The book launch
of my latest ‘best seller’ had been anything but successful. A handful of
‘fans’ and a few people who had come along to see if Joshua Lakton looked
anything like the picture portrayed on the dust jacket of the book. I signed
copies for a while until it was time to answer questions. I suddenly felt as if
my privacy was about to be abused and all my guilty secrets laid bare.
“When did you
start writing?” a gentleman wearing a long raincoat and wellington boots
asked.
I mumbled
something about beginning at primary school when my teacher, a rather ravishing
red head called Miss Willox had asked the class to write about their holidays.
“It went on from there. Later it was items for magazines and the odd bit for
the local rag.” I said in conclusion. The man dressed for the next Flood didn’t
seem to find my answer revealing enough and began to ask another question, but
was interrupted by a dark haired lady who waved her arm above her head and
shouted, “hey Josh, what happened to Cryptic Claude?”
Her name was
Rachael Garren and she reckoned that we had attended the same secondary school
in the town of Radeston
The bookshop
was empty by now apart from the owner who was tidying up the usual litter of
empty bottles and half eaten plates of sandwiches. He didn’t seem to be in a
rush to get rid of Rachael and me, so we dallied over our glasses of wine.
“Have you got
far to go tonight?” she asked. It seemed a kind of loaded question so I gave it
my best shot.
“Just up the
road to the ‘Bloody Bull’. A kind of pub cum hotel thing, where I’m staying.”
“As long as
you’re not driving. I wouldn’t like your death on my conscience.”
By now I had
consumed about a bottle and a half of wine and I needed to make a trip to the
‘little boy’s room’, but how to break up this ‘reunion’ amiably?
“Look, Rachael,
I need to go and ‘spend a penny’. Will you wait for me?”
She nodded her
head and then turned to look out the darkened windows of the bookshop. It was
by then, quite late and I wondered if she had a lift organised. Still, Nature
called and I really needed to hearken to her.
Upon returning
after my little foray, I was disappointed to find that Rachael was gone. The
shop owner said that a bloke had come and knocked on the window. He had driven
up in a Mercedes and had stopped outside the shop. Rachael had written
something on a bit of paper and before leaving, had asked the owner to give it
to me. I hoped it was her mobile number, but all it said was’ Cryptic Claude.
One of your stories. How did it pan out? Rachel X’.
I thanked the
bookshop owner then made my way to the ‘Bloody Bull’. The night was clear and I
could see stars in the heavens. It wasn’t cold though and half way up the road
I had to remove my coat. As I struggled out of it I thought about Rachael’s
note. Cryptic Claude? I had never written anything with that name, I was sure.
It was a name that I would have remembered.
After a hearty
meal and two pints of best bitter, I retired to bed. I had brought a book with
me, but after reading about four pages without having any memory of what had
been written on them, I put the book away and lay gazing at the ceiling. My
thoughts drifted back to the evening and my encounter with Rachel. She seemed
quite adamant about being at school with me, but I had no recollection of a
dark haired beauty like her. Then this so called story? What was all that
about? I usually remembered everything I wrote whether I finished it or not.
Could I have just sketched some ideas and then flung it in the old trunk to
await inspiration or the next tidy out? The old trunk was full of half finished
ideas but they usually had a corny title like ‘Happy Memories’ or a totally
meaningless one like ‘Green Nights’. Still, they were titled for future use not
as titles ‘carved in stone’.
The train
journey back to Gladvale was long, dusty and endless. I never knew that there
were so many little stations between cities. Little Whackham, Lesser Tolly and
Magnus Bolter to mention just a few. I must have drunk a couple gallons of
coffee by the time the train arrived at my stop and luckily I managed to grab a
taxi outside the station. As I unlocked my front door I felt a great weariness
come over me that I knew a glass of whisky would put right.
So, dumping my
bags in the hall and throwing my coat on the sofa, I poured myself a liberal
glass of the amber nectar. It went down a treat and instantly reminded me that
I hadn’t eaten anything apart from a couple of mummified BR sandwiches since
leaving the ‘Bloody Bull’ that morning. Soon I had sausage and eggs frying in
the pan and an apple pie heating in the oven. It was good to be home, I thought
as I tucked into my tea.
The next day I
awoke to the sound of rain hitting my bedroom window. It was being driven by a
gale force wind which threatened to rip my roof tiles off. A day by the
fireside, I thought or at least not far from it. Then, that stupid title came
back into my mind. ‘Cryptic Claude’ that was it, now I wonder if the old trunk
can give me a clue?
Going down to
the garage I pulled a load of newspapers off the top of Granddad’s old leather
trunk. It still bore stickers from exotic places like Trinidad
and Singapore
The lid
squeaked melodramatically as I opened it and I found I was looking at neatly
piled sheets of paper. Picking up a sheaf of them I found a collection of
short, long and half finished stories. These were my early attempts at being an
author and I cringed when I read some of my well hackneyed phrases and obvious
statements. These were my ‘finest moments’ or at least I thought they were at
the time, but compared to my more recent material, I considered them diffident
and puerile. But, hey, I chided myself mentally, these were the acorns from
which the mighty oak trees grew! I was sure that there were a lot of great
ideas in this pile of paper and handled in a more mature vein they could become
great stories.
But what about
this story that Rachel had alluded to? I lifted out pile after pile and sorted
through the various tales, but could find nothing that was titled… what had she
called it? Cryptic Claude?
Then I was
looking at the bottom of an empty trunk and felt a moment of surprise as if I
had expected to find the said story, but until being reminded about it at the
book launch, I had had no memory of ever writing it.
It was at that
precise moment when the lid of a small compartment in the top of the trunk
swung open and caught me a glancing blow on the forehead. Uttering a few well
chosen epithets, I gazed into the small, dark recess. There was something
inside I realised excitedly and reached in and took hold of what felt like –
more paper. Pulling it out I was amazed and fairly startled to discover that I
was holding a stapled set of sheets with the title of ‘Cryptic Claude’ –
unfinished.
It was late and
I decided to read it in the morning. I placed it on the kitchen table and went
to bed.
Next morning as
I ate my breakfast I picked up the unfinished story and began to read it. I had
a cup of coffee waiting to be drunk, but by the time I got to it, it was cold.
After starting to read, I had felt compelled to read it all, right up to where
it came to an end – with no suitable outcome. It left the reader in mid
sentence and there was no more. In disgust I dropped it back on the table and
cleared my breakfast dishes. As I washed them at the sink I thought again about
the story.
The bare bones
of ‘Cryptic Claude’ were that it purported to be an early recollection of my
distant past when I had been eight years old. Cryptic Claude as he was cruelly
dubbed by the local children, including me. His actual name was Claude Cripton
and it felt to me that he had always been in the town. A sad example of a person
who was mentally challenged – severely. He lived in a broken down shack at the
edge of town, where an elderly woman looked after him. They weren’t related, it
was just that the woman had never been married and had felt sorry for this
shambling creature, so had taken him in, way back and had given him a home.
If you met
Claude all he would do was to recite numbers at you. The same numbers over and
over, 3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1. He would cry and hold onto you tight as he recited them,
but no one knew what they meant, so people would often either try to humour him
or if they were cruel, throw him to the ground where he laid and sobbed. If I
saw him I always ran in the opposite direction.
The story went
on a few years and a girl from town, called Rachael and I became quite chummy.
Then it came to me, this had to be the Rachael I had met at the book signing!
We would meet in a little dip in the ground at
the back of our houses. We called it Hidden
Valley
Towards the end
of the narrative it related to an occasion when Rachael and I were locked in a
tussle of love when we heard the noise of an engine. We both hid in the long
grass and watched as a dark coloured Dodge truck pulled in at the bottom of the
valley. Two men got out and picking up spades from the rear of the truck began
to dig in the earth. They dug for about half an hour and then a large sack
covered object was lifted from the truck’s flat bed and rolled into the hole.
The hole was then filled in and the truck left. Rachael and I were scared stiff
and she began to wail. I told her to be quiet until I could go down and see
what was what, but she demanded I take her back to town to catch her bus. As we
waited at the bus stop, Rachael had regained her composure and suggested that I
write a story involving the strange happenings we had witnessed. I promised
that as soon as I got home I would and at that moment her bus hove into view
and after a clumsy hugging and kissing session I waved her goodbye.
But, I was far
from finished, I ran all the way back to Hidden Valley and finding the hummock
of disturbed soil, began to scrape it away until I had dug quite a hole. I
pulled a rock away from below me and found myself looking at the dead face of
Claude Cripton. He had been killed and this is where they had dumped him. But
why? Claude was a nuisance but hadn’t done anything to merit being killed. I
filled the hole in again and crept away from Hidden Valley
And that was
where the story finished. It had been partially written and then hidden away.
But, again, why? I asked myself. And also, why could I not remember writing
that account. I had had an active childhood living with my foster parents, now,
both sadly dead, since they took me in as a baby. I had written from an early
age and given time could remember all my full and partial stories – except this
one.
Little did I
know that that night the town of Radeston
As the day
passed, my determination increased, to discover if the story had any true
meaning or if it was just a figment of my over enthusiastic, testosterone
driven teenager’s imagination.
That night I
slunk down the main street in Radeston carrying a pick and a spade in a large
sack. I had no idea where I was to dig, but felt that I had to have a go, if
for no other reason than my peace of mind.
I slid down the
side of Hidden Valley
Shouldering my
sack I made my way across the surface of the valley floor, intent on climbing
up the steep sides and going home. I would have to assign ‘Cryptic Claude’ to
the dustbin as I had no chance of completing the story.
I had just
reached the beginning of the slope when I had a strange feeling. It was as if I
had stood on an electrical cable and had received a shock. I stopped and looked
down at the ground. There was nothing special about the place, but I just knew
in my heart of hearts that this was where Claude lay and putting down the sack
began to attack the ground with my pick. For half an hour I chopped, dug, levered
and hacked at the ground and soon I was about a foot into the ground. I had
just plunged my spade in when it hit something with a metallic clang. Throwing
aside the spade I knelt down and using my hands, scraped away the remaining
dirt from what lay beneath. The moonshine glinted of something made of metal
and I cleared more of the soil away and found myself looking down at a
skeleton. But not an organic bone skeleton, but one constructed of steel or
some metal which had remained lustrous even though it had been buried. Using
the spade, I levered the metal carcass out of its grave and lay it on the
ground. I stood for a moment gazing down at this ‘construction’. Its skull was
identical in shape to a human cranium and the ribs, sternum, pelvis, humerus as
well as the femur bones were all there.
Looking closer
I noticed that there was a sort of switch mounted on the sternum. It was in the
form of a button and leaning over I pushed it in.
Nothing
happened for a minute and then the skeleton gave a little twitch and sat up.
I was suddenly
engulfed in a feeling of longing for something I had no knowledge of. It was
like looking out over an empty sea, the loneliness filled you with such pain.
The loss it engendered was similar to the loss of a mother for her child. A
bone numbing despair that runs through your whole being.
“3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1”
the metal skeleton began reciting. “3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1”
I realised that
this was Claude, but not the Claude that everyone in Radeston knew. This was
something from a nightmare.
The skeleton’s metallic
hands swung round and clamped on the sides of my head. Instantly, pictures
began to burst open in my brain like budding fungi. I looked over desolate
vistas that I knew were not on Earth. Cities that seem to have grown from the
ground covered vast plains and were visited by insect-like vessels and larger
transport like ships. I knew I was looking at a planet deep in space and I knew
of it, for as the images kept coming I became aware that this planet was my
home rather than Earth.
“3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1”
came the repetitive voice from Claude’s remains and this time I knew what they
meant. They were map coordinates.
“Yes Claude,” I
said. “I understand, but when is it going to happen?”
“3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1”
he repeated and the metallic skull tried to form a smile.
I found out
later that the activation of Claude had caused a signal to be sent to an office
one hundred miles away in Asterdon. A red light came on and began to blink
accompanied by a harsh screeching siren.
“Someone’s
found the construct!” shouted a man into a telephone.
“Get a chopper
organised – now!” was the reply.
Within half an
hour a Sikkorsky helicopter was ready and preparing to fly when a dark car
pulled into the aerodrome. It stopped and four men emerged and bending low ran
across to the helicopter and boarded it. The helicopter took off and flew
towards the west.
I helped Claude
to its feet and he stood gleaming in the moon light. I knew now that he and I
shared some sort of bond. I felt like a Siamese twin, one of two and connected.
“3,8,4,9,6,3,8,1”
Claude said again.
“Yes,” I said
touching him gently on the metal cheek. “And we are going home.” Then we just
stood silently enjoying being together, feeling complete in every way.
I heard the
roar before I saw the helicopter and instinctively pulled Claude down behind a
large bush. The helicopter began descending into the valley. It was tricky, but
I realised that the pilot was highly experienced in these situations. This was
military, but what were they doing here?
Ropes suddenly
spiralled down from the helicopter and four dark shapes slid down them and
dropped to the valley floor.
“Keep quiet
Claude,” I whispered. “I think they are looking for you.”
“Mr Lakton!” a
voice roared out of the darkness. “I think it would be easier if you gave
yourself up.”
There were four
of them, two, looking ludicrous in suits which had suffered from the rappel
down the ropes and two uniformed soldiers holding automatic rifles. I stood in
front of Claude and tried to shield him.
“What is this
all about?” I demanded angrily.
One of the
‘suits’ stepped forward and shone a torch beam full in my face.
“We thought
that given the gassing of Radeston, everyone in the town would have forgotten
about Claude,” he muttered. “But now we have you together we can mop up this
situation very effectively.”
“What do you
mean?” I shouted. “Both together?”
The ‘suit’
looked over his shoulder at his colleague. “I suppose it won’t matter to tell
you now that you are to be disposed of, will it Hugh?”
Hugh stepped
forward and smiled. “No, I don’t suppose it will Harry.”
“A U.F.O.
crashed twenty five years ago, at a location quite near to Radeston and we were
able to extricate the occupant of the vehicle who was the pilot, but it was
badly injured,” Harry said. “Our technology was very advanced at that time, I
mean nothing like today, but good enough for us to keep the pilot alive.”
“Yes, his body
was useless due to the injuries, so we ejected his persona and retained it,”
laughed Hugh. “Until we could appropriate something to carry it.”
“That’s where
you came in Lakton,” said Harry. “A newly born baby abandoned at the door of
Radeston orphanage, just asking to be used.”
“So where did
Claude come in to it?” I was annoyed at their childish amusement. They were
behaving like a couple of schoolboys explaining their second year biology
project.
“That’s the
clever bit,” said Harry. “The pilot’s persona was too large and would have led
to serious mental problems if it had all been given to you. So we had our
laboratory create an android. We were producing some very acceptable units by
that time, complete with skin and hair. It was so human like, it was scary.”
“Yes,” said
Hugh. “But we only had a part left over the pilot’s mental capacity and it left
poor Claude no better than the village idiot, but at least that preserved our
visitor’s intellect.”
“But why didn’t
I realise that I was carrying the persona?” I asked.
“Chemically
induced schizophrenia, you possessed two personalities, but were only conscious
of your own,” answered Hugh smugly.
“How did you
know that I had discovered Claude?” I said looking round at the android that
contained part of my other consciousness.
“Simple,”
replied Hugh. “A sensor attached to the switch on Claude’s sternum. As soon as
anyone switched it on, a signal came to our headquarters in Asterdon.”
“Who are you
people?” I asked. “Government? N.A.S.A.? You seem to be have carte blanche to
do anything you like. How did you get me and the town of Radeston
Hugh pointed
into the air. “Simple dispersion of Xyclenol 13 over the town by jet after midnight on the night you were seen
uncovering the robot’s body. Everyone in town that day woke up with a hangover
and a total loss of memory of the preceding 24 hours. We also put out a false
message that finally the medical profession had decided to institutionalise for
his own protection. Most people were glad as he had been becoming somewhat of a
nuisance.
As to our
origin, let’s just say we are a sort of ‘X Files’ type of department.”
“So what is to
happen to us now?” I said turning to where Claude crouched on the ground. He
was looking up into the darkness and his mouth was moving silently muttering
his litany of numbers.
“You are to be
terminated,” grunted Harold. “The pair of you are just too much trouble. After
all these years you have just exceeded your ‘shelf life’.” He laughed cruelly
and pulled a pistol from his pocket. “Stand over there by your ‘twin’. I’ll
make it painless for you both. You, Lacton, I’ll will shoot and the Claude –
thing will be deactivated.”
I made my way
over to Claude who was still gazing upwards and reciting the numbers. I placed
my arm round his metallic shoulders and once again I experienced the amazing
one-ness that I had felt before. “Never mind Claude we had a few years
‘alive’,” I said fondly.
Claude’s
gleaming skull turned to me and his chant faltered and changed. It was as if he
had experienced the closeness that we had now. “38 West, 49 North, 63 East, 81
South. WE ARE GOING HOME!” he suddenly said loudly.
All I can say
is the next few minutes that I experienced were shrouded in a kind of woolly
memory. The details are at best hazy and difficult to rationalise.
A strong purple
light suddenly bathed the floor of Hidden
Valley
It was suddenly
silent except for the gentle soughing wind. I turned to Claude and we embraced.
“I am going to miss you old friend,” I said sadly.
Claude raised a
metallic arm and placed his hand on my head. “We must go, I am sorry,” he
whispered.
Then it was if
a part of my soul was pulled out of me. I could see a kind of ethereal mist
that possessed form and knew that the major part of the interstellar pilot was
before me. It hung in front of me until I raised my hand and said “Via con Dios
– Go with God” then it approached Claude and together they rose from the ground
and as I watched got smaller and smaller until they vanished into the purple
source, high in the heavens. The light was instantly extinguished, leaving me
in the pitch black.
That was ten
years ago and although I think about Claude often, I refuse to write an account
of the adventure. The original incomplete story ‘Cryptic Claude’, I destroyed.
Rachael and I
met up soon after the incident and when she again asked about the story, I just
said that I couldn’t find it. Discretion seemed the best answer as the two
suits and the soldiers had to have originated from somewhere in the Government,
however covertly. I knew that somewhere, someone would have my name and
although over the following days and weeks, I was conscious of being under
scrutiny, nothing came of it.
Rachael and I
married and have two children, a girl called Cindy and a boy called, what else,
but Claude. I still write but tend away from the science fiction and
concentrate on the romances and historical genre.
I often look up
at the night sky and wonder where the pilot of that crashed U.F.O. came from
and whether Claude was kept intact as an example of what a human looks like
cast in metal.
It does give
you a warm feeling to realise that we are not totally alone in this gigantic
Universe.
No comments:
Post a Comment