Yeah. Have you seen anything unusual around here?”

“You mean like a kidnapped heiress, that sort of thing?”

“Yes.”

“No.”

Sometimes, the more outgoing ones would add:

“And if I did, I wouldn’t call you, I’d call Devereaux and collect my reward. I’d walk right through those gates and whistle a jaunty tune!”

He just made up the part about jaunty tunes, but it made no difference, not to him. He would never see the inside of the Devereaux estate. That place was like Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory. He imagined it was a seething, roaring mass of jealousy, tenuous political alliances and cash. Or, if you like: a successful family business. When Athene Devereaux came of age the following week – if she was still a going concern – she would inherit millions.

The Devereauxs made their money selling drugs. Or, if you like, from marketing pharmaceutical tranquillisers, leading to such hilarious headlines as “Sturdy Devereaux Share Price Calms Wall Street (NASDAQ) Nerves”. Et Cetera.

Devereaux liked pushing the line that he worked hard in his family store and built his empire from the top. A lot of digging revealed that his great grand-something made a lot of money from slave-trading. Admittedly, this was back when selling black people to be worked to death made sound business sense. Nowadays, the Devereaux company had factories in Africa manned by locals. The whole operation is costing them less than it would if he was actually using slave labour. It even cost less to use human guinea pigs in his drug trials instead of actual guinea pigs. Accommodation and food costs were someone else’s problem, the cost of living meant that real wages were a fraction of US minimum wage and there was zero risk of labour escaping. The poor bastards were queuing up every day outside the gates in case someone died during the night. The only thing that could upset that applecart was a union, and the government was so paranoid about socialism that the army did most of Devereaux’s nasty work for him. Some nights, four or five employees would just disappear. Oh well, four or five new jobs. It feels good to be helping developing nations doesn’t it?

He wouldn’t know. He was incapable even of helping himself. A tired blonde who probably wasn’t blonde shuffled over meekly.

“Room for one more?”

“Jesus. Give me a few more beers, OK?”

“OK”

Clearly she had misinterpreted him. Either that, or she had no self-esteem whatsoever.

The following morning he woke up next to her. He had a thumping headache and was unimpressed with the view.

“Hey, wake up. Hey. You have to go now.”

“Oh right. Yeah. Thanks. I hope you find that girl today.”

“Not me. The longer I can go without finding her, the better. I’m on a weekly retainer. It’s massive.”

“What?”

“I’m joking. I hope I find her too. You’re taxi’s outside.”

“That was quick.”

“Not really. I called them last night.”

“Oh. OK. Can we do this again sometime?”

“I doubt it. I don’t plan on getting that drunk for some time.”

“We don’t have to drink.”

“That’s a matter of opinion. Good morning.”

As he pushed her out the door, he wondered why he was like this. Why do I have to be cruel and mean and sarcastic to every single person I meet? He was even more curious about people like her – people who mistook “nasty” for “cool”. Morons. Oh, look what I just did – insulted the intelligence of people who like me, just for liking me. That’s probably a new low.

What wonders will await me at UCLA today? He had decided to go back to college. He had been there several times already, tracking down her classmates and asking them the same obvious questions:

“Did she seem worried or upset?”

“Not really.”

“You know of anyone who might have a grudge against her?”

“Sally, maybe. She was jealous of Athene.”

“All right. Go on.”

“Yeah, see, Sally and Athene both dated this guy Derek, right? Not at the same time, obv. So when Athene decided to go out with Sally’s brother, Sally said that she said that it was too-”

“Skip to the end.”

“You said to go on.”

“That’s true. I am to blame. I deserve this.”

And he was going back for more. He was considering having t-shirts printed. On the front: “Does anyone know anything at all about Athene Devereaux that might help me find her?” and on the back: “Seriously. Anything at all.”

His mind wandered as he drove doing the 405 on autopilot: Whose idea was it to become a private detective anyway? Oh yeah, his mother’s, after he got fired from the police for alcoholism. Or, if you like, for beating a confession out of a guy who spent two years in prison for something he didn’t do.

He arrived at the university just in time for breakfast – 2 pm. Heh. Students. Probably cold pizza and warm beer. He wondered if Athene ever had cold pizza, or if there was any point of intersection between his life and hers. Her room was not touched since he last saw it. There was still a private security company preventing access – for eight months, and possible clue in her room had been sitting there, passed over by two separate forensic teams, two teams of police investigators, the FBI missing persons unit, all her friends and family, and himself. If he found something now, it would make fools of everyone, including himself. A bell rang somewhere. Oh look, a note stuffed into the lampshade! ‘I have been kidnapped by aliens’. Ha ha. I knew those alien bastards were up to something.

“You again?”

“Yes, me again Sally.”

“Find her yet?”

“If she is found, you’ll know before I do.”

“Hah! Want to ask me any more questions?”

“Not really, but I’m being paid.”

“You really don’t like me very much, do you?”

“Not really. But I’m being paid.”

“What is it about me that annoys you so much?”

“We don’t have that kind of time.”

“Oh come on. Name one thing.”

“O.K. What’s your favourite band?”

“Hm. I quite like Norah Jones.”

“One day all of you people are going to burn in hell. And I will be standing over you, laughing at you.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I’ll be standing right between The White Stripes, and all three of us will be pointing and laughing.”

“Let me know when this line of questioning produces a breakthrough.”

“You did ask.”

“Do you really expect anything to come of these interminable visits of yours?”

“Not really. But I’m being paid.”

Man Not Dan parts II – V

II

He woke up in a familiar bed. Sandra was beside him. He looked at her, expecting her to wake up. Whenever he woke up in the morning and looked at her, she always woke up. He had no idea why. She woke up.

“Hey”

She was smiling, and still half asleep.

“Hey”

The look on his face gave him away.

“What’s wrong? Is someone dead?”

“No, no no. I just had a really strange dream.”

“What happened?”

“Well – I dreamed that I was in a different house with a wife, and no one would believe me about you and this house.”

“Was she prettier than me?”

He didn’t go into a lot of detail, partly because the memory of the dream was slipping away even as he spoke. He had forgotten the whole episode completely by the time he got to work. When he came home from work, he watched some television with Sandra, and went to sleep around midnight.

III

He woke up in an eerily familiar forest. There was little light. He sat up and looked all around, but he couldn’t see much. His head was sore. His hand went up automatically to feel a bump. It was sore. He looked up again, and saw a branch at about head height.

He remembered a part of last night’s dream now, and assumed that he had hit the branch. He knew that people were looking for him, but thought that they must have given up and gone home. He had been saved, it appeared, by the thick undergrowth around him. He stood up and hit the branch again. He smiled, and started walking.

He was back in unfamiliar territory again. He didn’t know where to go. He kept walking, for hours and hours, but he was getting nowhere, and he needed some food. It was now pitch black, and he didn’t see the point of trying to retrace his steps in the middle of the night. In any case, his head was sore, so he settled down on the ground and tried to get some sleep.

IV

He woke up in a familiar bed. Sandra was beside him. He shook her awake. She woke up and asked him what the matter was.

“I’ve had the same dream again.”

“The one with the other wife?”

“Yeah, that one. Well, she wasn’t in it this time.”

“So it was a different dream?”

“Yeah. I mean no. It was the same dream, it just picked up from where it left off. Has that ever happened to you?”

“No. Are you worried about it?”

“A little bit. I think it might mean something.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

“No, no. Not about you. I mean – I don’t know what I mean.”

“So what happens now?”

“I suppose there’s no point in going to a doctor and telling him I had a weird dream, is there?”

“What do you think he would say?”

“Forget about it and go home – give me fifty bucks.”

“I agree with him. Now give me fifty bucks.”

“What?”

“I have to do some shopping later on and my card isn’t working properly ever since you left it where the dog could get at it.”

“OK.”

V

This kept happening to him, night after night, or, depending on how you looked at it. day after day. It was exhausting his brain. Eventually, against the advice of his real wife, he decided to go to a doctor. The doctor took his story very seriously.

“Am I crazy?”

“I’m not going to lie to you – it’s very possible.”

“Really?”

“Really. Although we don’t call it ‘crazy’. We call it ‘delusional paranoia’ with possible schizophrenia.”

“Oh. I think I prefer ‘crazy’.”

“Yeah, well there’s tests we can do. Do you want to do some tests?”

“Like brain tests?”

“To start with, they will be tests for certain chemicals in your brain, yes. But it’s just as likely to have some psychological cause.”

“So?”

“So, if it is psychological, it’s not going to show up on any test, is it?”

The doctor ordered some tests, but they all came back negative. Then the doctor, admitting his abilities could no longer help, referred him to a specialist.

San Francisco

I was on holiday in San Francisco, on a tram, when I thought I recognised someone sitting across from me.

“I know you,” he said.

“I know you too,” I answered diplomatically, “we were at school together”.

I remembered him all right. He was, on occasion, very unkind to me. He would push me around because I was weaker than him, and he would try to make me look foolish in front of my friends, because I was smarter than him.

“I know. I gave you a hard time.”

“I remember.”

“I wasn’t the only one, though.”

“No, that’s true. It made me feel a lot better to know that it was a group effort.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

There was a pause. I didn’t know where the conversation was going. If it never went anywhere, I wouldn’t object. I sat there, looking out the window. We would arrive at our destination in a few minutes. But he spoke again.

“People do stupid things when they’re younger.”

“Yeah, I guess they do.”

“I’m sorry for anything I did to you.”

This was interesting. An apology. Only twenty years too late. Still, he was making the effort.

“You don’t need to apologise. That was a long time ago.”

“Yeah, I think I kinda do.”

“Well it’s done. You are forgiven. You may go on your merry way.”

A darkness came over his face.

“It’s not a merry way.”

For the second time during this conversation, I wasn’t sure where this conversation was going. And for the second time, I wanted it to just stop there. So, as we approached the stop, I decided to give myself an out.

“I hope it gets merrier.”

“I think it will. Thanks.”

The tram came to a stop, and I moved to get out, but he grabbed my arm and asked me a strange question.

“If you could wish for anything, what would you wish for?”

I thought about it. My mother was very sick at home in Ireland and I was worried about her.

“I’d wish that my mother would get better.”

He didn’t say anything. He just got off the tram and walked down the street.

Later on that night, I was talking to my mother on the telephone. I was telling her about my day, about the fog, the sea lions on Fisherman’s Wharf, and about the Golden Gate Bridge. I also told her about meeting the bully from school. She seemed confused when I said his name, so I said it again.

“Are you sure we’re talking about the same boy?”

“Yeah – that’s him all right.”

“You haven’t heard, then?”

“Heard what?”

“His father found him hanging from a tree in his back garden two days ago.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say. My mother continued, perhaps believing that I hadn’t quite understood.

“He’s dead.”

“Yeah, I get that part.”

I decided not to mention anything about the wish, and ended the telephone call, and three days later, my mother died.

Killer Headaches

He had always joked that unless the first thing the doctor said was, “Why the hell didn’t you come to me sooner?”, a visit would be a complete waste of time. As it turns out, there was not a lot anyone could have done even if he had reported the headaches earlier.

Five months ago, before the headaches got really bad, he posted an ad on a dating website. He decided to be completely honest, something which seemed to be sadly lacking from that ads he saw, and thought the novelty value alone might attract interest:

I’m sick of getting screwed around by women who are supposed to care about me. I realise that nice guys finish last, but if you’re a woman and you’re using a nice guy as your emotional plaything, please consider the following effects:

1. Every time I see what’s going on, my heart hardens a little bit more, making it more difficult to feel anything. At this stage, I really don’t know if I’m capable of loving anyone, or being loved.
2. It’s seriously lowering my opinion of women in general, which I know is unfair.
3. It’s pretty much killed my sex drive stone dead. I don’t even want to look at porn anymore.
4. I have become a mean person. I don’t think I used to be this mean, but now I’m a sarcastic, cynical person who gets a kick out of being nasty to people, and masks it as “having a sense of humour”.

So if you’re exceptionally brave or stupid, or you have some sort of sociological project to do for the summer, get in touch.

In the following weeks, he got four answers; four more than he was expecting. He certainly didn’t think a relationship would come of it – he had come out of a messy relationship and just needed someone to talk to. Two of the responses were long and complicated defences of the psychology of women, one identified with his position, but went further, calling all women “users, liars and whores”. He had to assume the writer was not including herself in that category. The last reply was from Eve:

In two years of membership of this website, I have never seen an ad like yours. I appreciate originality and creativity – I am drawn to it. Also, I’ve never screwed around a guy in my life, so I’m probably not going to start with you. Tell me what your top five bands are, and we’ll see if we can move from there.

Eve was under the impression that you could tell a lot about someone from his taste in music. Against the odds, she shared his interest in obscure, loud German rock bands. He had either passed her test, or she was lying about her musical preferences. Nevertheless, emails were exchanged, frank opinions discussed, and stark realities outlined. Eventually the diagnosis came in, and he had to phone her.

“Eve?”

“Yeah.”

“Hi. It’s me.”

“Oh, hey babe. How did the doctor’s visit go?”

“That’s what I wanted to tell you.”

“I knew it! I told you it would be nothing.”

“Well, it’s not nothing.”

“Oh. It’s not terribly serious, is it?”

“Well, it is.”

“Oh no. How serious?”

“Well, he gave me two months.”

“Two months? Two months to do what?”

“To live.”

“To live?”

“Yeah. It’s beginning to look like I’ll be dead in two months.”

“What? This better not be some kind of joke, I swear to god.”

“No, I’m not joking. I’m a bit scared, to be honest.”

“Oh. Well then you have to come over here.”

“I am going over there.”

“No, I mean right now.”

“But my tickets – I can’t change the dates. They’re non-refundable.”

“Tickets? What the hell are you talking about? I don’t care if you have to sell your mother, you have to get over here right now! We only have two months.”

“Oh. Well, I thought seeing as how we’ve never met, and this is all pretty heavy stuff to lay on anyone, it might be better, you know, not to.”

“No, you idiot. It wouldn’t be better not to. It would be better to get your ass over here tomorrow.”

“I have to move a few things around, and talk to some people first.”

“Screw those people! Screw those things! Do you even understand what’s happening to you? I want you over here by tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s the thing. It’s a bit-”

“Argh! Just go on your computer, click on your airline website thing, select tomorrow’s date, pay them whatever they want and be here tomorrow, O.K.?”

“O.K.”

“Promise me you’re going to do that right now.”

“Yeah, I will, I just have to-”

“No. What you just have to do is what I just told you to do right now. Right?”

“Right.”

“Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She calmed down.

“Good. Right. I’ll call you later and you can tell me what time I should be at the airport tomorrow.”

“O.K.”

“Good. Now I’m going to hang up and cry myself stupid. Bye.”

She hung up. Some time later she called back. She didn’t say hello.

“So. Details.”

“American Airlines flight 218 arriving at 3 p.m.”

“Good boy.”

“So you’ll be there to pick me up?”

“No, you’ll have to take a taxi to my apartment, but I’ll give you directions.”

“O.K.”

“Of course I’ll be there! You are so dumb sometimes, I swear to god.”

“Yeah, well I’ve been preoccupied.”

“Whatever. My new life’s mission is to make your the next two months are the best two months you’ve ever had.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“Does that mean…”

“What?”

“You know.”

“Oh, yeah. Lots of that.”

“You know, for the first time since this morning, I don’t feel so bad.”

“Great. See you tomorrow.”

“Yeah.”

For months they had been emailing each other every day, usually twice, and on one memorable occasion when she was at home sick, seventeen times. They talked about movies, religion, politics, music, and anything else that popped into their heads while typing. He adored her and he frequently told her so. The day after the first time he said this, she sent her photo. He had no idea what she looked like, apart from her name pointing in a general Hispanic direction. He couldn’t believe how pretty she was. She had clear, light brown skin, long black hair in tight curls, big gentle eyes, soft lips and a smile that could take over a small country.

“What the hell does that mean?”

“It means I like your smile.”

“So why didn’t you just say that?”

“It’s a writer thing. It’s what we do.”

“Honestly. You have the strangest way of saying things sometimes, I swear to god.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m glad you think I’m pretty though.”

“Think? Don’t they have mirrors where you come from?”

“Ha. Check out you with the suave.”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine. I was worried, though. I was going to send you a photo of Alicia.”

“Your sister Alicia?”

“Yeah. Now she is, in fact, pretty.”

“Jesus. There’s more?”

“Just for that I’m not sending you her photo.”

“I don’t want to see her stupid photo. I’m going to see the prettiest girl in the world in five weeks. I win.”

“Lucky you. I win too, you know.”

“Do you? Why?”

“Because I love you. Idiot.”

On the flight he was hit by one of his headaches, a banging, crashing, stabbing monster in his head. He had taken more medication with him than he could ever possibly need, but if he took double the recommended dose, it usually helped a lot. In any case, although they were becoming more frequent, they never lasted more than a few hours.

He saw her immediately in the arrivals hall. She was smaller and lighter than he imagined. This was just as well, because she ran gently over and jumped on him, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. He put his hands under her for support.

“You should be more careful. I’m a sick man.”

“Shut up.”

He stood there like that, holding her wrapped around him, for a few minutes.

“So are you going to let go?”

“Not planning on it.”

“You know, I can’t hold on forever. My muscles are going to get weak and I’ll have to drop you.”

“Shut up.”

Some time passed. People ran for airplanes, or from airplanes. People ran to family members, or walked sadly away from them. She unwrapped her legs and lowered herself to the floor.

“O.K. we can go now.”

She took his hand and led him to where she had parked.

“So. where are we going?”

“I’m taking you to see my family.”

“We’re going to your house?”

“Of course!”

“Well, I thought I’d be staying at a hotel, you know, where we could have some privacy.”

“Oh, you’re such a man! You guys only ever think about one thing, I swear to god.”