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About
the author Wendy
Waters began adult life as an actress/singer, fronting jazz bands in ProloguePublic Toilets,
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W |
ell-known security guard Jean-Paul Gurniere staggered towards the toilet block. An unwieldy set of keys clanked with every drunken step. He lunged for the only late-night commuter on the station and clung to him until the wave of nausea passed. I am still alive. Recovering his equilibrium with a terse explanation and ticket inquiry, he tipped his hat to the startled man and made his unsteady way to lock the ladies toilets. Locating the correct key out of the bunch of sixty was a task Jean-Paul in his current state was unequal to.
“Sacre bleu,” he muttered in perfect French as yet another key failed to fit the swimming, hazy lock. At last, a key fitted and the thundering iron gate clanked into place just as twenty-eight year old Jean-Paul anticipated it would.
“Try and get in now you bastards!” yelled the unusually erudite young man. But the commuter had fled and the platform was empty so his veiled invitation tempted no one.
“You’ll see,” he swore as he made his way to lock the gents. Door three in the gents” toilet was shut. He banged on it but no one answered. It was locked from the inside. But how could that be? The booth was empty. Then he saw them. The erudite young security guard froze to the spot, gaping at the letters burned into the locked green lavatory door. WWW. It was not the first time he had seen these letters. No, it was the second. He had seen them once before on another toilet door in another station. A fresh wave of nausea overcame him. He fell to his knees and threw up on the white tiles. Chillingly close, a voice spoke in perfect French.
“Do not move.”
Jean-Paul, on his hands and knees, turned his head slowly. There, outside the massive iron gates of the gents’ toilet which had mysteriously closed, stood the largest man he had ever seen. Jean Paul’s scout training returned to him in a flash. With his highly trained peripheral vision, he located the bunch of keys still firmly attached to his wallet. His wallet! Gripped in the man’s gigantic hand were Jean-Paul’s wallet and the bunch of keys. But how? When? Of course, when he had been sick. It was an old scout trick.
“Do not move,” repeated the giant who had bad skin and no hair.
“Give me back my wallet,” demanded Jean-Paul.
“You are in no position to make demands.”
Jean-Paul rose to his feet, slid on his vomit, hit his head on the closed toilet door and slipped a disc as he landed hard on the white tiles.
“I told you not to move,” said the giant. Jean-Paul lay in agony on the cold tiles. The giant reached into his coat pocket.
“Don’t shoot me!” screamed Jean-Paul. “I have a cat.”
“It would be hard to shoot anyone with this,” said the giant pulling out a large banana. Jean-Paul tried to move, struggling against the pain.
“I’d advise you not to move,” said the giant.
“Why,” said Jean-Paul,” because you might kill me?”
“No, because you have a severely slipped disc which will only get worse if you wriggle about. Now, tell me where it is.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” winced Jean-Paul.
“You are lying,” said the giant, rifling through Jean-Paul’s wallet. Jean-Paul tried to move again. The pain ricocheted through his torso like a jagged bullet.
“I’ve been shot!” screamed the erudite young security guard. The giant pointed the banana at him through the bars.
“You should not do that. You’ll only make things worse for yourself. You and the Transport Department have something that belongs to me.”
Jean-Paul felt an odd surge of familiarity. Seconds later he threw up again.
“I knew you’d do that,” said the giant.
How could he possibly have known?
“Tell me where it is hidden and I’ll help you,” said the giant.
“I am a transport worker. You will get no information out of me,” said Jean-Paul defiantly.
“Is it a secret you will die with?” asked the giant, pointing his banana at him again.
“Stop threatening me with that thing,” said Jean-Paul.
“Why? Does it make you feel uncomfortable?”
Jean-Paul stared at the banana, then at the bald giant with his bad skin, then back at the letters WWW. A wave of nausea overcame him again.
“I see you are beginning to remember,” said the giant tantalizingly rattling the keys. “Tell me where they are and I’ll help you up.”
Jean-Paul’s mind raced. A shipment of
banana leaves. No return address. Insufficient postage. No dangerous goods
declaration. Stamped indefinite quarantine. A furious bald giant with bad skin
standing over fat Armande and greasy Pierre. Marseilles 2005. The letters WWW
burned into the package with lit cigarettes. WWW burned into the toilet door.
Vandalism of government property. Third door from the entrance of the gents’
in the underground station in
“I found the other two,” said the giant, “I made them tell me everything.”
Jean-Paul felt sick. He threw up again and noticed he was starting to sober up. His unusually erudite mind was clogging with lucidity. His brain couldn’t function properly without pure alcohol running through his calcified veins. He was only twenty-eight. But he was French.
“I need a drink,” said Jean-Paul.
The giant reached into his pocket. Jean-Paul cringed.
“Not another banana?” he cried.
The giant pulled out a small silver flask. Jean-Paul’s head roared, his mind a seething mess of regret, recrimination, remorse, rectitude and possibly recreation.
“Whisky,” said the giant, “if you give me the information I want.”
“I thought you just said the other two told you everything.”
“Everything except where the package is.”
Jean-Paul weighed up his sacred duty as a security guard for the Transport Department, the oath of allegiance he took the day he was issued with his cap and badge, the protocol of lying rather than giving up transport and locker information against his overwhelming desire for a drink. His thirst won.
“Locker 5, Tunnel 4, Station 43. 5, Route 66, Code Number 0916327553084199652880. 65328 Repeater to the power of Pi².”
“Do you think I was born yesterday?” screamed the giant. “I know all that bullshit, that’s just Einstein’s theory of the universe expanding exponentially divided by Pi to the power of two thrown up in the air and calculated along random lines predicted by the gravitational pull on disparate pieces of paper unevenly torn by a cripple with palsy. I want to know which bloody key on this bunch unlocks Locker 5 which contains my stolen…”
“Quarantined…” interrupted Jean-Paul.
“Stolen,” reiterated the giant, “banana leaves.”
Once again Jean-Paul was stunned by the man’s knowledge of the Transport Department.
“Have you worked for the Transport Department?” asked Jean-Paul, stalling for precious time and genuinely interested.
“Yes, I was kicked out on a breach of an 05 regulation.”
Jean-Paul’s head reeled. Only one man had ever been dismissed from the French Transport Department for not wearing a hat whilst on active duty. A bald giant with unusually bad skin. He felt a wave of nausea rising but he was getting pretty fed up with vomiting so he ignored it.
“I remember! It made front page of the Transport Gazette.”
“It was a set-up. My hat was washed in hot water. It shrank. They wanted me out. They said I frightened commuters.”
No wonder he knew so much about the inner workings of a complex and secret system which baffled even the most regular commuters.
“If I tell you which key it is will you give me a drink?”
The giant nodded.
“OK, it’s the small silver key with Locker 5 written on it.”
The giant reached into his pocket. He must have had a whole bunch in there. He pulled out a coat hanger. From fifteen feet away he tossed the coat hanger, the banana, the whisky flask and deftly removing the key to Locker 5 the remaining bunch of keys into Jean-Paul’s sea of vomit. They sank.
“Good luck, my work here is done,” called the giant as he marched away headed for Route 66, Station 43. 5, Locker 5 and Tunnel 4.
For a long time Jean-Paul lay in his claggy
vomit staring at the greying tiles on the lavatory ceiling. As a veteran of
scout summer camps he knew that a man could last five hours in his own vomit if
the wind didn’t pick up and freeze you to the bone. Hypothermia set in after
two hours. Agony for the next hour then everybody had a lot of fun trying to
chip you out. Then parents turned up and took you home. No, wait; that was
winter camp in the
The wretched thing stuck to his hand. He swished it round and round trying to break its deadly grip on his freezing fingers. He drew a complete circle around himself in his own vomit. With his left hand he poked around looking for the whisky but found instead the banana. He tossed it at the door. It bounced off the locked door and lodged itself firmly in his right nostril. He tried to extricate it with his right hand, forgetting the coat hanger was stuck to it. The hook pierced his left nostril ripping off the frozen pads of his fingertips. With his now pad-less and bleeding free right hand he located the keys. He placed them on his stomach so they wouldn’t get lost. Unable to find the flask he spread his legs into a V-shape. The flask was there right under his manhood. He poured the whisky down his throat. He tried to sit up but couldn’t move his back at all. If I die now the truth will be lost forever. With his remaining strength he tore open his shirt and, taking the sharpest key, etched these words across his chest.
edliW si racsO ?tac ym deef esaelp enoemos lliW
WWW.666.marcellomedici.
He flung his arms wide like the crucified
Christ and died, knowing the most powerful secret ever kept had been passed on
and just who would receive it.
|
M |
arcello Medici woke slowly. Another wet
dream. It was not a good idea in these freezing European winters to fan the
sheets or your dick could freeze to your hand and bingo, a nation of
disappointed women and a failed dynasty. Marcello was in
“Marcello Medici at your service. What can I do to bring you pleasure? My entire ten inches of unbridled manhood is ready to erupt on the tip of your tongue. What hangs on your lips? Words, I mean.” And he waited.
“Well, that all sounds very interesting Marcello.”
“Hello, mum, I didn’t realize it was you.”
“You should check the number before you go shooting your mouth off.”
It was midnight. Marcello was in
Sophia was a good Catholic and preferred not to get caught doing something satanic. She was also a good Italian who recognized a great business opportunity when she saw one. Itinerant cult junkies were parting with their hard-earned government money to download her son’s transcendental utterances. He had quite a following. Marcello needed to be in a trance state to receive the messages. Fortunately, he was in a trance most of the time. A lot of transport workers were. He had started channelling the WWW when he got his first job and experienced trances for the first time. He knew there had been lots of virgins amongst the WWW and he hoped channelling might be a way of meeting available women. Even dead ones. He knew they were virgins because they had moustaches. All virgins had moustaches. Even non-Catholics. Jesus’ mother had been a virgin. Artists ignored the moustache. One of these ancient virgins was Jesus’ great-great grandmother. They had told him. Marcello’s mother posted everything they said on the Internet even though she knew the church would be very upset if they got wind of it. Actually, the Catholic Church already had gotten wind of it and was looking into it before the Anglicans claimed it.
“Mum, do you know where my socks are?”
“Yes, they’re here,” said his mother in perfect Italian.
“Why, Mum? I’ve been wearing the same socks for a week. My feet are stinking and I have to give this lecture in the Paris Underground tomorrow.”
“I took your socks out of your bag, Marcello, because they were stuffed with condoms.”
“Yeah, well and that’s another thing I’ve needed.”
“Rubbish, you’ve never had a girlfriend in your life. Listen, have you heard about the murder down in the Paris Underground? Stigmata all over the poor man and no fingertips. The bastards removed his fingerprints so he couldn’t be identified and your name was etched in blood on his chest.”
Marcello dropped the phone.
“Marcello, Marcello?”
Marcello Medici had passed out cold on the hotel room floor. He woke a little later to the unusual sensation of someone licking his face. Sure, he had dreamed about such things, but as his mother had so rightly pointed out Marcello had never actually had a girlfriend in his life. He decided to keep his eyes closed.
“Oh, baby, yeah, that’s good,” he encouraged, “there’s a condom in my socks. Oh, shit sorry, no there isn’t my, ah, wife took them all out. I usually go through a packet the first week I’m away. There’s a bin liner. We could use that, baby.”
The licking continued and his fantasy began to purr.
“Make you happy, do I baby? Wait till you see what’s coming up to greet you, baby. Ten inches of unbridled manhood, all yours.”
Marcello felt something soft and furry rub itself down the side of his face and slide across his mouth. He froze.
“Holy shit,” he said opening his eyes. Sitting beside him blue-eyed and smug was a Siamese cat with a tag around its neck that read Oscar. Just beyond that a pair of the largest feet he had ever seen. He followed the feet up to the gigantic knees upon which rested a pair of massive hands with buffed pink nails. A giant head leaned forward and rested on the hands. The head was bald and the facial skin was unusually bad.
“Been a while for you, has it Marcello?”
Marcello sat up with a gasp.
“Who the hell are you?”
But before the man could answer there was a pounding on the hotel room door. The giant rose silently to his feet and lifted a warning finger to his lips.
“If they ask, the cat is yours and you have never seen me. If you tell them different I’ll tell them that you’re a virgin.”
Marcello felt sick. How did the man get into his room? How did the cat get into his room? And how does anyone get into a woman’s pants? He was handsome. He was youngish. Forty-two. He had a Commodore. He had most of his hair and all of his teeth. He wasn’t overly bright but that wasn’t a problem when you had ten inches and channelled spirits. The knocking at the door became aggressive. Marcello answered the door but none of the questions in his head. He looked at the policeman vaguely.
“Marcello Medici,” said the thin man in the blue uniform.
“Really,” said Marcello, “so am I.”
The man shook his head and wrote something down on a skinny white pad.
“Jean-Paul Gurniere is dead,” said the policeman. “Are you busy?”
Marcello looked down at his stained pyjama pants, his week-old socks, his unbuttoned pyjama top and back at the thin policeman.
“Do I look busy?” he asked. The policeman glanced at his bulging crotch and past him into the room.
“I heard voices. I thought perhaps you had a lady friend.”
“No,” said Marcello, “just my cat.”
“Of course, your cat. Well I’m very fond of my dog. Would you mind getting dressed and accompanying me to the station?”
“The station?”
“The Paris Underground was the scene of a ghastly murder tonight and your name was etched into the dead man’s chest.”
“Marcello Medici?” asked Marcello.
“Yes,” said the policeman.
“Then it could be either one of us,” said Marcello. The policeman shook his head and wrote something else on his skinny pad. Marcello tasted salt on his tongue and fear and cat fur. He removed the cat fur.
“Cat fur,” he explained.
“Of course,” said the policeman. “Could you get dressed now?”
“I need to make a phone call,” said Marcello. The policeman looked at him suspiciously.
“After we’ve been to the station,” he said firmly.
“After I’ve dressed myself?”
“Yes,” answered the policeman slowly.
“But it will be too late then,” said Marcello.
“Too late for what?” asked the policeman.
“To ask my mother what I should wear.”
The policeman wasn’t sure if Marcello Medici was the cleverest man he had ever met or the stupidest.
“Perhaps I could help,” he suggested.
“No, Mum has always done it for me. If I’m not allowed to call her I’ll do it alone. I’d prefer it like that.”
“Just as you wish,” said the policeman in perfect French. Marcello found it difficult to dress himself without his mother’s supervision. He wasn’t sure what went with what and in his panic he coupled a brown shirt with black pants and a green jacket with a pink tie. He looked at himself in the mirror, smoothed his glossy but thinning hair, peered into his dark bedroom eyes, counted his teeth, patted his flat belly, raised his broad shoulders in dismay and muttered softly to himself.
“It makes no sense, no sense at all. What’s wrong with women?”
“Is something wrong?” asked the
policeman. Marcello knew something was wrong. Midnight. A policeman knocking on
the door. A giant sitting in his chair. A cat licking his face. And now this
bizarre trip through the deserted
“Before we get there you had better take a look at this.”
He handed him a photograph of a young woman in glasses holding a plaque that read ‘First Prize Origami Swan Folding’ and on the table in front of her a beautifully folded swan.
“It’s incredible, isn’t it?”
Marcello looked at the swan and wondered how she got the wings so perfectly matched. “Yes, it is.”
“He did it himself,” said the policeman.
Marcello looked harder at the picture trying to see how the bosomy young woman with the blonde plaits could possibly be male.
“He did this?” asked the incredulous Marcello.
“To himself,” repeated the thin policeman ominously. Marcello handed the photo back to the policeman who returned it to the folder in his briefcase.
“But on a lighter note, here’s a picture of my niece when she won first prize in the paper-folding contest.”
Marcello took the photo of a young man with a banana sticking out of his right nostril, a coat hanger hooked through his left, his body splayed in a sea of vomit and etched on his chest in his own blood the words:
edliW si racsO ?tac ym deef esaelp enoemos lliW
WWW.666.marcellomedici.
He wound down the window and threw up on the Rue Saint Paul.
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