Trees. Almost
black. Endless, trackless. In the far distance there were tiny mountains
chipped from cubes of ice. Underneath, slipping past, were trees.
He was
transfixed by the trees. His knuckles were white on the armrest of the seat. The
trees looked soft but he knew that they were hard. Trees were made of wood. They
were tough and hard.
He felt
ill. He knew he was hallucinating but there was nothing he could do to stop it.
“Look
at me”
He
heard the voice but it was only in his mind.
“Look
at me.”
He
tried to take his eyes away from the window and those endless trees.
“Look
at me.”
The
voice was becoming more insistent.
He
dragged his head around to gaze at the person sitting next to him.
She put
her hand on his and gripped gently. It was real to him. The touch, the feel of
her hand.
He
tried to look away but her left hand came around and firmly held his right
cheek. He imagined that her hand slipped a little on the sweat.
She was
beautiful. Blonde hair to the shoulder, big blue eyes and a warmth, a humanity,
in her. He felt a tear well up.
“The
trees....” he gasped at her.
“Yes. The
trees. We are a long way above them. All is well. Relax.” her voice was soft,
breathless.
He
turned back to the window. The trees were closer now, he was sure. Much closer.
Panic
was freezing his muscles and clamping down hard on his heart. He tried to
explain to her but the words would not form. His mouth was dry and the breath
would not squeeze past his tight throat.
The worst
of all his fears was realised.
Crunching,
splintering, tearing. The ‘plane hit the treetops and descended down into the
branches and trunks. It bucked and gyrated. With a deafening ripping noise a
huge branch smashed through the floor; the sharp, shattered end speared into
his chest pinning him to the seat.
He
tried to breathe but nothing would come—only pain. Searing hot agony coursed
through every fibre of his being and pounded his head, pushing his eyes from
the back.
Somewhere
down in the core of his soul a voice said, ‘Let me die. Now. I beg you, let me
die.’
The ‘plane
flew on. Outside all was serene. The trees floated past far below.
Outside
his head a voice, soft and warm, said, “Hold on. Stay with me.”
He
looked out of the window. It was dark. His back was propped up so he could see
out.
“How
long do the nights last here?” he asked.
“Six
months.”
He was
not surprised to hear her voice. He turned towards her. She was perfect. Blonde
hair combed to a fine sheen, big blue eyes full of compassion and warmth. Her
hand came out and held his, softly.
He
turned back to the window. White. Snow. As far as the eye could see it was just
snow. In the far distance were tiny mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.
The
policeman appraised her appreciatively. She was not tall but she was
attractively formed. Blonde hair to the shoulder, blue eyes and a soft, kind
voice with a sort of Louisiana lilt that made you think she was singing to you.
She was groomed perfectly.
“What
did he say his name was?”
“Shudde
M’ell. I told him that meant he was big and burrowing. Appropriate, no?”
“And
you told him your name was....”
“Dejah
Thoris.”
“What
did he say?”
“He
said he expected someone darker, somehow, with a name like that. Perhaps with
black hair. He smiled.”
“And
then?”
“He
clutched his chest and collapsed. I called the medics.”
“So you
had not yet gone upstairs to conduct business.”
“How
diplomatic of you, Officer. No. Not yet.”
“Was he
a regular?”
“No. I
had never met him before.”
“Thank
you, Miss...” he consulted his pad, blushing. She was exceptionally attractive,
“Mrs... sorry... Solo. If we need anything we’ll call you.”
“Certainly,
Officer.” she stroked his lapel. He blushed deeper, “For you, I will always
co-operate.”
He
watched her walk away and wondered if every joint had been recently oiled.
Half a
mile later she peeled the patch from her right palm and dropped it into a
garbage bin. She was confident it would not be found as she was also confident
that the toxin would not be traceable.
Fifteen
minutes later she entered the lobby of her hotel and took the lift. In her room
she gazed in the mirror and thought, ‘Damn. Even I could get hard looking at
that.’
He
peeled off the wig, unhooked the ear-rings and unclasped the bra with the false
breasts in it.
After a
hot shower he lay down on the bed with just the towel over him. He had arranged
the pillows so he was propped up at the back.
He
looked out of the window. It was dark.
“How
long do the nights last here?”
“Six
months.” she said. Her voice was soft, breathless. There was a Southern lilt in
it. He imagined she was singing to him.
He
turned towards her. She was a dream. Not tall but a golden treasure. Blonde,
big blue eyes full of kindness and warmth.
“What
is your name?” he asked.
“Padmé
Amidala.” she replied, “And you?”
“Hari
Seldon.” he told her, “I would have expected someone darker, somehow. Black
hair, perhaps, with a name like that.”
She
smiled. Her hand came over and held his softly, gently.
He had
a vague thought of trees but it was immediately swept away in a tide of
amnesia.
“Have I
been here long?” he asked her.
“No. Not
long. Rest.”
There
were familiar sounds from the next room. He discarded them and focussed on the
window. Still, they affected him. She grasped him through the blankets. It was
a comfort. He relaxed.
Snow. As
far as the eye could see it was white snow. Untrampled, pure, flat, clean. In
the far, far distance were tiny little mountains chipped out of cubes of ice.
In the
hallway she spoke to the officer. The officer admired her nakedness but did not
wonder at it. She, for her part, felt no embarrassment. All seemed normal.
“I was
passing the room and heard a scream. So I reported it to the hotel staff.”
“Could
I take your name, please?”
“Certainly.
I’m Medical Technician Peters.”
“Thank
you for your help, Ma’am. We will take it from here.”
She
went down to the lobby and stripped the pad from her right palm, dropping it
into a bin on the way out. And then smoothed out her charcoal grey pencil skirt
that accentuated her hips and thighs.
Tiredness
overwhelmed her.
She
found another hotel closer to the town centre and checked in.
“Your
name please, Ma’am?”
“Zoë
Washburne.”
The
clerk at reception had the vaguest feeling that he should have expected someone
darker—perhaps with black hair.
He
handed her the key to her room, “Have a pleasant stay, Ma’am.”
“Why
did he want my name if he is going to call me ‘Ma’am’?” she muttered to herself
on the way up to her room.
The
card never worked first time. It was always a struggle to unlock doors with
these new card keys. At last the door opened. She giggled happily.
“Kyle
Reese. You are already here, my love!”
“Yes,
Ripley, my sweet. I yearn for you.”
They
were making love. Slowly, gently, quietly. He revelled in her warmth and
nuzzled her neck, his fingers twining in her blonde hair. She mewled at him to
let him know that she, too, was happy. Every touch was valued, every feeling
explored and cherished.
Afterwards
he lay back, propped up on the pillows and looked out of the window. It was
dark. Black.
There
was no recollection of their love-making. No memory of her warmth, the feel of
her skin on his.
“How
long do the nights last here?” he asked her.
“Six
months.” she told him.
She
reached over from the chair and took his hand.
“What
is your name?”
“Dr.
David Bowman. And you? What is your name?”
“Dale
Arden.”
“Dale
Arden. I should have expected someone darker with black hair, perhaps, with a
name like that.”
She
smiled. It was like the sun coming out. He felt his heart warming. She was
blonde and stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were big and blue and yet she had
warmth, a friendliness about her.
She
stood and stretched. Her wings were long and slender, they had no feathers. He
wondered at that and then forgot.
The
window was bright. Outside it was white. Snow. As far as you could see just
snow until, far, far, away there were mountains. Tiny mountains that seemed to
have been chipped from cubes of ice.
He
couldn’t breathe. He wondered if he should be able to breathe. Perhaps he had
forgotten to breathe.
The
window was brighter now. The snow seemed to almost glow. He moved toward it and
slid into it along the brightest path.
Two
paramedics brought the body in to the morgue.
“Heart
attack on the inbound from Alaska. We tried the paddles a few times but it was
no good—he’d been an’ gone already. Old lady sat next to him said he just
grabbed his chest an’ keeled over. She called the Steward an’ whoop-de-doo! Here
we are.”
The
morgue attendant asked him for a name.
“Oh,
yeah. It’s here. A Mr Ronald Proctor. He’s a Science Fiction writer going to
some convention here in Seattle. His wife’ll be along soon to collect the body.
She was already here. At the convention, that is.”
Two
hours later she arrived. The morgue attendant whistled under his breath. She
was a real looker, alright.
“Come
this way please, Mrs Proctor. Your husband is in the chapel.”
He
glanced sideways, appraising her. She wasn’t tall but she was very nicely
shaped. Blonde hair to the shoulders, big blue eyes and a kindliness about her
like she needed to be somebody’s Mum.
“Could
you tell me why he had a plaster on his right palm?”
“He was
putting up boarding on a new shed and got a blister from the screwdriver.” she
dabbed her eye gently with a tissue and sniffed.
The
body was laid out on a board in the chapel. She nodded, reached over and took
his hand. Softly, gently.
“Goodbye,
my Dan Dare. Your Wilma Dearing will miss you.” she kissed him on the lips,
wept and left.
The
attendant was entranced by her voice, she sounded as if she was singing to him
in that quiet Louisiana lilt. He watched her go. She walked from him like every
joint in her body had just been freshly oiled.
He went
back up to the morgue to lie down for a nap on one of the benches.
By his
head was a window. It was snowing...
