The Plug

It was just as well that no one passed by that day to peer into the ground floor bathroom window, as they were often inclined to do. It was a dark and depressing day, and the few dog-walkers who had braved the wind and the sleet had their hoods tightened so firmly that only the points of their noses could be seen. But then, what could be expected of a February evening in Birmingham’s city centre?

The house was at the end of the terrace, and the bathroom window was on the side of the house facing the park. Apparently the landlords had decided that frosted glass was too much of an expense, and the blind had been damaged by the previous tenants in a freak accident involving more than a few glasses of Jack Daniels and Coke. The consequence of this was that any well-meaning person who strolled down the street could glance into the window and be greeted by a very naked and very hairy Biology student. Presumably, British awkwardness had prevented any of the victims from reporting it to the police.

If one had happened to take a gander into the window, the first thing one would notice would be the aforementioned naked, hairy, Biology student sitting on the bathroom tile, the difference being that while most of the students in the house were entirely whole, this one had somehow managed to cut the end of his foot clean off. The second thing one would notice would be the arse of a pair of jeans, the upper body leaning into the bathtub and totally out of sight, with two long legs balanced on sock-covered toes. And then, one would walk away and promptly try to forget the whole thing.

Alastair planted both feet back on the bathroom floor, stood upright, placed his hands at the small of his back, and made a small grunting noise befitting a 22-year-old student whose back was perfectly fine. He turned back to Tom, who had taken the toilet paper away from the stump of his foot and was eyeing it with a look which somehow resembled both fascination and disgust.

"Will you please stop taking the paper away? You'll bleed to death,' snapped Alastair, leaning off the shower door and looking sternly at his housemate.

"I don't think so," said Tom, who had picked his foot up as though he intended to bite his toenails. "Look."

"I don't want to look, I want you to put the paper back on and keep pressure on it."

"Yes, but just - look. It's cauterised. I'm not bleeding."

Alastair tried to look away, but his eyes seemed to be drawn to the red flesh at the end of Tom's foot. He was right - it wasn't bleeding, and Tom seemed in remarkably good spirits for someone who had just lost half the recommended number of toes down the plughole. Alastair turned back to the bath, put his hands on his hips, and stared at where the plughole once was. Instead of the metal grate was a black void, with shimmering edges that waved and undulated.

"How long has this been here?" he asked Tom, who was now prodding the end of his foot.

"I dunno, man. I only noticed it today."

"Yeah, no shit. You're the only one that uses this bathroom, how can you not have noticed?"

"Honestly mate, I had no clue. But I thought it was weird that it like, stopped gargling after showering."

Alastair turned the knob of the bathtub. The water streamed into the bath and flowed noiselessly into the void, which seemed to open hungrily to receive it.

"And you, what, got your foot caught?"

"Yep. Just stepped forward to get the soap and went straight into it."

Alastair looked at the pube-covered bar of Dove soap and shuddered. The first thing the group of young men did when they moved into the 8-bedroom house was draw straws on who would get the only downstairs bedroom and therefore sole use of the downstairs bathroom. Tom drew first, and the others happily moved into their bedrooms, chuckling at the knowledge that all the straws were short. He was the one that wanted this house anyway.

Tom was still eyeing his stump foot when Alastair turned back around.

“Doesn’t it hurt?” he asked.

“Nah,” replied Tom. “Kind of feels a bit tingly. Also...” He poked the end of his foot, which made a wet squish sound. His finger left an indentation in the flesh, and Alastair grimaced. Tom grinned and began poking his foot again.

“Pretty neat, huh?” he laughed.

“Stop it. You’re gonna make me sick.” Alastair grabbed a towel from the rack and threw it at Tom, who caught it with his head. “Get dressed.”

“Why?” said Tom from under the towel.

“You know, for a scientist, you’re not very bright. You’ve got to go to the hospital.”

“What for? It’s not like they can sew it back on. Pass us those boxers.”

Disgusted, Alastair gingerly picked up the once-white-now-grey underpants between finger and thumb and dropped them into Tom’s lap. Tom, bath towel still over his head, stretched out his legs, lifted his hips (Alastair covered his eyes and made a noise like he’d just stepped on a slug), and slipped the boxers up over his knees. He took the bath towel off his head and carefully stood up, grabbing onto the edge of the bath to help him.

“Hard to balance without toes,” he said jokingly.

“It’ll get infected,” said Alastair. “I’m taking you to the hospital.”

Tom’s face sagged slightly, not enough to change his expression, but enough for Alastair to notice something was wrong. He sighed.

“I know you don’t like doctors. But you can’t leave it like that. It’s got to be sterilised, it’s got to be wrapped up.”

“It’s not that I don’t like doctors. It’s that they don’t like me.”

“Now you’re just being silly. Come on, man.” He placed his hand on Tom’s bare shoulder. To his surprise, Tom jumped and stepped back towards the window.

“I’m not going to the hospital,” he said definitively. There was no questioning his face now; his eyebrows had bent downwards and his lips had tightened. But his eyes, his wide, deep brown eyes, revealed his fear. Alastair was taken aback.

“Tom,” he said slowly. “It’s okay. I just want to help.” He took another step towards Tom, who stepped back again. His back was now flush against the window.

“You don’t understand,” he said. “You can’t help. Not in the way you want to.” His eyes darted to the window, to the bathroom door, to the empty void in the plughole that swirled antagonistically.

“But you’re hurt,” said Alastair, exasperatedly. “If you’d just-”

“I’m not hurt.”

The two men stared at each other. Alastair’s face was full of confusion, and Tom looked utterly defeated. Finally Alastair spoke.

“I - what are you talking about? Look at your foot! Look at-”

As he spoke, his eyes fell down to Tom’s stump foot. Except it wasn’t a stump any more. From the red fleshy end was poking out five smaller stumps, each one smaller than the last. Alastair felt the words leave his throat. He looked up.

“Tom, what’s - what’s happening?”

“I didn’t want you all to know. That’s why I chose the downstairs room.”

“But-” Alastair spluttered, “-the straws - they were all-”

“All short, I know. I would have asked for this room anyway, so it worked out in my favour. Well, actually, it was the bathroom I wanted.” He gestured towards the plughole. “It’s been there since we moved in. That’s why I wanted this house. It’s not a black hole, it’s not some sort of flesh-eating machine - well, it’s not supposed to be.” He laughed nervously. “It’s a sort of…portal. For sending information.”

“Information?” repeated Alastair. “What sort of information?”

“Oh, everything really. Everything I experience. It all comes out in my sweat glands.”

Alastair gaped at him. “Sweat glands? Information? What…how would that even work?”

“I dunno man, I’m not a biologist,” said Tom. “Well, not for my species anyway.” He pointed his foot out and showed Tom. The toes had almost completely grown back, and there was a thin white line where they had been severed. Tom wiggled his new toes, which made Alastair groan with queasiness, and continued.

“I was sent here. A year ago. To study you. See, my species is really plastic. We can change our outward appearance as well as grow back limbs and stuff. So I was able to come here, turn into one of you, and feed back what I found. It comes out of my sweat glands, and when I shower it goes down into the portal. Just today, I was a bit clumsy. It’s not really designed to handle physical objects, and if it does - well, this happens.”

Alastair sat down on the edge of the bath and rubbed his face with his hands. “But you shouted. I heard a crash and I heard you shouting. You were - you were in pain!”

“Nah, just surprised. Just because it doesn’t hurt to get your toes cut off doesn’t mean it’s an everyday occurrence, y’know? I knew it would grow back, and no one would be any the wiser. It was only when you barged in that I had to pretend.”

“I thought you were hurt!” said Alastair with indignation.

“Yes, well, when you came in wanting to ‘help’, I had to come up with something, and I thought if I acted super laid back, then you would be too.”

“You clearly didn’t learn much about humans if you thought I was just going to let you go with only half a foot.”

“I’ll put that down to experience. But it’s not psychology I’m interested in. See, we’re really good at changing our outward appearance, but not so good at the inside. That’s why I enrolled in this Biology class, to learn about what goes on underneath. There’s no bones under here, see?” Tom poked a finger into his sternum, which disappeared as though his skin was made of putty, and when he took his finger out the indent was still there. Slowly, and with a wet, splooshy sound, the skin returned to normal. Alastair looked at his friend’s chest, up at his face, back at the chest, and then tumbled head-first into the toilet bowl and vomited.

“You see, that’s exactly the sort of thing. How do you do that?” said Tom, with a fascinated tone. Alastair came up for air, spitting dregs of vomit and mucus into the bowl. This morning he was eating cornflakes. Now he was in a bathroom with a half-naked alien, being asked the physical process of throwing up. Come to think of it, he’d never seen Tom throw up. Even in their first year, when the beer was flowing like milk from Mother Mary’s tit, Tom never got sick. Actually, had Tom ever had a cold? A cut or a graze? Even a sneeze? When was the last time he got his hair cut?

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice echoing off the porcelain bowl.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be able to pronounce it in English. Funnily enough, my name in my language actually is spelled T-O-M. It’s not pronounced like that though.” He chuckled. Alastair said nothing. His hands were back at his face again, and he was rocking his head back and forth.

“Anyway, that’s why I can’t go to the hospital. They’ll take one look at me and ship me off in a steel container. They’ll try to take blood and they’ll end up with a load of goo. And no one can find out, either.”

Alastair shook his head hopelessly. “Who would believe me if I told anyone?”

“Well, no one. No one you know, anyway. But you’re not going to tell anyone anyway.”

“No, I won’t, Tom. I promise.”

“You don’t have to promise. I know you won't.”

Tom took a step towards Alastair. His eyes weren’t scared any more. There was a determination there, and Alastair felt the hairs on his arms stand up. Was it colder than before? Was Tom taller than he was a moment ago?

“My work’s too important, Ali,” said Tom, carefully taking another step. “You understand, right? You’d do the same, if you were in my position.”

Was his skin always that dark? Had his nails always been that long? And his eyes…were they that big when Alastair crashed into the bathroom?

Suddenly, Tom lunged forward. Alastair rolled away sideways and kicked Tom in the side, but his foot sank into Tom’s flesh and stuck there. He wrenched his foot out of the skin, making a small popping sound, and scrambled to his feet. Now Tom was at the door, Alastair by the window. It was now almost totally dark outside. Surely someone could see into the room, someone must know, surely at least one person would be nosey enough to peer in and if they did -

Tom, whose head now nearly touched the ceiling, made another grab at Alastair. Alastair seized the windowsill and hoisted his body up, slamming his feet into Tom’s chest. Again, his feet sank into the skin, but Tom staggered back slightly, his hands feeling into the dents left by Alastair’s heels. Seizing the opportunity, Alastair leapt forward and grabbed Tom around the middle, trying to turn him round. If he could throw him back, throw him at the window or into the bath, he could make a run for it, call the police, call into the street, call his mum, call someone. He twisted his body and pushed with all his might, and Tom did the same, each man attempting to wrench the other around.

“There’s nothing you can do to hurt me, Ali,” whispered Tom in Alastair’s ear. His voice had a hoarse rasp, and every sibilant was elongated as if he were impersonating a snake. “You can stamp on my feet, you can pinch me, you can bite me, you could claw at my skin and it wouldn’t hurt. Why even resist?”

“Because not - giving - up,” said Alastair through gritted teeth, “is - what - makes - me - human.”

With the last word, Alastair heaved with all his strength. Tom took a step backwards, his knees bending over the edge of the bath. The void in the plughole began to make a churning sound, and it whirled faster and faster as Tom’s body sank lower and lower into the bath. Alastair’s eyes widened, and he opened his mouth as he pushed Tom’s putty-like body down, his hands sunk deep into his friend’s chest. A bead of sweat fell from his forehead. He pulled one arm from Tom’s torso and pushed on his forehead, inching it towards the plughole. Tom writhed underneath, trying to take Alastair’s hand away, but Alastair’s hand was firmly stuck in his head and every movement moved him closer to death.

Suddenly, Alastair’s world turned upside down. His legs were swept from under him, and his head smacked against the toilet bowl. His eyeballs rolled, and he slumped down onto the bathroom tile, leaving a trail of red blood along the surface of the white porcelain. With the sound of jelly being squished by several pairs of hands, Tom righted himself and stood over the unconscious body of his friend.

Ten minutes later, the toilet of the downstairs bathroom flushed, and Tom emerged. He turned to look into the empty bathroom. The void sputtered and choked like a garbage disposal unit, until it died down, hummed for a bit, and then closed with a schloop. Tom looked out of the window to the empty street, smiled, and turned off the bathroom light. There’s no rush, he thought. I can shower in the morning.