What Would Janus Do?

Beyond the unfashionable fringes of the galaxy, loomed a haze of raspberry scented dust. Within it was Dirt, and on that planet, the drab city of Neo-Dulwich. There, in the quiet hours between way-to-work coffee and brunch, the humans left us alone in our cafe.

A spiral galaxy, a goldfish, then a flower pictogram bloomed from our pen while the futures flowed through us. We titled the piece, in green ink, “HNT314/122”.

Cow bells attached to the door rattled as it opened. Our tenant, Joe, clutched at the frame for support. He was not into repetitive self-exertion, so we couldn’t fathom what caused this state of distress.

“Shouldn’t you be watching traffics?” we asked. The impenetrable thicket of his eyebrows arched high on his pale face.

“My chair farted,” Joe said. He staggered to the table next to our till.

“That’s normal. Our chairs make noise.” We rubbed a hand across a bar-stool to illustrate. It squeaked, then made a rattling noise through the metal components.

After his brain reset with a series of blinks, Joe continued, “no, it sounded wet. I could smell it, like stadium toilets. I think someone is living in my chair.” Joe looked around suspiciously.

We tapped on the counter as we did a quick poll—tap tap tap, then two reluctant more. “Show us,” we said. His flat was above the Cafe, so it wouldn’t take long. With the vintage “back in five minutes” sign in hand, we walked Joe out of the cafe.

“Thank you. I wasn’t sure what to do.” Joe followed, peering at a discarded mattress. “Did it move?” he asked.

“Council knows about the fly-tipping,” we said.

He held his hand towards his door, the key twisting uselessly in the air. “Did it gurgle or something?”

“Hand us your keys,” we said. “You can watch the mattress.”

The door opened with a faint squeak. “We’ve been reading Kafka,” we said, hoping it would help distract Joe from the mattress.

“The cockroach guy. Not comforting,” Joe said.

“We thought he was a human?”

“No…well yes, he was human. A guy became a cockroach in one of his stories.”

“I don’t recall any cockroaches.” We started up the stairs. “Ah, then how is, ‘for we are like tree trunks in the snow’ horror?”

Joe stepped into the apartment but kept his eyes on the mattress up to the last moment. “I’m already scared enough. Talking about a horror writer won’t help.”

We continued the story as Joe moved onto the steps. “He is a most excellent poet. ‘In appearance, they lie sleek…and a little push should be enough to set them rolling. No, it can’t be done—for they are firmly wedded to the ground. But see, even that is only in appearance.’”

“That’s a creepy story.” Joe pushed past us at the top of the stairs.

He stood at the home-office entrance with his hands open.

We asked, “how is that creepy?”

We stopped our inquiry when we saw what held Joe’s attention. The chair back lay on the floor. Inside was a space large enough for a small person.

A virtual reality headset was flashing blue images for the miniature, absent resident. The smell of salt and vinegar chips, sewer gas, and old prawn cocktail filled the room. Closer to the chair, scents of unwashed human body, old food, and general filth wafted from its vacated chamber. We clinched our olfactory bulb with a snap.

Joe stepped further into the room and spun to check the walls. “That wasn’t open earlier.”

“Lease states no sublets as agreed and signed.” We frowned as humans do.

“Sorry Janus, you’re not making sense,” he said. “I didn’t know someone was living in my chair. I sleep in that thing!” Joe scratched his head and looked back at the chair. Sweat marks formed around his armpits.

We could see a hint of freckles on his cheeks with the increased pallor. “Srail era snoegip,” we said. “This may be an imprint of the sublet’s shirt.”

“Pigeons are liars.” Joe’s shoulders slumped. His breath and skin were back to normal. He seemed on the verge of talking several times. “I should call the police.”

“Dust on the windowsill is missing in human shapes. We see it’s not from you. Socks are too small and the smell is different from your feet. This was against your consent. We have some relief.”

Joe stopped pushing at his phone. His open mouth was the shape of ‘human internal emotion, subset horror, subset human cringe’. We reasoned sock size may be a taboo topic for Joe.

“This is—Joe waved his hands at the seat—a violation.” He put a hand over his eyes. “Isn’t there something that you can do about this with your sphincter magic?”

We poked at a packet stuffed in the void next to where the chair dweller’s head would have been. It fell onto the floor and opened like a noisy flower, showing the “Koi’s Chips” branding.

“Sphincter magic is fantasy. Bowel science.” There was a tiny pen knife near the left armhole. We decided not to alert Joe. “You have a second brain in your guts, like us. Your gut brain is about as cute and fluffy as a domestic cat in both size and demeanour. When trained, it can fetch and do tricks. You should be able to use it; if you’d apply yourselves. Imagine if we asked you to do some human magics.” We let the comment hang for a moment. “When we saw a bicycle, it was magic. Now—bowels as to bicycles.”

We relaxed our guts, futures twisted and cancelled out. “You are welcome to call from the cafe. The insurance will need the crime number.”

We tapped out a quick vote, then wrote “egg salad sandwich and a caramel cream coffee” on an order card. We motioned towards the steps.

Joe straightened, looked to the door, then to us, then to a the closet. He grabbed a broom and marched down the steps. His bravery faltered for a moment at the door. After taking a deep breath, he launched himself at the stained collection of springs and tattered fabric.

A hairless lady diverted her eyes. “Whole galaxy’s gone mad if you ask me Wiggins,” she said. The lady picked up her Shih Tzu, then tucked it into her sleeve.

Joe paused his mattress beating so she could pass.

We turned to the cafe door. The “back in five minutes” sign no longer matched the older 1940s style lace curtains. Nor the pastel-hued wooden walls, and meticulously chipped black-and-white tiles from the original “Electric Cafe”. We tucked the sign under the counter and made a note to redesign it.

Joe, sweating from his thwacking, sat in the Harry Regency inspired section.

Curious, his flat was decidedly retro-chintzy. Humans rarely know what they really want.

A young human couple entered the cafe.

Joe rang the police while we made their order.

“Can I borrow your pen and pad?” Joe asked. He pointed to the pad in our belt. We lifted the pad, then flipped the pen with a flourish into our hand. We clicked the pen over to green before handing them over.

We checked on the couple with a sandwich and coffee in our hands. They settled into a booth next to the stained glass “Pellicci” sign. It was authentic, unlike much of the other hung decor.

“Egg salad sandwich and a mint-hero coffee,” the woman said.

We put the sandwich in our hand on the table, but retreated to make a new coffee.

Joe changed the colour of the pen to blue when the detective started reciting the crime number. The ink was dry. He noticed the number next to the doodles and followed them. “HNT314/122”.

He closed his call, then looked up at us. “How did you know this and not tell me?” Joe tapped the pen on the pad over the crime number.

“One mustn’t look a gift whore in the mouse.”

Joe looked confused. “It’s horse.”

“Who is? Do you need a medicinal concoction? Honey Lemon Chicken is the normally prescribe—”

“Tea. Honey and Lemon Tea. Also, horse as in the animal, not the…oh, never mind.” Joe tore the page from the pad. “Sorry, I don’t mean to agitate you. Why someone would want to live in my chair?”

“Ah, we’ll cross that bridge when we burn it.” We collected the pad. “Tea?”

“Milk, no sugar.” We put his tea on the table before he finished his order.

“I don’t know what to do.”

“A characteristic act of one in your position is to rub your eyebrow down with your smallest finger.” It was another Kafka quote, but good advice for the situation.

Joe rubbed down his eyebrows.

A pigeon watched from the seat next to Joe, bobbing its head to regard Joe with each eye. “It’s all going to be fine,” it said in a comforting tone. The pigeon then stepped into the news hologram.

“Thanks, mate,” Joe said. He turned away from the pigeon and noticed us take a new vote. “Did you think of another Kafka quote?”

“Humans still confuse us.” We poured some milk into the frothing robot and filled the coffee hopper as we spoke. “Your guts are always in knots. Not knowing your death is a burden.”

Joe’s face went slack. “Sorry, I asked.” Joe put his forehead against the table and rolled it from side to side.

He seemed hurt by our remark about his guts.

The young man sitting under the stained glass made an inquisitive throat clearing. It was inconvenient timing. Our guts gave us cryptic messages—impending danger, or fleeting passion. The gut feeling dissipated before we could vote.

“More salt?” he asked.

In one motion, we put a new shaker on the table, removed the shaker from the young man’s hand, and slid the woman’s mint hero coffee with another arm.

“Sorry, waiter?”

“How may I help?”

“Shouldn’t you know? I mean…” he waved the shaker around.

We waited for him to finish his question. It annoyed us to wait.

“…how to help us?”

“We are helping you,” we responded.

“Did you say you can predict our deaths?” the woman asked.

“Only Joe’s, today.”

Joe sat up. “I’m going to die today?”

“Not in prison,” we said.

“What?” Joe started talking faster. “Great, I find a person living in my chair. They escape out the window. You tell me I need to file an insurance claim. And now this?”

“Our apologies,” we said to the couple.

The young woman whispered to us, “how does he die?”

We shrugged. “His last meal is a banana split popsicle.”

“A popsicle!” Joe screamed.

“He doesn’t die in prison because the food isn’t that good,” said the young man.

This pleased us immensely. “Have you been thinking with your gut?” we asked him. We did not expect a second chance to evangelize today. “Do you have any interest in blueberry pie?”

“You realise what this means?” Joe’s eyes were wide, a few long hairs separated from his massive eyebrows. “I can now live forever.” He paced the cafe. “Oh my, what if I get tricked into eating a popsicle? What if I melt them before I eat them? Does that count? Maybe just the act of trying to melt it is what kills me.” His voice went shrill. “I need to get out of this town. Maybe I will join a chess tournament. It won’t kill me. Or would it? Would they melt popsicles in our food? No, that’s insane.”

We moved closer to console our tenant.

“Janus, why would you tell me such a thing?” Joe clung to our apron.

Joe’s faith touched us, however misplaced. “You assume there is a sudden and complete clairvoyance. I have only handed you human food.” Joe was too frantic to listen. We hoped the couple would learn the lesson.

Layers of blue flashes merged into a light-show better befitting a nightclub. Several vehicles slid to a halt in front of the cafe.

“Ah, police.” We nudged Joe back to his seat. We had several coffees to finish.

“What if the chair is just a figment of my imagination?” Joe asked. “Like a hidden facet of my psyche, a desire for freedom.”

The police kicked in the door to Joe’s apartment. The door protested by sliding onto the sidewalk in two pieces.

Detective Constable DaPinchi strode into the cafe. She was tall for a human. She’d braided her hair tight enough to pull her ears back.

“Good afternoon, coffee if you please.” Her voice did not match her height. “Is that a portrait of Lord Horatia Bradshaw Roadwork Whistlebottom?” She asked, nodding at a portrait.

We passed her the caramel cream coffee. “Yes, Lunar colony period,” we said. “How would you like your coffee?”

“Caramel cream, not hot—sensitive teeth. I love the royals.”

We tapped the drink in her hand. It had already cooled to her preference. She grinned and shrugged. “I had a good gut-feeling about you.” She swirled her drink. “It seems there’s been some unpleasantness in the flat above. Do you know the owner?”

“You are addressing us.”

“Are you Joseph Klink?”

“We are Janus.”

“Ah.” She wrote our name. “Just Janus?” She quickly flipped through her notepad.

“As far as we are aware.” We held out a mint mocha latte to our right. A circle of flooring and debris fell from the ceiling, followed by a constable in full body armour.

“Detective DaPinchi.” He nodded to the detective. “Mind if I have one?”

She nodded at the PC.

“I’ll have a mint mocha.”

We shook the coffee in front of the officer.

“What’s it like upstairs?” The detective asked, then turned to us. “Sorry about the mess.”

We pursed our lips and continued with the coffee machine.

“Definitely fowl play,” the constable said, sniffing the coffee.

We gave a disapproving look towards Joe. “I didn’t know Joe had chickens.”

“We found a knife. Mr Klink likely intended to kill or has killed someone.” He looked at us, tilted his head, looked again, then at the Detective.

DaPinchi elbowed the constable. “Just pick an eye.”

 “I wouldn’t kill anyone,” Joe said. “Heck, the guy is probably swinging through the trees offering people banana popsicles.”

“Any news on the illegal sublet out the window?” we asked DaPinchi. “And how many chickens?”

Detective DaPinchi checked her notes. “This Joseph K.” She tsked. “Government employee, his training covers defenestration.” Then she asked us, “how many chickens?”

“That’s the one!” said the woman with the mint hero coffee. She pointed at Joe. “He’s the one who done it, kept going on about dying in prison. Some sort of insurance fraud!”

Joe’s lips twisted. “I don’t have any damn chickens!”

DaPinchi spoke into her collar.

Two sections of floor fell through the ceiling. More armoured constables abseiled from the holes, then tackled Joe. One held a plastic-coated card. “On behalf of the authority granted to me by the government of Neo-Dulwich. I arrest you for neglecting duties towards the wellbeing of an unauthorised subletter, resulting in defenestration and or demise of said partially popsicle-wielding, tree-frolicking entity. In addition, unlicensed animal husbandry and other charges to follow. You do not have the right to speak until the trial is complete. Do you understand?”

They zipped Joe into a rubberised prisoner bag. He could only open and close his hands and nose-breathe aggressively.

The officers accepted this as assent, then dragged the bag out.

DaPinchi flipped her notebook closed. “Well, that’s justice done.”

“Coffee for your crew.” We tapped a cardboard carrier, then turned to the couple. “Sincere apologies, disrepair to the cafe has caused closure.”

After the couple walked out, the constable with the mocha grabbed the tray of drinks.

DaPinchi looked back at us. “Do you make cheese toasties?”

“No grill, sorry.”

“Shame.” Her braids moved with her smile.

We returned the smile while she walked to her people mover.

The pigeon landed on a table by the door. We regarded it for a moment while our armoured guests piled into their vehicles. Their engines roared, rattling our cafe enough to topple Joe’s broom. We stepped around the table to collect it.

With a groan, a massive chunk of ceiling loosed. It slammed onto the floor, bringing a fluttering of colourfully printed trading cards around where we had just been standing. We regarded the broom in our hand. Joe has saved us from potential fatal injury.

The pigeon re-settled on the next table over. We shook our head in astonishment. “Could not have predicted that.”

The Pigeon watched the broom as we lifted it up. The Pigeon Regarded us with one eye, turned its flank, then the other. Its head shuffled with two tiny steps. “I’ve known them my whole life, and they still surprise.”

We swept for some time. Shame Joe didn’t bring us a dustpan, we thought. “Should I have warned him about the holes in his floorings? His deposit won’t cover the damage.”

“Legal advice is my forte, financial liability, not so much,” said the pigeon. It flapped over to the half-eaten sandwich.

“Should we charge you for a half sandwich?”

“Don’t ask me. Pigeons can’t talk.”

“Liar.”