Ca va? Ha ha cava bien ; )

How are you and james? I’m really sorry i didn’t call you back the other day, don’t read anything into that.

We should totally go for a drink sometime, catch up! I can’t remember what it’s like to be hungover. That’s probably for the best though, right? Maybe we could have a wee picnic or something, if it gets sunny.

Sorry we’ve left it so late, my fault! Especially with your birthday coming up, the big 3-0! Scary stuff huh? Here comes the ghost impression, WOOOOOOOOOO-OOO – Ha ha you must think i’m mental!!! I’m totally like a kid sometimes, more so now with the wee ones. And i know what Mum says – OK maybe I’m not Mrs Perfect Mother all the time, but we’re doing better than she did right? ; )

It’s not all me though, you have to send me an email or bebo or myspace or something. That’s what the kids do nowadays right?? We need to keep up to date.

So here, well everything is pretty much Peachy. OK i am such a liar!! I guess we’ve not been seeing totally eye 2 eye the last few months, you know what i mean? I love the bugger though. He is a good person, I’ve always believed that. You just have to get to know him. You know like Dad says, ‘idiosyncracies’. Besides, you have to work at it. Good things don’t come easy. Blah blah… besides it’s a bit late to be thinking of a fresh start, right?!

I forget the last time you & me had a really good goss. I think i just need to get out of the house for a bit. I know I’m probably being selfish. It’s funny really.

Anyway remember to call me when you get a chance! I know you’re busy. Any time is fine.
I’m afraid i might not get time to write to you for a while, so don’t worry!

Love ya babes!!!!
- Maddy

Up close, shafts of light illuminated the smooth legs of a vast metallic starfish, clinging alone and radiant in the shadowy landscape. Along one limb, in one of the brightly glowing windows, the silhouette of a man with arm outstretched wavered slowly in the ponderous current.

The man was named Harold. He slid his slim, pale arm through the gun-metal bars and lightly brushed his fingers against the smoothness of the window. Seemingly oblivious to the bitter cold surface, he stared, entranced at the creature outside. Harold had seen a real live fish before, recalled a snapping mouth

gulping and insatiable under the shimmering blue-green of the river in the springtime, his mother’s pretty white dress against the patchwork picnic blanket, tree-filtered sunlight lighting up her tanned, healthy face, mouth a joyous O, See Hal! See the fish! A serpentine body twisting, scaled sides shining, iridescent, hypnotic, much like

this one did now, fins glowing dimly in the inky waters. The creature floated, regarded him glassily through the foot-thick window

as his mother had stared that day, still and staring through that tiny, tiny window

and Harold gazed right back.

Suddenly the fish started, darted away into the endless night and Harold withdrew into a corner with startled guilt, scrabbling, clutching his doll. A small window in the cell door slid open, an oblong of artificial light framing the pallid face peering in.

The warden was named Feist; a gaunt and awkward man in both manner and movement. He was a dedicated cynic, a condition brought on no doubt by his occupation. He was, and had been for some time, the keeper of some of the most dangerous and – some might say – tragic human beings ever to be locked away. Take this creature: Harold Milton, forty-two, matricide. He’d been here some twenty years now with no sign of improvement. Neighbours had found the late Mrs. Milton, mouth and eyes wide open, inside his doll’s house.

Feist no longer felt even contempt for him now. This place did that to you – the sterile, aluminium walls, the stale, disinfected air, the relentless night outside, the claustrophobia – it ground you down, rolled you out into the two-dimensional, emotionless hulks they had all become. As for the prisoners – no, hell, they were all prisoners until the annual staff rotation – as for the criminals he had no idea. Feist quite believed the the prisoners – or at least some of them – existed quite happily, invulnerable in their woolly shells of delusion. So in an ironic way (which was no surprise to Mr Feist) the prisoners were far better off mentally than the warders. He carefully replaced the steel cover and turned to continue his round.

The man who approached Milton’s cell could accurately be described as Feist’s opposite, if such a thing existed. Feist’s sickly colour and cold manner directly contrasted with the tanned, radiant young man whistling softly as he strolled down the corridor. Mr Feist noted his polished nametag: HICKS. He resisted an urge to sneer. How long? thought Feist. How long before he becomes as cold and empty and clammy as the bleached fish outside? Not that we’re that different, he realised as he nodded at Hicks’ greeting. That’s all we are: just a bunch of damned fish in this tank, just swimming round and round, fed twice a day, and all the time those things outside just keep staring in!
No – not long, he decided, not long until his skin develops that anaemic pallor and the sterility of this place settles like icewater in his lungs and he becomes like all the rest of us.
Mr Feist shook his head morosely and plodded on, occupied with his thoughts.

Hicks shared none of Feist’s cynicism or depression; he was eager to try out his new toy. A radio-controlled miniature submarine, strengthened to withstand the enormous pressure and equipped with powerful spotlights. He almost giggled in childish anticipation. Hicks had been there two weeks.

The mealtime buzzer blared nasally through the complex as Hicks reached the diver’s airlock. I’ll just run it a few minutes, he promised himself and placed the sub carefully inside the booth, closing the inner door. As the chamber filled with icy seawater and the outer door began to open, Hicks eagerly jogged to a nearby window and manoeuvred the submarine out into the blackness.

One by one the cells were opened, occupants rose, stretched legs and headed for the dining hall as they had done countless times before. Only one hesitated: Harold Milton held the window bars tightly, watching the new fish go by. Its eyes shone twin neon-bright cones that faded quickly in the murky water.

The inmates paused as one, looked, confused at each other. They all felt the same vague, inexplicable, instinctual feeling: something was about to happen.

Harold saw it first: the silently gliding fish abruptly lost all signs of life: its nose dipped, eyes dimmed, and finally fell to strike the bottom in a puff of ancient silt.

The pilot of the ‘fish’, Hicks, was more surprised than Milton. With a cry of disappointment – “Aww, no!” – he toyed with the controller, before his gaze fell once more on the scene outside. A great ridge of dust squirted up like ink from an octopus, some four feet above the sea bed, then began to slowly float back down. This was followed seconds later by an impossibly deep, floor-trembling rumble that made him start, dropping the radio unit. He, like everyone else in the complex, froze in the stark overhead light like an animal caught out of darkness by headlamps, eyes wide, staring. It was not until a thin, creaking crack jerked its way across the window that his paralysis broke and he could run in panic.

Inmate number zero-zero-three-six, a baseball-capped rapist from Minnesota, believed in two things: one, the non-existence of God, and two, that he was born unlucky. The fact that he occupied the last cell in his block (and so had yet to be released for dinner before the warder had panicked) would have served only to confirm his second suspicion. However when the spiderweb of cracks in his window gave way with a reverberating snap and freezing water felt its way languidly inside like the dark tentacles of some Lovecraftian horror, he began to gibber prayers to every God that might hear him.

Harold paused halfway to the dinner hall, thick twisted lips quivering and glistening. Something was wrong. Alarms sounded, voices were raised in panic. He swayed silently a few seconds, confused. An ungainly hand flew to his lips in fearful realisation. He turned and loped awkwardly back in the direction of his cell, as the Dining Hall bulkhead closed behind him.

Hicks ran easily, long, booted strides pounding round the gently curving corridor. An ominous, rushing hiss rang in his ears and echoed between the steely walls. A cold sweat on his brow betrayed the fear bounding in pursuit, snapping and foaming at his heels, driving him faster and still faster. Hicks’ mind was a waveless lake of calm, euphoric. A steady voice chanted in his mind, urging him
( faster Jon, pace it, PACE IT goddammit )
Hicks’ brow furrowed, arm curled protectively where a ball should be, limbs pumping faster in purposeful sprint; and twenty strides behind a glistening, amorphous beast flowed hissing, leaping, skipping over pipes and crates, foaming hungrily, relentless, endless. He glanced behind him and for a confused moment saw a huge, armoured opponent, face a shifting mass, reaching for the fatal tackle; his mouth fell open as reality abruptly returned, fluorescent ceiling strips pointing to the safety of the Dining Hall.

Feist fumbled with the perspex cover, the lever within brightly highlighted in yellow. EMERGENCY SEAL, the plaque stated in red stencilled letters. A high whine of frustration escaped his lips before he finally grasped the handle, knuckles white, and jerked it down.

“WAIT! N-”

A hand came down over Feist’s, too late. Through the narrowing gap Hicks could be seen, eyes white in panic, a rippling wall of beetle-green water some five feet high thundering and spuming close, closer behind.

Hicks saw the the closing bulkhead with wide eyes, concerned faces peering through the two-feet-and-closing gap, felt a cold wetness on his heels, and knew he was going to die. His lips drew back over his teeth and he threw back his head, emptying his lungs in a feral roar of doomed frustration, knees curling, falling, reaching out…

Harold bent and snatched up the gangling doll, embracing it, relief evident on his face. Murmuring words of reassurance, he wandered aimlessly off through the shining passages, the air still and damp and silent.

Feist gritted his teeth as Hicks’ limp, sobbing body collapsed over the threshold and frantically kicked at the backs of his knees, savagely drawing his boots out of the sliding bulkhead’s path. A deep, muffled CHOOM echoed around the crowded hall; the door visibly shook. “… Jesus,” Feist breathed.

Several men laid Hicks out on a hastily-cleared table. Stepping up onto another table and regaining his composure, Feist regarded the mob of anxious faces turned to him. Twenty-two men in all; ten armed wardens, the rest mentally unstable rapists and murderers, all utterly trapped several kilometres underwater. Wonderful, he thought, and began to speak. Had he the initiative to count the expectant faces, he would have reached a total of eighteen.

Harold squinted at the official-looking sign. “Ay,.. you… thuh…” He shook his head, then tried the next word.
“Puh… personnel… only,” Harold intoned. He stared blankly for a moment, then punched the door switch. A torrent of dark seawater burst through the widening gap, drenching the cringing form and doll. After a few seconds the deluge died away and Harold tentatively looked up again. A pale, blue-lipped body lay beached on the floor before him. He calmly stepped over the corpse, soft shoes splashing in the inch-deep flood. Security Control was a large, square room, one wall covered in dripping, glowing monitors, the waterproofed computer banks humming gently. He looked up and regarded the small jet of water that leaked from the great crumpled rent in the ceiling with brief interest. Picking up a sodden swivel chair, he took a place before the screens, images flickering over his spectacles.
Only two displayed anything of interest to Harold: [DINING HALL], [ARMORY], in neat titles. Ignoring the crowded hall for the moment, he looked closely at the lone warden trapped in the room with the gleaming cabinets. In the grainy black-and-white field of vision provided by the camera, he watched the guard pace the room below him. One the screen the figure suddenly paused, turned and faced the camera. Harold flinched as the pale, anxious face loomed large on the monitor, the small speaker sounding tinnily.

“Let me OUT!”, the face screamed. Harold stared expressionless, watched the guard grit his teeth and punch the wall in fury.

“Just open the godDAMN DOOR!”

With sudden insight, Harold switched his gaze to the control bank and located a section whose title matched the monitors: [ARMORY]. He ran light fingers round the short row of marked buttons, found a sliding switch and nudged it tentatively. The view on the monitor jerked to the right a few feet; the warden’s head snapped round.

“HERE!” he waved frantically. “Let me out! It’s Burton! Here!”

With wetly grinning enthusiasm, Harold centred the camera view carefully on the warden, then studiously bowed his head to read the button labels. The last was large and red and glowing: O… He clicked it down and watched Burton expectantly. The guard first turned to the door, shoulders sagging with relief; then suddenly, whites in eyes, backed off into a corner off-camera. Black water crashed inside, surfing against the walls, foaming, shaking the weapon cabinets, a high scream cut short, a short gasp, silence, stillness.

The Hall was quiet. Men sat sipping water, stood talking in whispers, lay silent, thinking. Feist had distanced himself and sat on a table nursing a plastic cup of coffee. Hicks stood near the security camera, conversing calmly with two other uniformed men.

“Look, what if’s something’s happened to Harrison?”, one ventured.
“I told you,” reassured Hicks, “the control room’s sealed up, tighter than-” he faltered, “well, whatever.” He attempted a grim smile, then turned once more to the camera.

“Harrison! I don’t know what’s going down over there, but you have to contact the surface – and soon, hear? Harrison!”

The creature floated, regarded him glassily through the thick monitor screen, and Harold stared right back. Extending an arm, he lightly brushed his fingers against the smooth, cool screen, tracing the O of the mouth, touching the staring eyes…

A series of sharp clicks broke his trance. The Dining Hall speaker erupted into mad crackling. On the screen, a man stood and mouthed at him. Harold watched for a moment, then addressed his doll, holding it close and pointing to the monitor.

“See, Hal! See the fish! See!”

Harold touched the slide control, offering a more whole view of Hicks.

Hicks stepped back, startled at the camera’s movement. Suddenly the guard beside him began shouting, and before long the prisoners joined in, some confused, some happy.

“HARRISON! IN HERE, HARRISON!”

Hicks – though relieved – spoke angrily to the guard, touching him on the shoulder, “OK man, he can hear you, right? Just-” he broke off, motioning with his hands for calm. Though the guard fell silent, embarrassed, the prisoners stoked up the chant, adding fuel to the sound.

“HARRISON!”

Hicks frowned and guided his colleagues towards the prisoners. “OK – looks like we learn ‘em quiet.” Feist jumped down eagerly and headed for the mob.

The doll’s head lolled, ignoring the screen.

“Bad Harold,” the owner intoned, hurling the doll against a wall to land with a soft splash. The speaker crackled and buzzed rhythmically.
(Listen, listen to them, mommy! The poor things)
His eyes filled with silent tears, glancing at the discarded doll, finding no comfort.
(see, Hal, see!)
He looked closer, the crowd of men shouting, struggling with wardens. Harold watched their open-mouthed writhing and sat up abruptly.
(Those poor fishes!) he thought distantly, gasping

and thrashing on the grass, hands wet with cool river water, wavering sparkling ripples, mother, hand on mouth, recoiling, Hal! No! Put it – it can’t breathe! Fish mouthing, helpless – it back! In the water! Reaching, reaching

out. “Yes, momma,” he murmured.

Hal sat cross-legged, rocking, splashing gently back and forth in the deepening water, holding the grinning doll close to him as he gazed open-mouthed at the monitors, where all through the house the fishes swam, staring, mouths agape…

Glide up the grand, granite steps to the gleaming, echoing entranceway. Up and over the babbling heads of centipede families queued by terse, bristling guards feeding sacs into clicking security machines.

Through the main hall, spiderworks of old bones tower; the young gape and point and chirrup. Onward, gliding through, climbing up. The tumult fades to a keening; degrades to a faint hiss of noise. Passages, stairs, quieter. Barely any sound now, or movement.

Push through the dusty, yellow tape – CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT CLOSED FOR – to the sixth floor. The surfaces are dimmer here, lit only sporadically. Lamps reflect like scattered fireflies from the plaque: Entomology Department.

Take a moment to listen. No cricket song, wing whirr, scuttle click. No sound. Unless, perhaps; a distant

tick

something. Creep, now, into the chamber. Glass-front casings, restraining armies of black, spiny shapes. No other feet have disturbed the dust here in days. No hesitant fingers brushed close to the glassed-off specimens in gleeful horror.

Yet beyond the swarms, in the corner, a shadow on a chair. Pale, angular, Jakob.

Oblivious, he waits. The armies are still; the wars are over. The news has not reached this far. Listen to him whisper.

Wasp, Apocrita, fly, Diptera, beetle, Coleoptera, weevil, Curculionoidea,

tick

Acarina. He sits, motionless but for his lips; the mandible pulse. Calm and quiet. The recitation is punctuated by something quite different, a simple phrase

There’s only so much a man can

tick

take. And begins again.

For Jakob, words of comfort. A healing mantra. And if not healing, then at least something other than the incendiary thing that sets his limbs itching to cast his body through the shuttered window.

You follow his gaze, now. The clock. It has an imperfection of some kind. At the forty-ninth second, the sweeping red arm catches harshly at something inside. An involuntary spasm of noise; a mechanical

tick

tic. Listen to him think, now. The next one. One more. If I hear the sound one more time, I will climb up onto this chair to the clock face and drive the bones of my fist through the plastic casing and cogs and spindles until i feel plaster on my knuckles.

Wide, staring eyes.

Each measured mark from the number 6, an increment of unease. The arm sweeps around, low. Anticipation registers. At 7, something with sharp, bristling, clicking, itching edges slides into the back of his mind. By 8, an agony of tension. Fingers twitching. An impossible wait for the

tick

before the glass bursts and all rational thought is subsumed by an apoplexy of black spiny shapes flashing on a field of white.

Tuesday’s conductor looks exactly like a Vogon. Squared, lumpen head. Fraught teeth in a squashed face under a gleaming comb-over. Swaying heavily side to side, nodding shiny-lipped at tickets brandished like crucifixes.

Is it wrong to select your table based on the female commuters? Tuesday’s view does not engage.

The first herd settle. Dull, bovine women – the younger ones more saddening – unfurling their infant-bright coloured Chat rags. LIFE, DEATH AND PRIZES. Bowing heads over Take a Break, to intently push biro around wordsearch, or arrow-words, or – with a deep breath – Sudoko.

Slow, closing eyes. Synthetic voices. Stopping. The second herd.

Sudden squat, bellowing jewellery-pigs ensconced in thick coats and hair dye. Shuffling, bag-clutching, installing themselves in pairs and coarsely jabbering; crowing their combined social insight toward crescendos of heart-clenching cackle.

Recorded tones. Tuesday starting.

Below the roof, the space is refined; acoustically perfect. An expensive sound system, keeping distance from the walls, fills the air with a selection of exquisitely resonant string pieces. A small plaque discreetly advertises the manufacturer.

Violin notes dance from the four walls, those faces punctuated only by the automatic portraits. Cellos are lowing, rolling across the cheap, felt carpet.

The gallery is deserted. Not even the soft sideways shuffle of feet, or the whisperings of interpretation to add to the symphony.

Mariko sits quite still with her legs perfectly parallel, knees carefully angled square, feet flat. The grey of her uniform skirt is taut across her knees.

She is testing herself. How long she can keep her eyes open without blinking. The uniform grey of the carpet fills her vision. She is careful not to move her head, for fear she might catch a glimpse of the bright, green lawn. Her pet dachshund has problems with its eyes. She worries that the veterinary treatment is expensive, and so puts off finding out what the cost might be. The boy in her shared apartment calls the dog “Neko”, cat.

Perversely, Mariko thinks. She fears vaguely that the dog will be confused.

The string movement comes to an end. After a polite, terrible silence, the next begins.

This time

A tracery upgraded and hardened over time to the clock speed of modernity.

And somehow that distance of time, that distance from there to here, that leap to today – is misleading. The false confidence of hindsight, tracing that path, never illuminating how the layout will change tomorrow and tomorrow and the millennium after.

Our insight, slow as copper.