Thinking It Over

They framed me. It had been going on for weeks, not quite actually right under my nose, which is why I hadn’t noticed.

Now, I fully understood the meaning of all those not-so-subtle comments before I wen out on Sick Leave... like you’re too good for your own good, and he who sups with the devil must have a long spoon, and beware of wolves in sheep’s clothing.

They had been siphoning off money, and stealing goods, from the warehouse, while I was off work and recuperating from having all my teeth pulled out, and dentures fitted, after a very bad gum infection. It could have been worse, I guess.

Actually, it could have been a lot worse, because one of my clerks whistle-blew, and then only because she could not stand the vulgarities that were being said with reference to what a goody two-shoes I was.

She learned that the Bosses blamed me in absentia for everything, and, apparently, they were not even interested in hearing my side of the story.

I wanted to confront them, and tell them to ask a graphologist to compare my actual signatures on old documents with the forged ones on the current papers, but she was having none of that. She said it would be the equivalent of signing my own death warrant.

She said I had to leave – as soon as possible. I insisted that it would be tantamount to admitting guilt, and she said that having proven my innocence would not matter, if I were dead. She said that my assassination was scheduled for the coming Wednesday, which was a public holiday. There would be a lot of people and noise in the streets, and so no one would notice more people and more noise. That clinched it.

I’m a good swimmer. And I did my homework.

I dug up The Map, and I saw that my best bet was to come ashore at The Plant, and then I’d play it by ear. The heat would dry my hair and clothes in next to no time, and then I could pretend to be one of the workers. I didn’t tell my informant anything. If you want to keep a secret, keep it to yourself.

It worked… and soon, I became a part of the scenery, and no one looked at me twice. They assumed that I was some cards short of a deck, because I didn't speak much. Ha! I could wipe the floor with them.

I found a disused shack and pilfered stuff for it… a glass, a fork, a plate, a length of pipe, a couple of nails, a hammer… swatches of fabric and needle and thread so I could make me a blanket…

Where my forbears come from, they eat guinea pigs – and I reckoned rats weren’t much different from them. So, I saved the canteen bread, and had a protein-rich meal every night, after the workers left. By the morning, the smell of rat stew, rat broth, stir-fried rat or baked rat would have dissipated. And nobody was the wiser.

I gained confidence. I wanted my own place, and not just a poky room with makeshift furniture made from pallets. I unrolled The Map again, and traced my fingers over the red lines. No – it would not do to pass through The Diamond, because I would stick out like a sore thumb. The District would be tricky, too, because someone was bound to ask me where I came from, or, perish the thought, demand my papers.

My best bet was to wait for the correct weather conditions, and use the currents to my advantage – something like Johnny Utah was allowed to do in Point Break. As I said, I do my homework… and my knowledge of pure and applied mathematics made the calculations a cinch.

And then it happened.

I had long assumed that the rats that roved about The Plant were being lured to their deaths with toxic bait. That is why I had constructed a system to ensnare them. I kept them in the pen for a week, during which I would feed them what I managed to salvage from the garbage bins.

I can only assume that some of the noxious stuff had got into my system.

The first time it happened, I had just come out of my makeshift shower. I happened to glance at the mirror (a piece of glass lined with tinfoil), and I saw him. There was an overpowering smell of brine, and this bald head swaying to inaudible music. The vision lasted for a few moments, and then, there was I – wet, dishevelled hair, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks…

Was I going crazy?

There was the recurring dream, too. I would be walking along the coast road with two of my friends. It would bizarrely occur to me that had I been Jesus, we’d have been on the road to Emmaus. But Cleopas and his friend still would not have said the magic words “Stay with us, for it is nearly evening; the day is almost over.”

So, each time, they would go on their merry way.

And the visual clichés would tumble merrily along. I would look at the long, yellow, brick road ahead of me. Would I be beset by thieves? I could smell the green, green grass of home (mostly the mint, which was so invasive it had even climbed the orange tree). I’d see a hundred yellow ribbons tied around a hundred old oak trees…

In the dreams, I felt dejected, forlorn. Inevitably, I stopped to retch. I stooped and leaned against the low sea-wall, holding back the tears. Brine? Wait - this was not the Sea of Galilee.

Was I going crazy? Would I ever learn how to re-route my dreams, make them lucid, and get out of this scenario? I suddenly recognised the fjord of my childhood. The flat roofs of Samaria by this juncture would have been replaced by high-rise buildings but as soon as I shielded my eyes and looked up, trying to make out the floor where I worked when I had been a C.E.O. of an outwardly respectable company… that laundered money for the Mafia Underworld, they disappeared.

In their place would be a row of old-fashioned Norwegian houses, all painted in different colours, and with grass and flowering weeds growing on the roofs. I’d see a road sign saying “Christiana (now called Oslo)”. Each time, it would be in a different font, but never Times New Roman or Comic Sans.

The sky suddenly turned into blood, and I recalled the proverb about how it was deemed to be a shepherd’s delight. Surely not this sky, though. The clouds burgeoned and pulsed with psychedelic lights. I would want to wake up, but I would not be able to.

I’d know that the clouds would soon begin rippling, and dripping blood. I’d look back and see the two men in the distance; they would seem to be looking back and waving at me, so I would half-raise my arm to salute them, and then, immediately feeling a physical ache in my heart, I’d massage my chest, feeling as if I had a gaping wound I had to close. I would wake up each time, dripping with sweat, even though it was the dead of winter. I could wring out the sheets, they’d be so wet.

I pilfered a brass flowerpot from the lobby of The Plant front office, and turned it into a singing bowl. The energy and vibration of their specific frequencies worked on my subconscious, but only just. I remembered what Nikola Tesla and Albert Einstein had said about this… And I sang lots of Gregorian Chant.

The dreams persisted, but at least the scary details were gone. Time was moving on, and the sea currents were changing. Soon, I would be able to make my escape to The Slum.

As the weather changed, the two men I met I the dream acquired a different aura; if I poked my finger into it, they disappeared. The sky-scrapers did not feature in my new set of dreams. When I woke up, I would no longer need to change the patchwork sheets. However, I’d started getting muscle tension, a migraine, and an upset stomach. My left thumb would hurt, for no reason.

My new identity was far removed from my old one. Pseudo-fraudster me was gone – instead I was the toothless, lisping, simpleton everyone joshed. Was I bothered though? I put on my dentures when I was alone, and then only when I had to eat – otherwise, being without them helped my wear my new persona better.

The eclipse was the auspicious sign that would be my cover. I packed my meagre belongings in a large garbage bag, which I put inside four more, and allowed the current to bear me down to the cove just beyond the boundary that separates The District from the Slum. No jellyfish. Good. No street lights. Better…

I reconnoitred (my night vision has always been good) and kept away from houses where the lights were still on.

And then, in a cul-de-sac, I found it – the house where I knew wanted to live until the end of my days. Breaking and entering was easy. The cobwebs and mould told me nobody was interested in it. I knew that I had the propensity to make this dump a home within a week – and I did.

Life was good. I melded in perfectly with the hoi polloi, with my deadpan face and scruffy clothes. Nobody asked whence I came – and I didn’t offer explanations. I did odd jobs, and earned enough to eat well (no more rats!) – so I was rich. I later realised that since everyone had secrets, nobody probed to find out those of others, in The Slum.

When the house was as clean as it would ever be, I began on the basement. There was furniture that had seen better days, and piles of clothing that had fused to hard mounds because of the damp. I came upon a full-length mirror shrouded in a sheet so stiff I thought it was cardboard.

I removed it, and suddenly, there was an overpowering smell of brine, and the all too familiar outline of a man’s bald head, his hands cradling his face as he sang Gregorian Chant. The vision lasted for a few moments, and then, there was I – wet, dishevelled hair, bags under my eyes, sunken cheeks…

I threw a punch at the mirror, and it broke into a zillion pieces. Blood ran down my hands from where the shards had torn my knuckles.

I don’t sing Gregorian Chant any more. And I don't go down to the basement at all, these days. I have boarded up the door, and secured the planks with nine-inch nails.

Strangely enough, I do not miss my life as a C.E.O. Revenge is best served cold. But even if I could, I would not go back to wreak it on those who wronged me.